AN APPROPRIATE BICYCLE - Pt. 22: IN PRAISE OF COFFEE

Since my search for a bike began there has been one constant: coffee. These are not related events per se, for coffee has always been a companion of mine. I should add that it’s only in recent years that I’ve embraced the drinking of coffee outside of the home with such enthusiasm, but it’s been going on long enough. Mind you, I don’t recall coffee shops or cafés featuring on those early rides with the Raleigh Record Ace, although I suppose they must have done. They were certainly present on my reconnaissance missions to East and North London, searching for potential bikes, and were very much to the fore once I started riding the Carlos.

            They have a practical purpose though, these pauses for caffeine. They provide a target, or a half way marker – or a two thirds marker. The idea on my longer rides is to select a destination at which to stop for coffee, to work out a way to get there and then find my way back via a different route – never go back on yourself.

            It’s hard, actually, because there are only so many directions in which I can feasibly travel. I am confined by geographical limitations, namely the River Thames to the south (decreeing I first head west or east if I want to explore Surrey), and Heathrow Airport and the M25 out west (a bleak and industrious restraint). Moving south-westwards through the corridor between M3 and the River Thames works well for me, and I will take it as far as Walton Bridge. By the time I’ve made it to Kingston – my allotted coffee point – I’ve covered almost 20 miles, including a 1.5 mile steady push up Hurst Road.  This route also benefits from a paucity of traffic lights and junctions.

If I want to explore south-eastwards then I usually ride through and circumnavigate Richmond Park and Wimbledon Common respectively.  I can move south fairly easily from there. Carlos-Weltschmerz’s next trip shall see it stab deep into the countryside, another jaunt in a southerly direction intended to reach out as far as Box Hill.

            The farthest north I travel is Ealing Broadway, and that’s invariably followed by a swing to the right which takes me along the Uxbridge Road towards Shepherd’s Bush and often on to High Street Kensington. It may also happen in reverse.

            For the most part I like to head eastward, which offers up the most interesting terrain – London basically, and its labyrinth of streets. The prevailing path of late has been straight into Waterloo, through Richmond, Putney, Wandsworth, Battersea Park and Vauxhall. It’s a fast trip with surprisingly few obstacles – one can attain quite some speed.

I like this about cycling, this peripatetic feature, and I can quite understand why some cyclists get into touring or randonneuring.

I’m not a caffeine snob and don’t at all mind drinking in places like Starbucks, Caffè Nero or Costa, so long as I like the territory and can look at nice things – or if the café in question faces in a direction that allows me to feel the warmth of the sun. I’ve alluded to a few of these already, like that Starbucks in Wimbledon village, a capacious establishment reminiscent of an All Bar One or a Pitcher and Piano – pubs I never willingly enter. Its walls are made of glass and it strikes me that most coffee shops like their walls to be made of glass, as much as is architecturally possible. I think this is because people like to feel connected with the outside world when they take a break for coffee (or tea, maybe cake). It’s as if they don’t want to separate their leisure time from the rest of the day, even if the rest of the day is all about their work. Maybe if these places were too dark, or too ostensibly sheared off from their environment, the clientele would find that too much and slink off into a leisurely reverie from which they would find it hard to recover. They want distraction but not so much that they get too comfortable, unable to settle back into a work related state of mind (that’s what pubs are for).

            Starbucks in Wimbledon, with its wooden interior, glazed frontage and not too difficult jazz, overlooks an unobjectionable high-street, and it makes for a satisfactory place to drink; the filter coffee just about passes muster. There’s a Starbucks in Chiswick that I’m rather partial to as well. Its shape and size restrict the copious use of glass, but I like to sit outside of that one anyhow: it’s south-facing.

Nero is where my mother likes to drink her coffee – she appreciates the double dose of caffeine. At Caffè Nero (with its pictures on the walls of people drinking coffee, to look at while you’re drinking coffee) I order a white Americano, but they never provide enough milk and I normally have to ask that they re-fill my thimble of a jug. They hit you hard for drinking inside too, which is why I never bother with their lattes – too expensive. I should probably avoid Nero on principle, but they’ve got some choice locations. The aforementioned branch on High Street Kensington next to Boots Chemist is my favourite, with its triangular outside seating area and railings, to which I can secure the bike.

            There’s a decent Caffè Nero in Fulham Broadway, opposite one of the best equipped Evans Cycles in the whole of London. Tables and chairs ring the perimeter and the pedestrianized zone that separates it from Evans Cycles makes for a calming experience. However, the adjacent bike racks are normally overpopulated and finding alternative solutions can be a bit of a fag.

