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.18: DEBUT IN LYCRA

The Romani is now in my possession and I’ve already covered some ground on it, fixed Kryptonite’s bizarre FlexFrame U-bracket to the down-tube, raised the handlebars by a whole 2 cm, exchanged the firm saddle it came with for the Vetta Gel off of the Carlos, raised the seat-tube a couple of inches and then lowered it again by about one. The early signs are good and I suspect that buying this bike was absolutely the right thing to do.

I asked my cadres to provide some information for my readers, like you sometimes get in real life sporting publications, such as Shoot magazine. I wanted to create profiles of sorts so to get a feel for the various personalities that race for Carlos-Weltschmerz. See what you think:

Name: James Evans (that’s me)

Age: 37

Bike:  Carlos Tours Romani Prestige

Race Jersey: La Vie Claire

Giro, Tour or Vuelta? Vuelta

Preferred theatre of Second World War (assuming one partook in it, and regardless of the risk of mortality): North African Campaign - leave in Cairo

Preferred meteorological conditions (not for cycling; just in general): 28°C, overcast, no breeze, humid, with the portent of storms

Hypothetical ride-on music (like they do in the darts and snooker): Fit and Working Again - The Fall

Favourite 'ism': Constructivism

What are you reading? The Anatomy of Melancholy by Richard Burton.

Name: Simon A C Evans
Age: 34
Bike: Gary Fischer Hybrid
Race Jersey: Bic or Café de Colombia
Giro, Tour or Vuelta? Tour
Preferred theatre of Second World War: North Atlantic Convoy
Preferred meteorological conditions: Heavy Rain when on a veranda or shed with an open door, to give the feeling that I am undercover but still outside
Hypothetical ride-on music: I Can't Do Nuttin For Ya Man – Public Enemy
Favourite 'ism': Cubism
What are you reading? Steady State Economics by Herman Daly.

Name: Peter Gowland

Age: 38

Bike: Bianchi C2C

Race Jersey: PDM-Concorde

Giro, Tour or Vuelta? Paris-Roubaix

Preferred theatre of Second World War: Western Front - Normandy

Preferred Meteorological conditions: August, Ibiza - hot and dry

Hypothetical ride on music: No music: spoken word - Al Pacino's 'inches' speech from Any Given Sunday

Favourite 'ism': Atheism – f**k God and the horse he rode in on

What are you reading: Bounce: The Myth of Talent and the Power of Practice by Matthew Syed.

Name: William Mommersteeg

Age: 43

Bike: Bianchi Reparto Course Condor Squadra

Race Jersey: St. Raphael

Giro, Tour or Vuelta? Tour

Preferred theatre of Second World War: Burma

Preferred meteorological conditions: 30°C and sun shining

Hypothetical ride-on music: Rock n' Roll - Led Zeppelin

Favourite 'ism': Favouritism

What are you reading? Chinaman by Shelhan Karunatilaka.

Name: Ben Wenborn

Age: 35

Bike: Specialized Roubaix

Race Jersey: Château D'ax Gatorade

Giro, Tour or Vuelta? Giro

Preferred theatre of Second World War: The Mediterranean - naval campaigns around Malta/Gibraltar/Suez Canal

Preferred meteorological conditions: Dark 'n' stormy

Hypothetical ride-on music: Can't Touch This - MC Hammer

Favourite 'ism': Laxism

What are you reading? Ubik by Philip K Dick.

It was Mr Mommersteeg who was proving to be the most receptive to this whole London to Brighton project (although everybody was committed by way of registration). He – as my neighbour – was knocking on my door to see if I wanted to go for a ride. I did, and so we did.

            It was a Saturday, and the weather was good: a stiff breeze but the sun was out, with an ambient temperature of approximately 15°C – usual for the time of year and a marked improvement on the unseasonably cold and wet and dank conditions that have persisted through February, March and the beginning of April. We set off towards Wimbledon, by way of Kingston, New Malden and Raynes Park, in good spirits.

            The night before I’d alerted my co-conspirators of our intent, knew that it was late notice and expected little in the way of a response. I was pleasantly surprised, then, to see that Mr Wenborn had replied to my email and was open to the possibility of joining Mommersteeg and I in Wimbledon.

