AN APPROPRIATE BICYCLE - Pt. 20: A FINAL WORD ON CONSUMERISM

 

I’ve received a few deliveries of late, the finishing touches, I think (and hope) for my appropriate bicycle.

First up were the replacement gloves – a pair of white Mavic Espoir ‘everyday race gloves’ offering ‘progressive cushioning’. They only cost me £13.30 - £3.69 less than the Altura gloves they replaced.  I tried to order them on-line at the already reduced rate of £14.00 but the website wouldn’t process my order.  I emailed Hargroves cycles, not to demur but to question whether their website was at fault and if there was an alternative means by which I could complete the transaction.  They took it as a complaint, none the less, and offered me a 5% discount on my order by way of recompense.

I’d been unsure as to what size I should take – medium or large – after trying both on in Cycle Surgery with inconclusive results.  Hargroves only had medium and small in stock so the prospect of saving £6.00 (they retaill at £20) settled it.  The medium seems fine, the elasticated top portion of the glove allowing for a variable fit.

 

Next to arrive were a pair of white leather Zefal ‘Christophe’ toe straps.  If you don’t understand why I parted with £9.99 for these, or if your reaction to them is a shrug of indifference, then I doubt you’ve reaped much reward from reading An Appropriate Bicycle.

Practically speaking, I bought them because leather toe straps are far more effective than the nylon banding I’ve been making do with – you should at least comprehend that.  Leather holds its shape better, which can be of great benefit when re-engaging one’s foot with the toe clip after standing around at traffic lights.  Nylon is slack by comparison and more vulnerable to snagging.

The Romani did actually come with leather straps already attached but they were black, well-worn strips, and the metal fasteners marred with rust.  The Carlos had come with black toe straps, too, and I’d discovered that when wet they would make quite a mess of my shoes (the dye would rub off, presumably).  So I needed new straps to ensure the fluidity of my ride and to save spoiling my footwear.  Further, I thought it might be good idea to tie in the colour of my toe straps with the colour of my bar-tape.

£9.99 is actually about as cheap as you’re going to get for genuine leather straps, although they were reduced by a couple of quid.  It wasn’t just a question of price, mind: these Zefal straps have the word christophe printed upon them in the most pleasing of fonts.  It’s like that little M for Mavic insignia on my jacket and new gloves, or the engraved detailing on my bike’s handlebars, and the Cinelli head badge that features on the clasp of the handlebar stem: small details that make all the difference.  I don’t even like branding as a rule, but certain names and ensigns leave their mark: Fred Perry’s laurel wreath, Adidas’s original trefoil logo, Levi’s red tab, and now Zefal’s christophe.

And who or what is christophe anyway?  The blurb on the back of the packaging tells me he was Eugene Christophe, a French cyclist who purportedly invented the toe clip.  He entered into business with a company called Poutrait Morin, who later changed their name to Zefal, and these straps now bear his name as something of a tribute. 

When I went to fit my new straps to my toe clips I noticed that they too bore the legend ‘Christophe’.  Isn’t that a wonderful thing?

 

 

Despite my ambivalence towards eyewear it is obvious that glasses have a place in cycling, if only to stop bugs and pollen from getting in one’s eyes.  As a hay-fever sufferer, the route the London to Brighton takes – through meadows and fields – has a nasty potential.  Aside from dosing up on antihistamines – which by no means guarantees a result – the best precaution I can take against such an “attack” is to invest in some shades.

            I already have a pair of shades – two, in fact – but not the sort that “wrap around” the face to ensure maximum coverage.  The cheapest I could find in-store – at Evans Cycles for £29.99 – was the Endura Shark glasses set – with interchangeable lenses and everything!  They seemed okay but I really wasn’t looking to spend that much.  You might think, ‘Why skimp on something like that, especially what with your hay-fever and all?’  We’ve already established that I don’t much like wearing sunglasses, and the British weather will hardly dictate I need to very often.  But on top of that, the shape of my nose isn’t conducive to the wearing of eyewear – most glasses sit too high on my face and it will be uncomfortable and it will look silly.  So unless the Endura Sharks were a perfect fit – which they weren’t – then what would be the point in parting with that much money for them?  (Not that the price would be considered expensive by your seasoned cyclist’s standards; some people will pay three figure sums for a pair of Oakleys.)

            I was almost resigned to buying a specific pair from Marks and Sparks, with an accommodating bridge, but I didn’t like their imitation carbon fibre frame effect.  Then, after stopping by the Hounslow branch of Halfords on one of my rides, I came across Foster Grant’s Ironman range.  Fairly innocuous looking shades, they sat quite well upon the ridge of my nose.  At £26 a pair I still thought the price a little steep (they didn’t even come with interchangeable lenses) but my internet based research unearthed yet another on-line discount – direct from Foster Grant themself – and I purchased the very same model for £17.42.

