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. 12: THE TEAM

It was time to start rallying the domestiques, so I put together my first newsletter:

‘Hello and welcome to the curious world of Carlos-Weltschmerz, a small cycling outfit I am cobbling together to race this year's London to Brighton bike ride.

If you are reading this it is because you have already expressed an interest in joining forces with me, with the understanding that it's not some sort of Sunday afternoon jolly: prospective members of Team Carlos-Weltschmerz will be expected to attain a reasonable level of fitness so that we might post a better than average time (whatever that may be). However, the reason that you were invited in on this project in the first instance is because I know that this shouldn't be a major issue for anyone concerned.

You may also be aware that the post-race celebrations will be taken as seriously as the race itself. Indeed, whilst it's not essential that you buy into the ethos that underpins Carlos-Weltschmerz, one should be aware of the code of ethics that informs it; this is an institution that applauds individuality and resists conformity – 'my club' rejects the very notion of a club.

I can confirm that this year's London to Brighton is scheduled to take place on the 16th June with registration scheduled for the 2nd March. I will take care of these formalities but need permission, and confirmation, that I can bill people for their portion of the registration fee when the time comes.

Further, Evans (S) – Carlos-Weltschmerz's club secretary – will be looking into the availability of hotels for the day in question and I am told that January is a good time to make bookings. As such, I will need to know what sort of sleeping arrangements people are prepared to enter into and, again, permission to make bookings on their behalf. Essentially, I'm asking that people confirm their interest – I will understand if it has since waned – and give me the green light to proceed with making firm plans.

With regard to training, I'm hoping that we might get away with just two or three group sessions to commence sometime in the spring, just to get used to cycling in a line and so that everyone sort of knows each other a little. Cafés and pubs may play a role in this.

Thank you for your interest in helping my theoretical organisation in its quest to replicate Tour conditions. Please let me know if you're still on board.

Regards

James Evans

(Directeur Sportif - Carlos-Weltschmerz)’

I was happy with that – why shouldn’t I be? I was even happier when Messrs Mommersteeg and Messrs Gowland returned emails affirming their will to participate. My brother’s and Wenborn’s cooperation had never really been in doubt, but I hadn't been entirely sure about the other two: I don’t know them so well. How wonderful, now, that their earlier interest has proved to be sincere. If they’d turned me down I don’t think I would have even bothered looking for replacements. I can think of no obvious substitutes regardless.

I look forward to our team getting together for the first time, of Carlos-Weltschmerz becoming some kind of tendentious reality, a hotchpotch of part-time cyclists in muddled fatigues, winging it a little.

In the meantime, I've just finished reading David Millar’s memoir, Racing in the Dark: The Fall and Rise of David Millar. Millar is a British/Scottish cyclist who got caught doping in 2004, was subsequently banned for two years and now rides – clean – for Garmin-Sharp. It’s a good read and provides an insight into the minutiae of road cycling, especially during a period when a significant proportion of the riders on the ProTour circuit took the drug EPO, and other performance-enhancing elixirs. [Few will argue against the advantage that taking EPO – or erythropoietin, to give it its proper name – delivers. The drug works by stimulating the production of red blood cells, which in turn hastens the transferral of oxygen to the muscles that will benefit from it. In Michael Hutchinson’s splendid book The Hour, the former time-trial specialist supposes that taking EPO would probably knock a hypothetical 3 or 4 minutes off of a 40 km time-trial, a race he would otherwise expect to complete in something like 48 minutes. That’s an unequivocally significant disparity.]

I'm not interested in the politics of doping (not as far as this project is concerned, anyway) but it is worth noting that David Millar is one of the few ex-dopers who not only appears genuinely contrite – or contrite at all – but is now making a real effort to help clean up the sport. More intriguing to my mind is how Millar describes the culture of cycling and the people who involve themselves in it. The pre-caught-doping Millar comes across as rather impudent, but he as good as concedes to this acknowledging that his peripatetic upbringing imbued in him something of an ‘adolescent mentality’. It is Millar’s willingness to expose his less palatable characteristics, as well as those of professional cycling as a whole, that ultimately has you rooting for the man. He doesn't reach out for reader’s sympathy and seems sincerely grateful for the second chance he’s been given. It’s almost as if the whole episode has made him a better person, and it’s just a shame he had to dope in order for this to be so.