Somewhere along the B282 – West Barnes Lane by another name – I received a telephone call from Wenborn and impressed myself with the dexterity with which I unzipped the top pocket of my Mavic technical jacket, extricated my mobile phone, answered it, and proceeded to discuss estimated times of arrival with the caller, all the while maintaining a reasonable speed. Wenborn would indeed be joining us and I’d finally be able to begin the process of team bonding.

            We discussed bicycles over coffee and then headed off towards Wandsworth, by way of Tooting Broadway. We then made towards Putney before following the Thames to Hammersmith, whereupon we crossed to the north side of the river – its south facing aspect open to the sun’s glare – and paused for a pint.

            Thereafter we moved back south, cycled to Barnes Bridge and repeated the procedure. Over that second alcoholic beverage, cycling attire was to be the topic of conversation – what jerseys we had; should one wear a second, looser pair of shorts over their lycra; what did I think of white cycling shoes – and I was pleased that my domestiques appreciated that these things matter. Not everyone does.

Mommersteeg and I covered approximately 23 miles that day, albeit fractured with coffee and booze. It signalled the start of my training regime, though, and that was important. After having hit some good form about half of the way through February, I’d since lost it again, the cumulative effect of bad weather, full-time work, a niggling shoulder injury and too many social commitments.

            I followed this up with a 16 mile ride on Monday, a 28 mile ride on Thursday  and a couple of 4 mile round commutes to work in-between – about 75 miles in all. This is no big deal: Mommersteeg and Wenborn ride about the same distance week in, week out on their respective commutes to work. An anticipated period of reduced working hours should allow me to establish a similar routine.

The 28 mile ride is worthy of note because it represented the first time I’d dressed in full kit – my debut in Lycra, if you will. I wore the Descente cycling jersey, my cycling shorts and race socks in temperatures touching 20°C, and found the experience strangely exhilarating, like I had some sort of extra power that I could impose on people that got in my way – like I might be taken more seriously. This illusion was slightly dented by the absence of any helmet, for serious cyclists are apt to wear protective headgear at all times. I could have done with some sunglasses too, but I don’t really like things in and around my face, which is why helmets have featured so lowly on my list of priorities. This might sound reprehensible, but consider this: I’ll take more risks when I'm finally wearing a lid, in situations that I presently ease up on – like descending.

My ride took me through Richmond, Putney, Wandsworth and Battersea, and paused in Waterloo at Evans Cycles to return those Altura “mitts” after I’d recently observed the stitching coming away in the area betwixt my thumb and forefinger. On inspecting the same style glove in-store I concluded that the issue was anomalous and that my particular pair of fingerless gloves had not been properly appended in the first instance. However, my enthusiasm for them had now waned and I decided that I would replace them with something more modern. This was not because of any perceived weakness attributable to the style but more to do with a fondness for anachronism. The flavour of my bike and my race get-up has an undeniably retrospective feel, but my motive is not parodic and I’d like to offset some of these traditional aspects with a more contemporary edge. There will be my cycling shorts, the accessories attached to my bike, a helmet (eventually), and now there will also be my new gloves: I've ordered a pair of white Mavic Espoir ‘everyday race gloves’ offering ‘progressive cushioning’ from another on-line cycle store – Hargroves Cycles – for the meagre sum of £14, with free postage, reduced from £20.

In the meantime, I've secured that La Vie Claire jersey. My birthday’s coming up and I dropped noisy hints in the company of my lady-friend. Naturally, she obliged, although I will have to wait a month or so before I can wear it.

            I've sold that Carlos-Galli jersey too, so now I can run with my ‘trinity of jerseys’ theory. The La Vie Claire jersey, along with those of my contemporaries – Café de Colombia, PDM-Concorde, St. Raphael and Château D'ax Gatorade – leads me to believe that Carlos-Weltschmerz could well be the smartest looking team in the peloton.

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. 5: CARLOS

£450 was my final offer, and it had neither matched nor exceeded the reserve. The only circumstances under which the Pinarello could now be mine was if I remained the highest bidder and that £450 was close enough to the seller’s valuation that he/she might let it go for less. By now I'm not sure I even cared.

            I left my house at 18:41 and the auction was due to reach fruition at 22:10:11. I assumed this time-scale was dependent on the exact moment the sale was floated and calculated on the basis of that – how else can you explain those extra 11 seconds of opportunity?