 

Finally, I had to deal with the helmet issue.  Actually, I bought a helmet some time ago but I don’t like talking about it.  As helmets go it’s actually not too bad: a Uvex i-vo, in white, weighing in at 225g, and of German origin.  What’s more, I picked it up for £29.99 (including postage) reduced from £44.99 (not including postage) and it’s not uncomfortable either.  But it does look awfully wide sat upon head, and I’ve been trying to sell the thing with a view to replacing it with either a Louis Garneau Sharp or a Giro Savant, both retailing at around £60 (although the Giro can certainly be found cheaper if you shop around) and helmets that seem to fit me just that little better.

No takers as yet for the Uvex, despite the “watchers” sniffing around on eBay.  If it doesn’t sell before the London to Brighton then I’ll just have to settle with what I’ve got.

 

And talking of buying things first and then impatiently waiting for a sale to materialise, I finally got shot of the Carlos.  That might seem a ruthless way of putting it, given the time we spent together, but after: bumping the advert up on Gumtree a total of 10 times over a period of at least six weeks; paying a pound to advertise it on a website called Preowned Cycles; giving it a go on the Retrobike forums and not receiving even the slightest bit of interest, despite a statistic informing me that 400-odd people had taken a look; having two people meet me to view the bike, only for both of them to tell me they’d need to ‘have a think about it’ and, after having thought about it, apparently deciding against it, I’d started to become rather sick of the sight of that bike still parked up in my hallway.

            So when a guy from Tunbridge Wells called me on the Saturday and told me he was prepared to drive to West London on the Sunday, I was confident that it would be a case of third time lucky.  I knew Carlos was a nice looking bike – most of my friends prefer it to the Romani – and I figured that anybody prepared to travel from one side of London to the other was of serious intent.

            And so it came to pass and he paid the current asking price of £325 without the mere hint of a quibble – this young man who was off to Oxford University in the autumn, with an accent that suggested he would not be out of place there.  I don’t think money was an issue for The Guy From Tunbridge Wells, but when he gets to Oxford with Carlos in tow I think he’ll appreciate what an appropriate bicycle he now has in his possession.

 

 

AN APPROPRIATE BICYCLE - Pt.17: VAPORS

It didn't feel good putting the Carlos up for sale. It felt like a sort of betrayal - that I’d stabbed the narrative of this journey in the back. The sense of perfidy was mollified by the bad weather and the lack of opportunity to reacquaint myself with the quality of ride that the Carlos is undoubtedly capable of delivering. I’d also been thinking about the Romani Prestige.

            A day or so after my visit the Vicini dropped in price, levelling out at around £500 – about what I considered to be the limit of my expenditure. The Man Who Worked On Lathes had said that he’s let me have the Romani for £445, and it was toward this more traditional looking machine that I inclined, irrespective of the £65 saving. I would need to take the bike for test-ride to be sure, but the measurements seemed to make more sense: if I adjudged the Carlos to be a little cumbersome then I’d need something smaller.

It was to be exactly two weeks before I had the opportunity to return to Highgate and ride the Romani Prestige around the block, in temperatures that were cruel and would soon give way to a sustained delivery of snow. The bike felt to be of an appropriate size, although the make-shift pedals and low gearing were prohibitive in terms of making any credible evaluation. It was enough to convince me that we could have a future together. Besides, the Vicini had since found a buyer.

            We worked through the finer points of restoration, the Man Who Worked On Lathes and I, and it was settled and I laid down a deposit of £100.

A bit about Romani bicycles:

‘Romani was a company based in the town of Sala Baganza in the province of Parma. It was rather a big and well respected builder.  Established in 1924, the company had its peak in the mid 1970s (and) up to mid 1980s.  Surprisingly, you rarely saw many bikes with the Romani brand because much of their production was third party frames.  Virtually any shop in the Parma/Reggio Emilia/Modena area that had a shop brand, but who did not build in-house, would have bought from Romani.  They also built for many exporters.  It is said that the two Romani brothers were involved with the Colner production and also had a collaboration with Colnago.  Catalogues show that Romani made frames of Columbus SL, SLX, TSX tubes or Reynolds tubing.  They closed down in the early 1990s.’

The Man Who Worked On Lathes told me how he’d acquired it from a dealer who used it for his window display. The Dealer hadn't wanted to part with it, but The Man Who Worked On Lathes persuaded him to on account of the business he had just pushed his way. The Dealer claimed that the bike was a replica of one ridden in the Tour De France. I doubt there’s any way of verifying this but it does look to be cut from relatively decent stuff: Cinelli stem; Shimano 600 crank-set and head-tube; Campagnolo brakes, hubs and seat/chain stays; Wolber rims; Columbus tubing. I know that it is Columbus tubing because of the avian company insignia stamped on the bottom-bracket.