There’s a bit towards the end of the book where Millar discovers the joys of ‘cycling for the sake of cycling’. As a professional – even as a keen amateur – he’d always been motivated by the act of competing, and it further illustrates how far the man has come since his brush with infamy. This new-found enthusiasm culminates in him forming a cycling club with his training partner, the Canadian cyclist Michael Barry, an informal institution they've christened Velo Club Rocacorba – Velo meaning bicycle, Club meaning… club, and Rocacorba being a mountain close to Millar’s home in Gerona, Catalonia, that many professional racers like to climb as part of their training programme. Whilst I whole-heartedly approve of this ‘frivolous, nonsensical’ endeavour, as Millar describes it, it does sort of stiffen my resolve in the face of cycling convention. Velo – Club – Rocacorba. It’s not Carlos-Weltschmerz, is it?

[POST-SCRIPT: On reflection, it’s probably worth passing some comment on the matter of drug-taking, and on the subject of Lance Armstrong in particular. I've not been into road cycling long enough to emote profusely on the subject, but it is with interest that I watch the ongoing saga of The Boss/The Texan/Mellow Johnny (?!) slowly unfold. In précis, Lance Armstrong was formally charged with doping and trafficking drugs by the United States Anti-Doping Agency (USADA) in June 2012, charges that Armstrong resolutely denied – not the first time. Armstrong’s response was to file a lawsuit against USADA requesting that the agency drop all imputations against him, which was dismissed, then revised and resubmitted, but ultimately ruled in USADA’s favour. Or something like that.

Armstrong was subsequently banned from competing at ANY level (which appeared moot, considering he had already retired from competitive sport) by USADA and stripped of all the titles he’d won under its jurisdiction dating from 1 August 1998 to the present day. Rather surprisingly, and perhaps tellingly, Armstrong announced that he did not intend to challenge this decision, citing the continuing strain it would place on himself, his charitable foundation – Livestrong – and his family, although he continued to protest his innocence.

Up until this point, the Union Cycliste Internationale (UCI) had been reluctant to pursue the same line of enquiry against Armstrong as USADA, and called to task its recommendation that Lance be stripped of his seven Tour de France titles. USADA responded by disclosing the full details of their investigation, which the UCI were unable to refute, and Armstrong’s Tour wins were then revoked. The day after the UCI made its decision Lance Armstrong removed reference to his seven Tour de France triumphs from his “Twitter Biography”.

Not long after Bradley Wiggins’s victory in the 2012 Tour de France, I found myself in the company of a pleasant Gaulish gentleman from Marseille. Keen to gain some sort of insight into how Wiggins (I refuse to refer to him as “Wiggo” – for why refer back to my beef with Altura’s use of the word “mitts”) was perceived by the French, I asked him… how was Wiggins perceived by the French? ‘Oh, yes, we like him very much.’ Did he think Bradley took drugs to enhance his performance? ‘But of course.’ Whether a cyclist dopes or not appears to be immaterial to the French: they assume that all winners of the Tour de France are doped up to their eyeballs. It makes no difference to them, I'm told, in terms of a rider’s popularity. They won’t take the same puritanical view that English speaking Protestants do: it’s just the way it is.

But what did the French think of Lance Armstrong? Not very much, it transpired, the reason being that they considered him arrogant, with no amount of respect for the heritage of the Tour at all (and maybe because he is an American). Armstrong has admitted as much himself. Indeed, he seems to take some sort of bizarre pride in knowing nothing – or pretending to know nothing – of the history of the sport and the characters who have forged its myths. He’s in it for himself, no more, no less.]

AN APPROPRIATE BICYCLE - Pt. 11: GEAR

What an alarming vesture a pair of bicycle shorts is. 

The dipsomanic free-for-all that is Christmas brought with it the customary bearing of gifts. Anyone keeping track may recall that cycling accoutrements were very much the order of my day. Unfortunately, there was some sort of mistake with regard to the jersey I’d put in a request for (the Giordana Tech Silverline). If I hadn't already been laden with the spoils of my recent battles on eBay, and if the Altura branded jersey that erroneously materialised on Christmas Day hadn't been a bit too ‘enthusiast’ for my liking, I might have taken it on the chin (or should that be the torso?). Fortunately, my mother is a very understanding woman and was quite prepared to return the offending item and furnish me with the money instead.

But she got the cycling shorts spot on. I hadn't been so specific with this requirement – all I insisted on was that they had to be black. Black they are, save for a reflective A (for Altura) stamped down the side of each thigh, but they’re a scary article of clothing. I hadn't realised that bicycle shorts incorporated such a substantially padded gusset. When not being warn, the fabric hangs shapelessly off this polyurethane cushion and it can take a while to figure out what goes where. I'm not really looking forward to wearing them, if I'm honest, and whilst in training will probably cover them up with something more flattering. But they are a necessary acquisition, for how can I convince in the peloton without them?