            When I logged on to eBay the following morning I was quite relieved to see that I had failed in my bid. But it was funny: my final offer had been the second-to-last tender of the day, before some opportunist came in with a bid of £460 at precisely 22:10:08. How’s that for taking it down to the wire?

As far as I could tell, at 22:10:04, the leading bid – my bid – was visible at £400. Somebody else then attempted to trump my bid with an offer of £422. I’d set my maximum bid at £450, so they were destined to fail, but this now placed me as the highest bidder with an offer of £430, because eBay raises the bid (in increments determined by the current value) on your behalf. Waiting in the wings, the eventual winner then submitted an offer of £460. I can only wonder what would have happened if, with the bidding set at £430 with just 3 seconds to run, the bidder had decided to chance his arm on a maximum offer of, say, £440. At least I think that's how it works...

But they still hadn't made the reserve. Had they taken a chance on my bid being close? Were they confident that the seller would acquiesce to the sellee and take whatever they could get?  Was I missing something concerning the nature of eBay? Was this a green light for the winning bidder to now enter into a personal dialogue with salesperson whereupon they’d thrash it out between them, reaching some sort of fiscal compromise? Consumed by intrigue, I sent the following email to the seller:

'Hey - are you selling your Pinarello for less than the reserve? I see that I was outbid at the last minute. If I'd known what the reserve was I might have bid higher in the first place. I don't really understand why people keep their reserve price secret - it just encouraged me to pull out of the bidding early. Anyway, if you let me know what you are prepared to take then I might still be interested.

Also, why did you buy a new saddle if you intended to sell the bike? I think you priced a lot of people out of the auction by having to cover that cost in your reserve.'

I wasn't expecting a reply to this and nor did I get one – which is a shame. It is a shame if only because it would make for more interesting reading, especially if the seller had somehow taken offence and sent me some sort of invective in return.(I never intend on being provocative or insidious, and it genuinely surprises me how irascible some folk can be when questioned via the medium of email. This rarely happens vis-à-vis, after all; people tend to take you at face value. There’s something about the email that seems to fool people into attributing a more cynical tone to the text. Maybe that says more about them than it does me. Or have I missed some sort of social convention here?) Anyway, the Pinarello was gone, the Raleigh had been long shipped and presumably received (to a disconcerting silence on the receiver’s part) and I was finally at liberty to buy that lovely looking Carlos.

And so I did. On Friday I climbed aboard the train to Waterloo, changed onto the Northern Line, vacated at Highgate and walked back down Archway Road. I felt strangely anxious as I neared the Vintage Bike Cave, so much so that I sought refuge in a delicatessen on the opposing side of the road, for a coffee to settle my nerves. This can be explained in part by a job vacancy at the Vintage Bike Cave that I had expressed a vague interest in. It seemed like it might be a nice place to work, I was unemployed, and working with bikes has to be kind of fun, no? But I was having second thoughts about that, because I’d noted the 70 minutes it had taken me to reach the Vintage Bike Cave, which was tolerable post rush-hour, but would be less so mid.

            I felt a little calmer after drinking mediocre coffee, and when I arrived through that back door the Carlos looked as impressive as I had remembered it. A ride around the block did nothing to dampen my enthusiasm and I knew that if there was any residual hesitation on my part, now would be the time for it to reveal itself to me.

And so the deal was done, the job was discussed (and left mutually open-ended), and I was on my way.

            The man who worked on the lathe – the proprietor of the Vintage Bike Cave – had scoffed at my reluctance to cycle back to Twickenham. It had been estimated that the journey – a journey that involved dicing with death on London’s very terrible roads – would take over an hour and a half, but I had already planned on riding to Gospel Oak to take the train home from there. This I attempted to do, although it was hard to know which way to go about it. At first I pushed my new bike down the Archway Road as far as Upper Holloway, because I thought it might be a good idea to see how long the walk would take, just in case I did indeed end up working at the Vintage Bike Cave. On reaching the intersection beneath Archway Tower I realised that Gospel Oak was too far from Highgate for this theory to make any sense, estimating that it would take at least 20 minutes on foot, thus negating any advantage the Silverlink Metro direct to Richmond might have to offer. I climbed onto the Carlos and started cycling in the vague direction of Gospel Oak.