I was looking forward to taking the Romani home, but I also wasn't. For one, I’d yet to find a buyer for the Carlos. More significantly, I was starting to get really rather bored with cycling being my primary focus in life. It’s almost as much as I can do to write this, because writing about something that one finds a bore is doubly boring.

I don’t think it’s the act of cycling that has given way to this ennui, because I've not had much time for that of late. What I can’t bear the thought of this is having to sell that Carlos-Galli jersey (now surplus to requirements), or of confronting my aversion to helmets, and of having to invest more time tweaking another bicycle and suffering bouts of euphoria and despair in turn: is my new bike too big or too small; should I have held out for something else; was white bar-tape really a good idea? I want it all to be over, folks, this preparatory stage: no more hunting for bike locks, front lights, cycling shorts, socks, helmets, bidons, bidon cages, “mitts”, saddle bags, technical jackets, CO² inflators, or actual bikes. I want to spend £49 on a new La Vie Claire jersey and be done with it, and I want April to deliver the sort of weather it’s supposed to so I can start training for the London to Brighton and at least take pleasure in the act of getting fit. Even the Paris-Roubaix failed to stir the excitement I’d hoped for – not because it wasn't a good race, but because I've begun to lose some interest. 

What I really need, I think, is to start spending time riding with my team – or at least a member of. Finding a buyer for the Carlos might help, too. Incidentally, its picture appears in the latest edition of Urban Cyclist on the page entitled ‘What are you Riding’ (no question mark). I submitted an image after browsing through the last issue in WH Smiths. I couldn't really say why I did this, because it seems to me now a slightly odd thing to do. Regardless, it provides a handy tag-line with which to revitalise my advert for the Carlos: ‘As featured in Urban Cyclist Magazine’.

AN APPROPRIATE BICYCLE - Pt. 14: WHERE I RIDE

I do actually ride my bike(s), you know. I have even conspired to form a number of specific routes. There’s the one that takes me into Richmond, along Sheen Road through Sheen itself, to Putney Bridge by way of Barnes, across the river, then left down Fulham Palace Road at the end of which I cut through Hammersmith and join Chiswick High Road and then head back home via Kew. It’s about a 13 mile journey but can be easily extended by taking a diversion through the heart of Fulham and then across to High Street Kensington. Without the deviation I will stop for coffee somewhere in Chiswick. When the detour features I take my coffee at Nero (which has pictures on the walls of people drinking coffee for you to look at while you're drinking coffee) next to Boots Chemist on Kensington High Street – for some reason I like it there.

          I have formed another course which takes me in the opposite direction, away from the city: through Twickenham, out along Staines Road, down towards Hampton and Thames Ditton, stopping off in Kingston before heading home via Ham and Richmond. I prefer to traverse this route when the weather is more agreeable, for its suburban backdrop doesn't suffer overcast conditions gladly. I have devised other courses but they tend to be variations on the aforementioned routes. For example, the Chiswick Circuit may bypass Putney entirely and makes its way towards Hammersmith by slicing through Barnes Common and taking Castelnau Road (a.k.a. the A306) towards Hammersmith Bridge. I can’t imagine that this saves much more than half of a mile and Castelnau Road is such a bore of an avenue that I don’t know why I even occasionally bother with this collinear bypass.

In the run-in to Christmas I established a new route of approximately 17 miles and with a few tough climbs thrown in. I haven’t based any these circuits on specific cycling requirements, and they’re more likely to be determined by something else I have to do or, more specifically, somewhere I want to go. I think the Wimbledon Circuit was originally informed by the presence of a Debenhams and a TK Maxx there, but you really shouldn't read too much into that.

So the Wimbledon beat forces me up Richmond Hill, back down through the other side of Richmond Park, then around Wimbledon Common by way of the A3, before joining Coombe Lane, passing through Raynes Park and then on to Wimbledon. The first time I rode this circuit I stopped for coffee on Wimbledon Bridge, where all the big shops are, before starting out towards Putney and joining Upper Richmond Road/Sheen Road and then on into Richmond itself. The second time I stopped off in Wimbledon Village, at the Starbucks up there, then took a detour passed the All England Tennis Club, ended up in Wandsworth, picked up Putney Bridge Road and made my way back towards Richmond (it had been a particularly cold day, but very stable – not bad conditions for cycling once you get going). As a whole, I like the Wimbledon Circuit but there is an aspect to it I'm not so fond of: the stage where I have to follow the A3 – or Robin Hood Way, as it’s also known – around Wimbledon Common to reach Wimbledon Proper. It isn't a question of distance, I just think there must probably be a more pleasant route through Wimbledon Common that avoids the tedium of cycling alongside the A3.