 

At Costa I am in the habit of drinking lattes. Many cafés top their lattes with too much froth but Costa don’t tend to, and I approve of the fact that they won’t charge you extra for drinking-in. There are only a few Costas I frequent, though. The first is in Ealing around the back of the mall. Its generous outside seating area is frequented by gentlemen of Middle Eastern and/or North African descent, talking and smoking. Inside is the stalking ground of the mother and child, and it is gloomy and unappealing.

            My favourite Costa is the one just across from Embankment Tube Station, although there are no obvious anchors for your bike. Interior wise, it’s quite small, but I like the intimacy.

Wimbledon Village also has a passable Costa.

Really, though, it is the independent cafés that I like to offer my patronage, and trips to Kingston-upon-Thames always involve establishments such as these. After a particularly brutal cycle out to Walton-on-Thames, I recently discovered The Terrace on Apple Market. The Americano was of a very high standard and charged for at a reasonable rate, and I was given hot milk without even having to ask.

            Then there’s the Royal Festival Hall on the South Bank; awful coffee but a brilliant view.

            Kew Greenhouse Café in Kew is another good one, although as my rides have become longer it’s been harder to accommodate.

            And so on…

Coffee has strong associations with cycling – probably something to do with its robust Italian heritage. I ride an Italian bike. I’ve been to Italy twice. I would like to go there again.

            British riders used to be encouraged to ride British bikes, and not without justification. This wasn’t loose jingoism: we used to make very high quality bikes and Reynolds steel was – and maybe still is – considered (the Italian) Columbus’s equal. You may recall that the Raleigh Record Ace was made from Reynolds steel, and it is a bike that I think of with fondness. Those early rides were something of a revelation and set me on the path that has led me to where I am now.

            There have been other British bikes I’ve looked at along the way. Some I’ve mentioned, like the (allegedly) stolen Holdsworth, and others I’ve not (out of compassion for my readership). I’ve never been biased one way or another and I’m only riding Italian because the Romani is the bike I’ve come across that most suits my needs.

            But I’ve been to Italy twice and would like to go there again. I think it would be a nice idea to ride the Romani in the L’Eroica, assuming it meets the criteria: no cleats; shifters on the down-tube; manufactured no later than 1987 (although the Romani might well be). It would be like some sort of homecoming.

            I’ve heard that certain travel companies have started putting together package tours centred around the annual L’Eroica race in Tuscany. You don’t even have to worry about the bike because they will hire you one on the day. What do you think of that?  What do you think of people – people who might not ordinarily own a bike that qualifies – throwing some tour operator a wedge of money and flying to Italy to impose themselves on an event geared towards those with a genuine affection for vintage bicycles?

 

AN APPROPRIATE BICYCLE - Pt. 15: MORE THOUGHTS ABOUT JERSEYS

My father once asked me – almost apropos of nothing – whether I held truck with the concept of fate. I dismissed the notion – must have done, because although I don’t specifically recall what I offered in reply, I do remember my old man telling me that ‘greater minds’ than mine had deemed the idea worthy of their consideration, as well as being a little put out that he was satisfied that there were indeed greater minds than mine. I knew there to be greater minds than mine, or course – far, far greater – but how could my sire be so sure? It was reasonable for him to surmise that there probably were minds far greater than mine, but I think I resented that he should so obviously think it a full gone conclusion. It wasn't so much that my mind in anyway bordered on greatness (I was in my late teens – how could it?) but the absoluteness of having that statement directed towards me – ‘greater minds than yours’ – seemed, at the very least, to ruthlessly depose the idea that in the future my mind may very well develop into one of the greatest minds of them all. But no, in one foul phrase the limits of my genius had been set. It may well turn out that I was a particularly clever chap, but I’d never possess the faculty to legitimately rationalize the possibility that fate plays a part in everybody’s lives. To make the matter worse, I’d admitted as much myself.

            It’s probable that I had no opinion on the subject whatsoever. Moreover, I overcame the certitude that my father didn't think I’d cut it as one of the key thinkers of my generation in approximately 3 seconds: I didn't consider my mind to be in any way “great” so why should he? I was just a sullen teenager who thought their father couldn't possibly know one way or another how exceptional their son’s mind was or wasn't (I’ll stand by that assertion) and that he was merely being a little premature with statements like ‘greater minds than yours’ (but not that one).

But later, when I had the space to mull it over, I did have a go at pontificating on the subject of fate, if only to allow for the possibility that my mind could very well be great after all. I came to the conclusion that the question was moot, for if one supposed that either possibility could be true then the outcome was the same in either case: we had either reached the current way of things because it was predestined, or we had reached the current way of things because they weren't. Ergo, if fate had a hand in our affairs then it also had hand in free will, the ability to challenge and question fate, and to seal fate’s own fate: free will was predetermined and at the same time fate was vulnerable to the vagaries of free will.