            It should be pointed out that when I had ridden the Raleigh Record Ace to my courier I was struck by how comfortable it had felt. This was unexpected as I had been riding my Jamis Beatnik in order to preserve the Raleigh for sale, and had got quite used to that smaller machine. This physical amenity, then, took me by surprise, but it reassured me that the Carlos – whose dimensions I had measured to be almost exactly the same as the Raleigh – was probably of an appropriate size (the new found comfort of the Raleigh had also motivated me in continuing to bid for the Pinarello). But now I had the Carlos with me I was convinced that it was smaller than the Raleigh, although still bigger than my Jamis. This bode well for it assuaged any fears that it might be either too big or too small, but the fact that I could simultaneously consider it both left me rather perplexed.

            Meanwhile, my normally reliable sense of direction was letting me down. Meanwhile, the normally unreliable BBC weather forecast was also letting me down – or not. ‘It would remain dry for the rest of the day,’ they had told me this morning, but now it started to rain. I found myself in Kentish Town again, but knew I needed to be further west. I took a turn down a road that furthered itself in a westerly direction, but it led me straight into the bowels of an industrial estate. I retraced my steps and pushed my bike along Kentish Town Road instead, for I knew I’d get very wet if I continued cycling. This allowed me to admire the reflection of my new bicycle in the shop-windows I passed and assess its scale in proportion to my own form.

            I went too far: found a map of the area just outside Camden Gardens and saw the error of my ways, turned down Hawley Road, but on the wrong side, crossed over the road to join Castlehaven Road, which I knew would take me to onto Prince of Wales Road, allowing me to catch my train at Kentish Town West. As I got back on my new bike to ride up Castlehaven Road, I noticed that my rear tyre had a puncture.

[POST-SCRIPT: I did eventually receive a response from the Pinarello Guy, sent some weeks later and only picked up by me a few weeks after that again. He explained that he was in no hurry to sell the bicycle and that he happy to hang onto it if nobody offered what he considered to be a reasonable price. He assured me that the bicycle was not stolen (I'm not sure where that notion came from), that he wanted to sell it to someone who would appreciate it (admirable) and he intended to put it on eBay again – with a reserve in place – but if I was still interested than I was welcome to view the bicycle before bidding.

So far so very reasonable, but then he went on to explain the point of putting a reserve price in place – to keep it, in secret – and that if I didn't like this method of doing business then there were alternatives, both on eBay itself and on other websites (Gumtree, I assume). Maybe that made no sense to me but it did to him – and others too, apparently. It was obvious I’d rubbed him up the wrong way.

He confirmed that he had bought the new saddle prior to his decision to sell the bike and that it was his prerogative to change his mind. I couldn't argue with that but I got the impression that he thought that I was questioning the value he had placed on the bike itself, which was not the case. I just thought that he hadn't done a great job in trying to sell it. This was my reply:

‘Thanks for getting back to me - I only just picked this up as it wasn't sent to my email (or maybe it went to my spam?)

Everything makes a little more sense, now you've said you don't need to sell and are prepared to wait (I never for one moment thought it was stolen, by the way). It's just hard to know whether something is worth bidding on when you have no idea what the seller is holding out for. But you are right: it is a beautiful bike, and you should expect more than £460 - I was never calling into question your valuation. Unfortunately, money is tight for me right now so I ended up buying a Carlos for £295. It's no Pinarello, but it rides well and serves its purpose (and it’s sized right, which I could never be sure of with the Pinarello).

Good luck with the sale - with that saddle it's got to be worth at least £580. List it next time as a Pinarello 'Veneto' (just the one t) and hopefully someone will meet your reserve.’

I hoped he would not submit a response this second time around – what would be the point? He evidently hoped to make more than £500, but he’d only provided the bike’s measurements after I prompted him to do so, and hadn't even spelled Veneto right.]