Just the other day I was quite in the mood for riding the Wimbledon Circuit and thought I might have another crack at finding a way through the Common, having abandoned my previous attempt on account of the freezing conditions and the confusing abundance of paths. But after studying Google Maps I was sure I’d identified the passage I needed to follow.

I hadn't – couldn't possibly have. Wimbledon Common is an undulating tract, with a Golf Club and everything. The wooded areas are surprisingly thick and there’s no accommodation for racing bicycles: even mountain bikes are prohibited on some of the trails. 

To build strength I try not to change gear too much, but some of the downhill dashes through Richmond Park necessitate I shift up to avoid spinning out. So it had been on the approach to Kingston Gate. I don’t know if it’s the nature of down-tube shifters, but some of my gear changes have been pretty rough. And this is part of the appeal of bikes like the Pinarello, where the gear shifters are integrated into the brake levers, and my recent apostasy with regard to the Carlos might have something to do with this. But my head tells me it’s a question of technique and of practise. Besides, down-tube shifters have an aesthetic appeal.

          By the time I reached the edge of Wimbledon Park I was keen to breach the Common, even if I had to dismount and walk it – which I did. I ended up carrying my bike across sodden, mire-like conditions, finding some succour on the open heath occupying the Common’s interior, but was still unable to then cycle due to the stubborn snow and the signs telling me not to. The cold-snap had lost its grip upon the rest of the Capital – even Richmond Park was enjoying the thaw – but the heart of Wimbledon Common had some catching up to do.

          I got a bit lost but found an exit onto West Place and the open expanse of common that surrounds Rushmere Pond. I recalled enough of the topography from Google Maps to then find my way to the Starbucks in Wimbledon Village and took my coffee earlier than I would normally do.

Wimbledon Village is an odd place. It’s like you’re on the top of the world up there. It rests on a sort of plateau, and I find myself physically aware of the fact. I like the feeling of isolation this gives, of being cut off from the rest of London. If I lived alone and wanted to disengage myself from other people then it would be a good place to dig in. I imagine those flats that occupy the floors up above the shops are different to those that lie in London’s lower lying recesses. I would expect the light to flood in and to feel close to the elements, with a view over the city from my back window. One might even become rather forlorn.

Whether or not investing in a water resistant cycling jacket is the right thing to do, I judge it to be entirely necessary. An open, regular ¾ length coat is vulnerable to water spray coming up the rear and making a mess of it, whereas an elasticated hem will merely contrive to leave one’s derriere exposed to take the flak instead. The cycling jacket adds extra length at the back to deal with this – sort of like a synthetic mullet – and it’s made from material that can cope. But whereas cycling jerseys can be tailored to leave a less serious impression, the jackets often read like a statement of intent. For practical purposes, they’re usually cut in the most reflective of fabrics: fluorescent yellow, silver, white, red. The Italian manufacturer Castelli does some nice jackets in black and/or grey, and I like their red scorpion motif that adorns them, but they’re normally quite expensive. Rapha – a British firm – do a very nice looking all black coat, but that costs £240 – way over my budget.

It was whilst scouting some of the on-line retailers that I discovered the Mavic Sprint in 'bolt blue' – an ‘everyday rain jacket with storm proven features’. Its RRP was £115.00, depending on where you read about it, but Ribble Cycles were selling limited sizes for £51.26. (£98.99 seems to be the going rate in actual fact, although that’s still listed as a reduction. £110 is cited as the RRP on the 2012 design, only available in two-tone black/green or white/black.) There appeared to be issues with the sizing, though – an inescapable reality when looking to order on-line – and, just as it was with the Solo jersey, the reviewers of this product were of the opinion that you should order a size up. However, the Mavic Size Chart implied that they were fully aware of these international vagaries, and the labels reflected that: an International Medium would be counter-labelled as a German/UK/American Small, and even as a Japanese Large. But no, the English reviewers reckoned you had to go up a size based on the German/UK/American designation. Again, the size chart revealed the existence of a German/UK/American XS and XXS, so I thought…  I thought I didn't fancy taking my chances and took a tour of all the cycling shops in my expanded area to find somewhere that stocked Mavic apparel, found a dealer not far from me, could see where the reviewers were coming from but reckoned that a German/UK/American Small would probably be about right. This was just as well because Ribble didn't stock a German/UK/USA medium – this was end-of-line kit, after all.