          Next up was a saddle bag, courtesy of my de facto Mother-in-Law. Apparently, when she acquired it, she was concerned that it couldn't possibly be what I really wanted on account of its inconsiderable size. She need not have worried, for I’d asked for the Ortlieb Micro Saddle Bag fully aware of its scale.

It would be a very foolish thing to enter a cycling event without the wherewithal to deal with a puncture. I’ll be thoroughly sickened if I do puncture on the London to Brighton, but a spare inner tube, and the means to fit and inflate it, are the nuclear deterrent of cycling. Actually, that’s utter flannel, because being prepared for a puncture will have no impact on whether one punctures or not, obviously. This mobile kit is the type that you hope you’ll never have to use, and will only have to if one is unlucky enough to puncture when one’s too far from home to do anything else other than deal with it there and then. What makes the inconvenience of carrying this gear bearable – and I know people who prefer to take their chances – are the satchels available, designed to fit under the saddle or up against the handlebars. They come in various sizes, depending on what eventuality you want to contend for. I'm only interested in conveying the bare minimum: a spare inner tube, tyre leavers, glueless patch kit, a CO² inflator and concomitant cartridges (the latter set-up yet to be acquired). I can fit all of this in the smallest available bags the market has to offer, probably with enough room spare to carry a modest multi-tool.

So the Ortlieb Micro Saddle Bag looked like the most handsome, compact and waterproof option there was, and reasonably priced too. I ended up with the black/grey variant – I’d only asked that the orange/signal red be avoided – and I'm very happy with it.  It fits pleasingly to the underside of my saddle, via the medium of two screws and a plastic bracket, and there’s a handy mechanism that allows the bag to be released from its moorings, should my bike ever need to be left unattended in less than salubrious surroundings.

Then there was bar-tape. I’d been very specific about this. I told my Mother to order ITM branded bar-tape, to accord with my ITM handlebars, or not to bother at all. (I do not want for much and I'm quite difficult to buy for, so am actively encouraged to present requests come the festive season, and can be quite pragmatic about this. In my youth this meant that my Aunt or Grandmother had to suffer regular trips to Replay Records in Bristol in search of obscure hip hop LPs. Some 20 years later and I've been reduced to asking my relatives for bar-tape.) Kudos to my Mum again, for she managed to deliver exactly what I petitioned for. I was particularly amused by the fact that the tape hadn't even come in a box – just a cellophane bag – although I did feel I’d obliged her to engage with some sort of seedy cycling underworld, where presentation is considered an irrelevance.

            I hadn't stopped there. I’d informed my brother (my other brother, not the one who rides for Carlos-Weltschmerz) that I could do with some detachable lights, but only because he was struggling for ideas. This was preferable to him wasting his money on something I didn't want or need, so I was happy to oblige. The thing was I’d submitted a late request to my Mother for some Altura Classic Crochet Mitts (in case she struggled in finding ITM bar-tape on the black market) but sensed that this submission had been surplus to requirements. With this in mind I told my brother to commune with my Mother, hoping this would guarantee me the gloves, but backed this up with a half-hearted request for some lightweight detachable lights, just in case, and supplied him with a list of agreeable models. To be fair to my brother's had a lot going down of late, but I suspect he took the path of least resistance and ran with the detachable lights idea from the off. Moreover, when he got to Halfords, he saw only a limited selection of lights, bought what he thought was best, but not the right kind. When I took them back (with his approval) I could see where he went wrong: he’d spotted the sponsored display for the Cateye brand and thought that was it, that was all Halfords had, which was not actually the case.

            So rather than exchange these discrepant lamps for the appropriate Knog or Lezyne models that Halfords did in fact stock, I solicited a full refund and bought those Altura Classic Crochet "Mitts" at the first given opportunity.  (It bothers me that Altura label them as 'mitts'. What’s wrong with gloves? This is an example of the infantilization of language that has come to plague modern society.)

The weather has been unseasonably mild of late so I might get to wear them sooner than I think.