AN APPROPRIATE BICYCLE - Pt. 2: THE JOY OF TRADE

It’s clear that if I'm to fulfil my ambition of sampling a flavour of competitive road cycling then I will need to enrol in an event. It’s also clear that I’m in no position to enter something very serious, and the most obvious avenue open to me is a charity ride, like the London to Brighton: it is 54 miles long and that feels about right. In fact, there are sportives being held all over country for much of the time, and they’re normally very accommodating, with ‘standard’ and ‘epic’ distances to suit. Which would best cater to my needs is moot: I have both a relative and a friend in mind who I hope to persuade to cycle with me, and I know they appreciate the London to Brighton, having both ridden it twice. They may well be up for a sportive at some point in time, but I wouldn't know how to go about choosing one. I’d like to get other people on board too, and the London to Brighton will incentivise in way the ‘Sussex Surrey Scramble’ cannot. One other person has indicated that he might like to partake, and I also reckon the guy who lives below me wouldn't mind giving it a go.
            All this can wait, but when the time comes to get this thing off the ground I’ll be the one doing the bulk of the work: event registration, booking hotels, arranging that people meet beforehand. It’s my project and my idea and therefore my responsibility. As Directeur Sportif I’ll be the one who names the team and describes its culture. I look forward to that.

I suppose my brush with Gumtree had been somewhat successful, for it had revealed to me that there were vintage bikes aplenty to be had (if no apparent bargains), and also – and more importantly – that there were small, independently owned businesses selling working models for reasonable prices. So I continued to purge Gumtree for road bicycles and would visit De Vlo’s website on a daily basis to see if they’d finished off the works-in-progress that they’d assured me were on the way. De Vlo’s website led to me their Facebook page, which in turn led me to a company called the Vintage Bike Cave, based in Highgate, north London. I’d already spotted the Vintage Bike Cave selling their wares on Gumtree but had been put off by the graphics employed on their website and the plethora of vintage spares they had on sale. One might have a degree of empathy with my feeling towards the former, but why should the latter hold any leeway when it came to buying a used bicycle? I suppose the recent explosion of interest in cycling – and its vintage component in particular – has made me wary of some of the newer businesses currently ploughing this rather specific furrow. I don’t know enough about bicycles to say either way, but is that Campagnolo group-set really worth that much? And is it reasonable to expect someone to pay a couple of hundred quid for a steel bicycle frame that looks like it was chanced upon in a skip? Having said that, the Vintage Bike Cave had a couple of bikes I liked the look of, not as immediately arresting as the beautifully photographed Diamant from De Vlo London, but priced along similar lines and of corresponding age. Further, they seemed to be an altogether beefier operation, and as such it occurred to me that they might be able to do me a deal on my Raleigh Record Ace – some sort of part-exchange, perhaps?

            First off, I decided to call in the specifications on the two bikes that appealed to me: a Peugeot Competition with a 531 Reynolds frame – possibly a PKN-10 dating back to the late 1970s – and a chrome Carlos 10-speed racer of indeterminate origin. They both had 700c sized wheels, which was now a prerequisite of mine, and were valued at £345 and £295 respectively. I liked the look of both.

 The Peugeot

The specs had them sized about the same as my Raleigh, but with the marginally smaller 700c wheels bringing them in at slightly under. Their wheelbases were a little shorter, too (we’re talking about a difference of 3 or 4 centimetres here). Next I enquired as to what sort of discount the Vintage Bike Cave might be able to offer me in return for my Raleigh. Not much, was the answer – or that which fell way short of my own valuation. They asked me what I was looking for, I told them about £170, and they said – based on the photographs I had emailed them – that the most they could give me in part-exchange was a discount of £100. This was not to say that they disapproved of the value I had placed on my bike, just that they would not be able to make a sufficient margin based on the amount I was asking for. They advised that I try and sell it myself, so I did.

            The prospect of selling the Raleigh on Gumtree was not one that I looked forward to. It was the logistical element that bothered me – having to meet with people and maybe haggle a bit over the price – but I decided to proceed. Here is what I wrote for my advert:

Raleigh Record Ace: size 22½"/57 cm - with 531 Reynolds double-butted lugged frame and forks, Campagnolo gear-set and Weinmann Brakes, dating back to approximately 1984.  All parts are original except for the Schwalbe Marathon tyres fitted 2 months ago.

There are the surface abrasions that one might expect (nothing terminal - just a bit scruffy) but it rides fast and well.  Could do with a new saddle and bar-tape.

Would make for a great conversion to fixed-gear/single-speed bike (if you did want to do that then you could sell the Campagnolo gear shifters for about £20 - maybe the same for the derailleurs; they are in excellent condition).