It was worth the bother because the Mavic Sprint is as nice an anorak as I've come across. I particularly liked what the Guardian had to say about it when they reviewed the product back in late 2009:

You wouldn't necessarily choose to wear it down the pub, but nor would you stick out too much if you did.

I’d choose to wear it down the pub, assuming it was raining, although that’s entirely contingent on it being “bolt blue”. I'm not sure what shade of blue ‘bolt’ really is, or how the (French) manufacturer, Mavic, chanced upon the phrase – was it a play on the idiom ‘a bolt from the blue’ perhaps? Anyway, the jacket is a shade reminiscent (no pun intended) of those old Peter Storm anoraks they made in the 1970s and 80s, and anyone of a certain age might appreciate the cachet. This means that if I choose to wear it with a pair of slim fitting black cords and some broken in desert boots I might vaguely resemble a member of a late 1980s indie-pop band, such as The Pastels. It’s not entirely why I bought it – I bought it because it was the least cycling-looking cycling jacket I could find of any quality at that price – but it’s nice to at least have the option.

            I think I like Mavic too. They’re more normally associated with the manufacture of wheels than they are apparel, but I like the sound of their name and I like the way it’s type-set. Best of all I like the little square sub-insignia they attach to their clothes: a black ‘M for Mavic’ set upon a yellow background, which contrasts very pleasingly against the bolt blue.

AN APPROPRIATE BICYCLE - Pt. 13: PROVENANCE, PART 2

Almost desperate to find just a trace of evidence pertaining to the bikes Carlos manufactured (or rebadged), I launched a final search-engine offensive, but this time in French.  “Carlos road bicycle steel” translates as “acier de bicyclette de route de Carlos”, so I ran a search on that, but without the preposition ‘de’ in case it proved grammatically restrictive.

            My reward was an advertisement on vieux-velo.com from someone selling an old Carlos bike, with everything but the wheels for €650!  The notice read thus:

‘Je vends mon cadre de vélo de route de marque CARLOS, modèle 1983, entièrement COLOMBUS; tout équipé sauf les roues, de taille 55 dans un état correct.  Convient parfaitement pour une conversion FIXIE, par exemple.’

Or in other words (and I have translated the advert literally because, first, I don’t speak French and, second, because I thought the verbatim translation held a certain charm):

‘I sell my framework of bicycle of road of brand CARLOS, model 1983, entirely COLOMBUS; very equipped except the wheels, of size 55 in a correct state.  Is appropriate perfectly for a conversion FIXIE, for example.’

You’d have thought that this would have pleased me, but you’d be wrong. The Carlos in question was too early a model to be comparable to my own, and was built using Columbus tubing, whereas there’s no indication that my Carlos has been hewn from such reputable a material (although it’s not impossible). But it did get me thinking about how the French might refer to their classic bikes: vieux means old, and velo is a more informal alternative to bicyclette. I tried running a search using the words ‘acier velo route Carlos’ and found another image on the website ‘Vélotaf’ (a French web-forum concerned with cycling, similar to our Bike Radar, perhaps?) which looked like a good match. The frame appeared to be identical in form, although the components were quite different. But, lacquered in blue, I couldn't help thinking that this Carlos looked rather cheap, and the accompanying thread shed little light on the company’s origins, let alone the quality of their produce.

I think it’s probably time to let go of my obsession with Carlos’ provenance...

 

 [Carlos in Blue]

Unpleasant things have been happening to me of late. I've just purchased a CO² inflator and concomitant cartridges, to fit inside my Ortlieb Saddle Bag alongside a spare inner tube, tyre leavers, glueless patch kit and modest multi-tool. I then decided that I should invest in a cycling jacket and found one that pleased the eye. My metamorphosis is finding its form as I slowly take on the attributes of a fully-fledged cycling enthusiast, but my bicycle-esteem is starting to suffer as some sort of result.

It was never supposed to be like this. I thought that by eschewing carbon, cleats and conservative clubs I’d be impermeable to the vanities and conceits of more zealous cycling aficionados. Instead, I've returned to fawning over images of vintage bicycles on Gumtree and eBay, thinking about how far I might be prepared to go.

            Talking of which, that Pinarello Veneto is up for sale again. But guess what: not only has the seller corrected his spelling but he’s fixed the price at £600 (open to offers if anybody wants to submit a bid through eBay – he’s rejected two already). Presuming that the Brookes saddle has a resale value of, say, £150, and assuming my Carlos to be worth a little more than the £295 I paid for it – given the rapturous reception it received from the guy at Crown Cycles – would it be fair to speculate that I could offer £580 for the Pinarello, sell the saddle and the Carlos (and the Jamis, too, if it came to that) and actually end up breaking about even? It’s a tempting prospect, for the Pinarello is still very enticing and probably faster and easier to handle than my Carlos.