I’d anticipated adhering my new bar-tape myself, for what is a man if he’s incapable of appending bar-tape? However, after I’d removed the existing bind and made the necessary adjustments, the newly acquired tension in the brake cables caused them to pull against each other whenever the handlebars were turned. Further, I wanted the assurance that I’d properly secured the brake levers in their new position. So I made enquiries in the bike shop that not long ago opened down my road – Crown Cycles in St. Margarets – to discover that the proprietor was prepared to put things right for a nominal fee. I'm glad I did because he pointed out that the astriction to the right cable was pulling the rear brake out of alignment. He’s going to put that right by changing one of the cables, and then he’s going to take great care over fastening the new bar-tape.

            He liked the bike. He dated it back to the 1980s. He suggested that I might like to think about changing the rear cassette because the existing one is more geared towards touring. I don’t think I’ll bother, though.

[POST-SCRIPT: The cost of the work the Guy From Crown Cycles did for me wasn't as nominal as I’d been led to believe it would be. I had a suspicion that this might turn out to be the case after he’d identified the problem with the tension of the cables and what needed to be done to put it right. Not only was there the extra cost of labour but he’d be replacing one of the brake cables so as to provide the requisite slack. I was a little put out by this but, on collecting my amended bicycle, I was very happy with the job he’d done – with the wrapping of the bar-tape in particular. He ingratiated himself further by telling me that he thought the Carlos was a very nice bike, the handlebars, stem, headset and frame all being choice components, with only the wheels being considered slightly below par – and that was relative to the aforementioned componentry; its Achilles Heel, if you will. Because, in truth, my abject failure to find any detailed information on the internet relating to Carlos had made me wonder whether or not the bike was as good as I'd been given the impression it was (and I don’t mean "good" as in Colnago good, or Pinarello good, but well-made and capable and fit for purpose). The Guy From Crown Cycles then asked if I didn't mind letting on how much I paid for my bicycle. I told him and he answered that I’d done well for myself. Like I said, he thought it might be an idea to replace the wheels at some juncture, and maybe the brakes too, but this was a testament to the quality of the bike as a whole and it was very much worth spending money on to iron out these weaker links. That’s something to think about for the future, for sure.]

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. 7: THE JERSEY(S)

I am contemplating jerseys and what to call the team I'm supposed to be putting together for the London to Brighton Bike Ride, 2013. I'm thinking about the culmination of all that has gone on since I began my search for the appropriate bicycle; the point of it all – the race. Although the British Heart Foundation is keen to point out that the L2B isn't supposed to be race at all: it’s a charity event, to be taken at a pace that feels comfortable – just a bit of fun. Which is fair enough, and if I was really serious about road-racing then I’d be better off joining a cycling club, obtaining BC and/or CTC accreditation, and finding a local sportive in which to partake. That means I’d have to wear whatever jersey my notional club decreed. ‘We naturally like members to wear club kit,’ declares one such institution local to me, but it’s a pretty brutal offering, their kit, and the club’s handle displays little in the way of imagination. So that’s not going to happen.

They can be quite expensive, can cycling jerseys. There are cheap tops on the market as well, but they’re really rather uninspiring. That said, the most visually appealing jerseys aren't necessarily the ones that cost the most. I should probably lay my cards on the table here: I like replica team jerseys and I like jerseys of a bygone era, and, ideally, I’d like a shirt that combines elements of the two. The jerseys occupying the opposing ends of the fiscal spectrum, however, share a utilitarian approach to design that doesn't interest me at all.Primary colours overbear the palette, with black and white getting quite a look in too. Logos and patterns are conspicuous by their absence, which is admirable on one level but quite dull on another.

This ‘camping and outdoor’ attitude towards cycle wear is still a credible alternative to the third strain of tunic on offer to the aspiring cyclist: that of the novelty jersey. A company trading under the name 'Foska' appears to be the leader in this particular field, and they’re responsible for some real abominations: shirts adorned with adverts for various foodstuffs – Spam, Colman’s Mustard, Cornflakes, Marmite; wholesome cartoon characters from old-school comics; tax discs, flags and maps – the cycling equivalent, all, of wearing a wacky tie to the office. These atrocities come in at about £50, which represents the middle of the range with regard to cost. Fortunately, for that price there are far worthier alternatives.