... or you can ride as it is, although I'd advise a basic service: it handles great at the front but the back wheel needs a little adjustment from when I changed the rear tyre - I'm not a great mechanic!

... or it could be restored to its former glory, which I intended to do before time and money got the better of me (I have another bike so cannot justify this).

The size would be ideal for somebody between 5 foot 9 inches and 6 foot 2 inches; the seat-post measures 57 cm and top-tube measures 57 cm too.

I am flexible with regards to times and could arrange to meet in either Richmond / Teddington / Chiswick / Hounslow / Kingston / Mortlake - otherwise I am based in Twickenham.  The more convenient for me, the more flexible I'll be with the price.

I was asking for £180, to cover the cost of the tyres and a little of my labour – the three hours I must have spent stripping down and cleaning the bike. Essentially, I was attempting to break about even.

            Interest was almost immediate but seemed rather speculative. One guy in particular appeared to be very keen however, a notion that I arrived at via the medium of text, but all other enquiries came to nothing. Then the keen guy came back with an offer of £170, which I was willing to accept. There was a problem, though: he lived in Edinburgh. It was still early days for my advert so I was quite happy to bide my time for now, but told the keen guy that I would look into the possibility of shipping the bike to the Scottish capital. The reason why I was prepared to explore this avenue of delivery was because I know someone who works in logistics, close enough to where I live for it not to be too much bother, and nice enough a guy to do me some sort of deal. Actually, when I called my contact I made it clear that I wasn't looking for any favours with regard to the price, because that was a cost I intended to pass on to the prospective buyer, but he offered me a fairly decent rate anyway. I presented the keen guy with my quote and he made me a revised offer of £190, to include postage. It was a little lower than I would have liked, given the hassle of having to find a designated box for the bike, and then the need to haul it over to my courier’s warehouse, but if I wanted to follow up on my interest in those bikes at the Vintage Bike Cave then it would certainly be of benefit to resolve the matter as soon as was possible.

            I was also starting to develop a fondness for my potential buyer. I tried to provide as much information on the bike as I could, and to be honest in doing so. Given the time I was going to have to put aside to sort all this out, I decided I would have to insist on being paid up front. I do not think I was being unreasonable in making this a condition of our transaction, but I'm not sure how willing I would have been to part with my money without knowing the person I was dealing with. The keen guy seemed to hold no such concerns, and so we came to an agreement, bank details were passed on and I set about finding a box.

            Finding a box turned out to be a breeze. I emailed Moore’s Cycles in Twickenham, who duly obliged. All I needed to do now was to wait for the money to materialise and then I could go about the actual shipping.

            In the meantime, I felt I should really get things rolling with the Vintage Bike Cave and have a look at those bikes. On checking that they were still for sale it was discovered that the Peugeot was currently reserved, pending a visit from a potential buyer who had submitted a deposit. It was still available for viewing, and the Carlos was still very much available for buying.

            I am not sure how absorbing it really is to read about a nascent cycling enthusiast attempting to sell a bike, but hopefully the acquisition of its replacement piques a little more interest. Wednesday night is bouldering night, so to save on the expense of travel I elected to visit the Vintage Bike Cave late on a Wednesday afternoon. Highgate was the destination, but I thought I’d pause for thought on the South Bank on my way, as can be my want. After drinking my coffee, I crossed the Thames to Embankment and joined the Northern Line from there.

            Highgate, when I arrived, was a far and pleasing cry from the environs of Bow that I had to trudge through on my way to see the Diamant the week prior. I had never been to Highgate before and passed the Boogaloo on Archway Road, a pub whose grand reputation precedes it and that I had one day always hoped to visit. Now was not the time but it felt like a good omen to see it there.

            The Vintage Bike Cave was smaller than I had envisaged, monopolising a cramped bunker of a room. A young man was there to let me in through the back entrance, for the cave occupied the lower floor of a building whose basements were not accessible from the front. The bikes were ready for my inspection, for I had fired off an email before I left to tell them that I was on my way. An older guy took a break from his lathe to move them onto track-stands so I might better appreciate the work that had been done on them. Like with De Vlo, the bikes were a testament to some great care and attention: they were clean and well-oiled, with new tyres, brake pads and bar-tape. Actually, the Peugeot – the more expensive of the two bikes – looked the more tired. This was probably because it was undoubtedly older than the Carlos, but maybe too because it was white, and white is a colour that doesn't tend to weather very well. It was still a nice looking bicycle, although it was the Carlos that was feeling its way under my skin.