Such a proposition doesn't sit quite right with me. For one, the Pinarello has something of the Bianchi or the Colnago about it: lovely bikes all, but high-end Italian marquees loaded with connotation. They are highly desirable machines, and that’s reflected in their value. I don’t think I’d be able to relax if I rode on something like that. The threat of theft or impact damage is not my real concern here: the issue is more how these bikes might reflect upon their owner. What sort of individual rides a Pinarello? Miguel Indurain won his five consecutive Tours de France titles on them, I think, and Bradley Wiggins has just ridden one to his first, so what business have I got owning one?

Why should this matter? It doesn't matter, actually, but I've only recently embraced cycling of the road-racing kind and it would feel almost impertinent of me to ride a bike of such calibre. I’d feel like the guy who put his gear before his physical ability: who spent more money than time in honing his or her craft; the person who launched himself into their new-found hobby for all the wrong reasons.

There’s something else that’s troubling me. If I give up on Carlos then I might be disturbing the narrative. Part of me was sad to see the Raleigh Record Ace go, but I was sure it was the right thing to do. Buying Carlos also felt like the right thing to do, and even the guy who sold it to me expressed this sentiment. Carlos feels right. Carlos is unique without being ostentatious. Carlos has some foibles but does ride rather well. Carlos is consistent with my approach. Carlos is Weltschmerz.

Carlos is also in keeping with the accessories I've amassed: the two cycling jerseys that I bought on the cheap; the fingerless gloves that didn't break the bank; the moderately priced but classy looking bottle cage; the base-level cycling shorts my mother kindly bought for me; or the old Adidas Sambas that make for a perfectly serviceable pair of cycling shoes. And I want to ride a Pinarello? It would feel like sedition!

I'm not going to bid for the Pinarello this time but I shall keep an eye on the market for other bikes, with a view to selling the Jamis. Because whatever becomes of Carlos, I feel a strong, almost uncontrollable urge to purchase another white bicycle replete with 1980s era livery – like a PDM labelled Concorde, perhaps?

[A Concorde 'Gavina' in PDM colours]

AN APPROPRIATE BICYCLE - Pt. 10: THE CLUB AS CONCEPT

The Heuvel fits and thus will remain in my possession. It’s a nice jersey, especially when considering that it cost less than half its recommended retail price. But I think I prefer the Descente after all: the fabric is softer, the fit is just that little more intimate, and, practically speaking, it is one of a kind. It is also the perfect hue of blue – rather like the tint of Everton’s football kit circa 1983-1985. So despite the Belgian theme that informs The Heuvel, and the emergence of Dirk Baert as some sort of project patron saint, it could well be the Descente jersey I’ll be wearing for next year’s London to Brighton. We shall see.

Which finally brings us to the unveiling of my prospective team’s name. This is the remit: a moniker that calls to mind some of the professional outfits currently racing the grand tours. The reason for this is because these sponsor-induced sobriquets often have an amusing ring to my ear: Saxo-Bank Tinkoff; Garmin Sharp; Argos-Shimano; Orica GreenEDGE; Saur-Sojasun. Although I'm not forming an actual cycling club, whatever title I come up with will represent my own de facto organisation from here on in, even if after the London to Brighton is done it continues to exist as an affiliation of one, with myself as its only member – a mere figment of my imagination.

My confederacy might endorse competing in the odd sportive but will only occasionally meet up for training sessions – and they’ll be optional. My syndicate will not have an official team jersey but will persuade its riders to find their own sartorial niche. My coalition will applaud individuality. My club rejects the notion of a club. We’re not going to be called the Pan-Southwest London Cycling Club, or the West Thames Wheelers, or anything else that so readily suggests who we are and what it is we do. We shall ride under the curious appellation that is Carlos-Weltschmerz (observing the German pronunciation of the second word). Ostensibly, this might sound rather absurd, but I think it has a plausible ring to it. Moreover, it functions as a tribute to Dirk Baert and his loyalty to the guys at Carlos, whilst also reflecting – via the medium of phonology – the Latin/Germanic duality that defines Great Britain’s position on the European cultural spectrum, for road cycling is a very European endeavour.

Weltschmerz has a particular resonance in and of itself, this Teutonic locution roughly translating into something approximating ‘world weariness’. Dissect its meaning still further and you’re really onto something: it conveys more than to be simply jaded and articulates the realisation that the physical reality of the human condition can never conform to the idealistic demands that one’s self places upon it. This seems appropriate, given the impervious nature of the task at hand: a vain attempt to replicate the sensation of riding in a grand-tour – an exercise in futility if there ever was one. Despite embracing the concept of Weltschmerz, I'm not necessarily resigning myself to its implications. One could say that I'm seeking joy in anomie… or solace in resistance.