I talk of fate because of the various dilemmas I've been faced with whilst gazing at cycling jerseys on eBay. I possess two jerseys, you may recall, but I've peered into the future and concluded that this number will not suffice. I like the idea that three might be about right because then I’d introduce the concept of a ‘trinity of jerseys’ and hope the phrase caught on. I’d like that cyclists might talk of their own personal trinities, or that older riders would reminisce and decide which three jerseys were their favourites – what would constitute their ‘Holy Trinity’, if you like. It would become common parlance among the cycling community, and journalists in the field would ask professional cyclists to name their Holy Trinity, normally at the end of the interview because they wouldn't be sure whether the interviewee would take to the idea or not. At first Bradley Wiggins would assume the interviewer to be making reference toward his fondness for Mod inspired clobber, but, once assured that the concept was genuine, would quite get into it. Mark Cavendish would take to it at once. David Millar would ponder the question as if he’d been asked something rather lofty. Chris Froome would stare in bemusement and wonder what the point was of asking such a thing.

Having decided that two jerseys was definitely NOT enough, and that three might help me make myths, I set about appropriating my third – my Holy Spirit. Given that my existing jerseys differ significantly, I began to ponder what form a third should take and in doing so came to the conclusion that I would need to select from among the following taxonomies:

1 – The Woollen Jersey: There’s something very appealing about an old woollen jersey. Search out pictures of the annual L’Eroica, in which bikes and attire are required to be of a certain age, and one will get a feel for what I'm talking about it: the designs tend to be cleaner, less ostentatious, and more functional, yet oddly colourful.

One’s woollen jersey – should you choose to acquire one – will preferably be a genuine race edition. The less imaginative among us will ape legends Jacques Anquetil and Eddy Merckx, and buy replica Bic and Molteni jerseys in respective homage. Others might fare a little better and wear Faema, Peugeot or Mercier across their chests. The innovators will be those who find examples of the real thing, down weekend markets or in high-street charity shops – or on eBay. Typically, these jerseys will comprise of three or maybe four colours, often broken up into horizontal or vertical stripes. Any sort of graphic is rare and if present will be presented in the same manner as the flock lettering – the detail is rarely printed or sewn on. More obscure team sponsors include Gan, Gelati-Sanson, Miko, and many more unknown.

Whichever way you approach it, one could argue that every cycling enthusiast should have a woollen jersey within their repertoire.

[A typical gathering of jerseys at L'Eroica ]

  

2 – Contemporary Team Kit (with caveats): There are plenty of pleasing jerseys in the modern peloton – just be mindful of the fact that you’re not stuck in there racing with them. If you must wear modern team kit then take care to whom you pledge allegiance. For obvious reasons, replica Team Sky kit is to be avoided. Omega Pharma-Quick Step would have been considered permissible last year but Mark Cavendish has recently joined them and one should proceed with caution. Weirdly, Garmin Sharp kit is probably okay, even with David Millar still propping up their ranks (or maybe because David Millar is still propping up their ranks). The idea here is to avoid being seen as a “fan” of some of exclusively British elements of modern cycling – this isn't football. 

National colours and national champion jerseys are best avoided too, unless you go for something unusual, like the impressive Lithuanian effort for 2013.

3 – 1980s Team Kit: If you want team kit that isn't classic, woollen and pre-mass market, then it is to this supposedly low point in collective taste that one must turn. In fact, the 1980s wasn't the aesthetic disaster that frivolous, retrospective, televisual pseudo documentaries would have you believe, and the cycling jerseys of the period are a case in point: Super U Raleigh, Café de Colombia, PDM-Concorde, La Vie Claire, Renault-Elf – the list is extensive and it’s probably only a matter of time before I succumb to this era’s charm.

4 – The Faux-Classic Racing Jersey: There will be those who will balk at the thought of wearing wool, and they are beyond hope. But there are some people who think that the wearing of (replica) team kit should be set aside for members of a team, and I have a degree of sympathy with this position. The team jersey pastiche allows such folk to look good without having to compromise this conviction. Solo’s Classique range is a firm example of this kind of jersey, and Morvelo have made positive a contribution too. Rapha and Le Coq Sportif have produced worthy efforts, but the best shirts probably come from De Marchi. The only downside to this model is that you normally pay big bucks for the privilege.