            The older guy who had taken a break from his lathe couldn't tell me much about Carlos other than that they were a French company.  Further research established that they heralded from an area close to the Belgian border, but I uncovered nothing more than that.  This is not necessarily a bad thing and might account for the £50 price differential between; everybody’s heard of Peugeot but how many of us are aware of Carlos?

            I probably spent about 10 minutes poring over those two bikes before having a snoop around the workshop and chatting a little with the younger guy. I told him that I was very interested in the Carlos but that I could only instigate a purchase once my Raleigh had been officially sold. I added that I would be prepared to lay a deposit, should the Carlos illicit further interest, and that if all went well I’d be back in a week to take another look and, in all likelihood, hand over money. And then I walked south towards Holloway because I still had two hours to spare before I was due to boulder in London Bridge.

The Carlos

It is a pleasing experience, walking down the Archway road towards Upper Holloway. There’s a really good bit where the B540 passes over on high, and the iron bridge that supports it frames a view of the city beyond, The Shard inevitably taking centre-stage. Upper Holloway itself lies beyond that, and it’s pleasant enough – Archway Tower is the stand-out feature here. I elected then to take Junction Road south, but Holloway Road, St. John’s Way and Highgate Hill are all possibilities. The area around Holloway Tower and Junction Road differs to the approach down Archway Road. It’s a busier environment for one, and I’d dare to say a bit more cosmopolitan. It reminds me a little of Hammersmith, with a touch of Southwark thrown in for good measure. That it is to say that there’s a mix of both Victorian terracing and red-brick 1980s type developments, the sort that seem to cordon themselves from the street with high walls and indeterminate front doors. There are cafes that look like they might be kind of cool, but you can’t be entirely sure.

            One thing I become very aware of, as I continue my way down Junction Road, is the concentration of bicycles and people riding them. They’re everywhere, and with quite a substantial vintage presence – you don’t find that in West London. Then I hit Tufnell Park, but I'm not sure what to make of that.

            I have a sandwich on my person that needs to be eaten approximately two hours before I commence bouldering. It’s about 17.45 and I’d very much like to have it devoured by 18.15 – bouldering tends to commence at around 20.00 – and I am on the look-out for the appropriate seating.

            Down Fortress Road, now, and the architecture is mostly Victorian. I pass the Bike House and a red steel framed bicycle catches my eye from within. It’s your more typical sort of high-street bike shop but the owners have saw fit to sell a few second-hand steel numbers on the side. The red one’s quite nice but they want £400 for it, and I'm not sure it’s worth that.

            I make the transition into Kentish Town – a more familiar territory. There’s the Bull & Gate to my right. I went there once, when I was a student, to see some aspiring indie band – it was before Britpop had started and everything.

            I think I spot an eating opportunity on the corner of Kentish Town Road and Leighton Road, but I’d have to share with tramps. Down Kentish Town Road, I’d forgotten how vibrant this area was. I reach the confluence with Royal College Street and for the first time I hesitate as to what direction I should follow. My desert boots are not proving to be shoes made for much walking, and my heels are beginning to protest. I persevere with Royal College Street and soon pass a triangular park that looks the perfect place to pause for my sandwich. Alas, ‘College Gardens’ are locked up for the night. Or maybe it’s a private residential area?

            But Camden Road Station awaits just around the corner, and there are seats there – free from vagrants – where I can finally get stuck into that chicken sandwich I made earlier.  It’s rather dull fare but serves its purpose. It is approximately 18:15.

            It will take me about 20 minutes to arrive at London Bridge, so still too early to make my way there. I’ll wander up and down Camden High Street for half an hour or so, to kill time and review what I've been missing these last few years. Apart from the rappers and the Emo kids, not so much, but I like what they've done up by the lock where a vicious fire took hold some time ago. They have adapted old scooters for people to sit on, overlooking the canal, to eat from the many stalls selling ethnic strains of food. If our climate was only hotter it would make for a wonderful place to hang out.