I can pinpoint the precise moment I finally ‘got’ road cycling. It was during Stage 5 of the 2012 Vuelta a Espana and, early on, Javier Chacón (racing for Team Andalucia) broke away from the rest of the field, built up a 12 minute lead before being chased down by the pack approximately 30 km from the finish ( in what was a 168 km race). He was rewarded with the stage’s Combativity Award for his efforts, deservedly so. Without anyone supporting him, Monsieur Chacón had little chance of pulling off this audacious stab for victory, but he gave it a go anyway.

What really left an impression was the instant he must have known it was all over, when Javier glanced back over his shoulder and saw the Argos-Shimano led peloton gradually bearing down on him. It was a singular spectacle that evoked in me both fear and humour, and I can’t think of any other sport that draws out a moment like that. In football, say, a shot on goal might hit the back of the net, veer horribly wide, or end up in the arms of the goalkeeper. Whatever the outcome, it’s resolved in a split-second. With cricket, the batsman plays the stroke and either scores a number of runs, gets caught out, misses the ball entirely and – depending on the bowler’s intention – finds his wicket smashed to pieces or lives to face another delivery. Either way, it’s pretty immediate. 

In cycling, though, the real drama (not the crashes or sprint finishes) tends to gently unfold, suspending one’s emotion to the point where you don’t quite know what to do with it. It’s like watching an explosion in slow-motion, energy dissipating – so incomprehensible that the only natural response is to laugh a little.

I hope my cadres buy into my vision of an existential cycling outfit, with no official membership, no hard rules and regulations, no sense of being part of a greater community: a sort of cycling militia, kicking against the imperial velocipedists who look down upon the rest of us.

Team Carlos-Weltschmerz Code of Conduct and Ethics

1. Always behave in a gentlemanly fashion.
2. Comedy cycling jerseys are bad and should be avoided – they’re not for you.
3. Assimilate the consumption of a static beverage on cycle rides of reasonable length.
4. Have respect and admiration for the steel bicycle, for it is a pure thing.
5. Buy Dirk Baert a beer if you ever get the chance.
6. Offer the Spanish team Caja Rural your support – they seem like a nice bunch.
7. Riding alone is good; embrace solitude.
8. Be sure to take in the view.
9. Don’t take cycling too seriously.
10. Take cycling very seriously indeed.

[POST-SCRIPT: After writing the above, I unearthed a website – and I can’t recall how – peddling a level of obstinance comparable to my own, and was left with the feeling that maybe I'm not so wide of cycling culture as I’d assumed. Velominati (Keepers of the Cog) lay down 91 rules, no less, many of which I’d gladly slip in alongside those I've devised for Carlos-Weltschmerz. For example:

Rule #16 – Respect the Jersey: Championship and race leader jerseys must only be worn if you've won the championship or led the race. 

Rule #26 – Make your bike photogenic: When photographing your bike, gussy her up properly for the camera. Some parameters are firm: valve stems at 6 o’clock; cranks never at 90 or 180 degrees. Others are at your discretion, though the accepted practices include putting the chain on the big dog, and no bidons in the cages.

Rule #80 – Always be Casually Deliberate. Waiting for others pre-ride or at the start line pre-race, you must be tranquilo (sic), resting on your top tube thusly. This may be extended to any time one is aboard the bike, but not riding it, such as at stop lights.

A picture of pro-cyclists draped over their handlebars, chewing the pre-race fat, is provided as a suitable example to illustrate that final decree. There’s also a link to an article examining the ‘delicate art’ of convincing as a Pro. It puts forward the case that cyclists are amongst the hardest sportsmen there are, but also the most vain. And if you too aspire to be Casually Deliberate, then a number of pointers are provided: 

‘A pre-ride espresso is the perfect Casually Deliberate means to prepare for a ride: fully kitted up, loyal machine leaning patiently against a nearby wall, cycling cap carefully dishevelled atop the head, sunnies perched above the brim.’

This sort of thing is right up my street. I'm not particularly hard and I'm not particularly vain, but I am hard and vain enough to elicit pleasure from an approach such as this.

It’s a tricky dividing line. When I see a gathering of cyclists wearing full pro-team kit (especially if it’s Team Sky issue), their carbon bikes sprawled all around them, I'm inclined to think they look preposterously arrogant (or arrogantly preposterous?). But were these guys to wear more low-key gear, ride older bikes and maybe relax a little, then my perception could waver.

I think the Velominati is an Australian conceit – Antipodean, at least – so maybe it’s not so much a cycling issue as much a cultural one? Let’s face it: the British cycling enthusiast does tend to be quite a middle-class beast, capable of emitting all the superciliousness that this can entail – you only have to watch them picking fights with dozy motorists to see that.