5 – Club Colours: I'm not a big fan but there are certainly some decent club jerseys out there, even if they are in the distinct minority. I assume my Descente jersey to be a club jersey of sorts – or a work’s team at the very least – and I'm very fond of my understated Descente jersey. I think that’s probably the key to a successful shirt of this ilk: less is more. Also, wearing a club jersey when you’re not even a member of the club in question has a whiff of subversion about it – and that’s a good thing.

I embraced the possibility of buying a 1980s team jersey and an authentic woollen one in about equal measure – it would come down to whichever opportunity arose first. Initially it seemed like the 1980s was going to win. I outbid someone bidding for a rare Vermarc Sport Tonissteiner Euro Tour Team jersey and it was mine for the princely sum of £4.50. Unfortunately, it turned out to be chronically small, and I would have had a row over the measurements the seller listed if he hadn't instantly offered a full refund, the cost of his postage included (it still cost me a couple of quid to send it back, but these are the fortunes of eBay).

            Next, I turned to Prendas Ciclismo and their excellent range of replica team kit inspired by season’s past. It was only the price of such shirts that had prohibited me from buying from them sooner, but now they were selling a PDM-Concorde jersey at a reduced price. Again, the thing turned out too small, and the next size up was sold out. They gave me a full refund and provided a first rate service throughout.

It was a case of third time lucky, and it was a woollen vestment that turned up trumps. White and almost fluorescent green with black trim, it’s an old Caisse D’Epargne team jersey, Caisse D’Epargne being a French bank that endorses a pro-cycling team to this very day. I like how the wool feels: warmer, more relaxed than the modern fabric that my other jerseys are made from.

And no sooner had I received the thing and I saw a Carlos-Galli jersey selling on eBay, and low on takers. This is what I mean by alluding to the notion of fate: eBay never stands still and one search invariably leads to another: a jersey is found, a bid is placed, and then a rival bidder might intervene, which in turn may oblige one to look elsewhere. What search will you have typed in that day? Has the seller of your dream jersey grasped the concept of search engine optimisation and listed their product in a way that will help you find it? Do you even have the time to conduct a thorough search before somebody sneaks in and buys that 7-Eleven team jersey you've set your heart on – or are you even so inclined to look in the first instance? And so it goes, and it’s impossible to tell where this will lead, and in what direction. A small alteration of the past can change the way a man thinks about things, with various consequences.

Take it further: if it hadn't been raining on Sunday 29^th July I probably wouldn't have found myself indoors, glued to the 2012 Olympic women’s road race. If I hadn't been so entranced by that then I wouldn't have picked that moment in time to look for road-bicycles Gumtree. If I hadn't spotted some guy living not two miles from me selling a Raleigh Record Ace, or if I’d left it an hour later and his other potential customer had bought the thing (and as it was I hesitated for about 45 minutes before making the call), then my enthusiasm for road-cycling might have waned and who knows when, or if, I would have committed to buying a road-bike. But I did buy it, which resulted in me selling it and having to wait for the transaction to be completed before finding a replacement. Had that gone through quicker, then I could have ended up with a Peugeot instead of a Carlos, and if I hadn't been acquainted with Carlos then Carlos-Weltschmerz would not have come into being and I might be riding for Peugeot-Saudade (©) instead. And what sort of jersey would I have searched for on eBay then?

I looked into numerology and the significance that the number 4 might hold. Turns out that 4 is the number of fate, and to associate with it is to understand that some things are beyond one’s control. ‘Four’ is also supposed to symbolise the principle of putting ideas into form, and of expressing knowledge – or wisdom.

[POST-SCRIPT: I actually ended up bidding on a second-hand, but very new looking, replica La Vie Claire jersey on eBay too, and was convinced that I would win, my maximum bid far out-reaching what was on the table with just minutes of the auction left to run. I set my limit at something like £30 (the cost of shipping seemed excessive to me, at £3.99, otherwise I may have gone even higher). The jersey went for £32. Prendas Ciclismo sell them new for £49.95 – it made little sense. Sometimes it’s only when you come close to getting something, but don’t, that you realise just how much you wanted it. If I was full-time employed I’d probably just go straight to Prendas.

            And it should go without saying that I feel obliged to bid for the Carlos-Galli top, although to not do so would be perversely un-fatalistic. And so I have – I submitted a maximum bid of £17.02, rounding up to £20 when the postage is taken into account. So if I win that, and I do manage to get my hands on a ‘La Vie Claire’, then I’ll be left with five jerseys, and that’s not going to help me in establishing my trinity theory of jersey ownership. God forbid I should ever find a 7-Eleven shirt going for a reasonable rate. I think the situation is getting a little out of hand.]