Let’s not get carried away: Carlos-Weltschmerz does not concern itself with the verisimilitude of things, and isn't interested in promoting class conflict. Really, aesthetics is what it’s all about.]

AN APPROPRIATE BICYCLE - Pt. 8: PROVENANCE, PART 1

I’ve been struggling to find any meaningful information pertaining to the Carlos ever since I first saw the bike advertised on Gumtree. The guys at the Vintage Bike Cave couldn't tell me much either, other than that the company originated from somewhere in north-east France. I like to think I'm fairly adept at sourcing intelligence on the world-wide-web, but all I could find was a discussion on Bike Forums (under a thread headed 'Classic & Vintage - Where are the Belgian Frames?') in which somebody had announced that, ‘Carlos was basically a French make, close to the Belgian border.’ I’d found this snippet of near worthless material – for it merely corroborated what the Vintage Bike Cave already told me – by typing something like ‘French bicycle Carlos 1980s manufacturer’ into my search-engine.

            Once the bike was mine, and I could study it more closely, I’d employed the tack of adding various components to my search: Ofmega (shifters), Suntour and Triplex (derailleurs), Vetta Gel (saddle), Shimano 105 (headset), and Gian Roberts (chainring) – but still nothing. Frustrated, I widened my investigation even further by using Google France and writing in French (Belgique, bicyclette, Francais…). This reaped instant reward. I unearthed a thread on some French website that alluded to Carlos being a Belgian company (with amused references to the Venezuelan political terrorist Carlos the Jackal thrown in) and the fact that a few Belgian teams used to race their bikes during the seventies and eighties. This was progress of sorts, if only because it was my first indication that Carlos used to make half-decent bicycles.

            Slightly obsessed, I started trawling through any cycling archive I could find, on the lookout for obscure pro-team names from the seventies and eighties. At first this proved futile, but did inadvertently direct me – via a brief overview of the 1982 Giro d’Italia on Wikipedia, and the Belgian rider Lucien Van Impe’s 4^th place finish in it – to a comprehensive list of all the professional Belgian riders that have ever competitively ridden a bicycle and the teams they raced for. I was nearing the end of this inventory when I clicked on the name of a Belgian Cyclist called Eddy Vanhaerens who it transpired once raced for a team called Carlos-Galli-Alan! Running a search on Carlos-Galli-Alan led me in turn to a website called Cycling Archives, an old photograph of said team and the results garnered during their singular year in existence. It seems that a Mr Dirk Baert was actually Carlos-Galli-Alan’s most successful cyclist, with three placings compared to Vanhaerens’ one, and probably should have featured on Wikipedia’s list of professional Belgian cyclists too. Anyway, feeding the phrase ‘Dirk Baert Carlos’ into Google revealed not only a great vision of the man, but the fact that he had also ridden for Carlos Cycles in 1975, Carlos-Galli in 1976 and 1979, and a team called Carlos-Gipiemme in 1977. Dirk had been those teams’ star man as well.

 

(Dirk Baert - Courtesy: Guy Didieu)

Born in Zwevegem, Belgium, in 1949, Dirk had embarked on his vocation with a team called Hertekamp-Magniflex in May 1970. In 1971 he moved to the more well-known Flandria-Mars marquee and continued to change teams every year before moving to Carlos Cycles in 1975, and remaining with them – or a variation thereof – until 1979. A time-trial specialist, Cycling Archives attributes 87 victories to the man, most of them road-races and criteriums. But he did partake in a few tours, and in 1974, riding for MIC-Ludo-Gribaldy, he competed in his only Tour de France, finishing 93^rd in the General Classification; along the way, he came in 5^th in the prologue in Brest; 7^th on Stage 6; 6^th on stages 8, 14, 20, and 21 (part a); and 4^th on Stage 21 (part b). Eddy Merckx won that year, and I hope that Dirk looks back on his own participation with some pride. (Do you think he does?)

So Dirk’s the main man as far as Carlos is concerned, although he’s brought me no closer to finding out anything about the bicycles Carlos built, let alone how old my Carlos actually is. It's an ambiguous issue anyway, because bikes are very often re-badged, or built in conjunction with other firms. From the pictures on Cycling Archives, for example, it's clear that Alan bikes were ridden by at least one of the permutations of the Carlos marque (as is evident from studying the picture above). Still, the ambiguous Franco-Belgian credentials of Carlos established, I now have a theme with which to inform my prospective team name. I will attend to this matter when that damned jersey shows up.

[Images courtesy of http://www.cyclingarchives.com/coureurs.php ]