I'm currently unemployed and so would like to exploit the fact that people might want to buy me things for Christmas, and stock up on cycling gear. My first thought had been for my team to be dressed in matching shirts. I have five people down for the L2B and I'm hoping these five people will still be with me when I start asking for money to sort out our accommodation come January. So I consulted the two potential members of my as yet un-named team who had cycled the London to Brighton Bike Ride before, to ask them for their thoughts regarding team attire. I’d started to have my doubts about matching jerseys, figuring it might give off rather arrogant vibes. Ben, who was the first to respond to my line of questioning, agreed that it might not be entirely appropriate, that one might want to consider entering a sportive if one wanted to take the ‘race’ so seriously, but that the L2B couldn't really be bettered for atmosphere. My brother, Simon, followed this up to say that he couldn't justify the expense of another jersey, for he did not cycle enough and owned a few already (Simon’s thing is marathons and the occasional triathlon). And so the way was paved for me to pore over cycling jerseys at my leisure.

I’d already been doing so, in fact, but with an eye to what I thought might be financially acceptable to my fellow riders. I’d identified the Giordana Tech Silverline, reduced from £74.99 to £37.50 on-line, as having solid potential. Available in black, white, lime green, red and blue, all with a white panel covering the chest and black trim around the collar and down the shoulder – and with a small motif perched upon the left breast – it was neutral enough to satisfy a miscellany of sartorial aspirations. At that price I figured I might go for the lime green rendition, if only as a jersey to train in, for as pleasing as the Giordana is there are far prettier shirts out there on the market. For £59.99, for instance, I could buy myself a Morvelo Chasseur de Cols Alpine race jersey, whilst £63 would afford me something from the excellent Solo range, the Moretti probably being the most attractive candidate. This is what I mean when I say that cycling jerseys can be quite dear, although I saw retro-style jerseys from Le Coq Sportif that were more exorbitant still.

                                                       Solo                                                                         Morvelo

So I drew a line under the Giordana – asked my parents for that – and decided that I would wait to see what the new year’s sales might bring with respect to either the Morvelo or the Solo. Besides, there was always Prendas Ciclismo – a small independent firm based in Dorset, apparently in their 17^th year – selling retro-inspired jerseys for anything between £30 and £40. (I instinctively like this company and if I wasn't so bloody minded concerning all things aesthetic I’d have probably ordered from them already, and do not rule out doing so in the future.)

Before putting these accoutrements to one side, I thought I’d have a cruise on eBay and was instantly struck by the ineluctable presence of an organisation called eTailBar.com. I’d searched for ‘retro cycling jerseys’, not because that’s what I was specifically after but because I didn't think eBay would have anything out of the ordinary listed under any other category. In fact, eTailBar do not deal exclusively in retro or second-hand goods but in cycling and running wear in general. Their presence on eBay, then, is probably to shift their fine line in second-hand cycling apparel, for the official website makes no reference to their vintage stock.

I saw a 'vintage' jersey that I liked – really liked – manufactured by the Swiss firm Descente, but the chest was measured at 38ʺ to 40ʺ, whereas I think mine measures just over 36ʺ. The guy who modelled it looked pretty buff too, although it did cling slavishly to his torso. The thing was, this top was going for a little over £13, including the postage from… France. They were a French company, and I backed off a little, just because… because I had no experience of that. I continued to run through their stock anyway and came across another shirt, this time in my size, made of a wool and polyamide mix, and coming in at just under £16. 

Ah, what the hell…


[POST-SCRIPT: A subsequent measuring of my chest revealed it to be just over 38ʺ – good news in some respects, but I might have saved myself a lot of bother if I’d scaled it from the off.]

AN APPROPRIATE BICYCLE - Pt. 6: ASPECTS OF CARLOS

Punctures, like buses (or sagacious oriental apes), appear to visit themselves upon me in batches of three, so I was more put out by the prospect of sustaining further damage than I was about fixing this singular perforation. It was your run-of the-mill sort of puncture: a small, almost central intrusion – just one of those things. I hadn't expected it to be anything else, but was glad to know that it hadn't been caused by the bicycle itself: an errable spoke or suchlike.

It was Tuesday before I finally had the opportunity to conceive what this Carlos was really made of, and it appeared to be good stuff, save for a few entirely corrigible concerns. Before departing on my test-run, I had raised the saddle by a couple of inches. It’s a deceptive exercise, raising a saddle, and it soon became clear that I had not heightened it nearly enough. Having not thought to take a spanner with me on that maiden voyage, I was obliged to spend a fair bit of time out of the saddle. This was a basic error that I admonished myself for.

The handlebars were angled a little awkwardly, too – another minor quibble easily remedied. At worst, I envisaged having to remove the bar-tape and adjust the position of the bake levers to invoke a more relaxed geometry, but I wasn't going to rush into anything.

            The optical illusions that had plagued me now gradually shifted into focus. The bottom bracket was lower on the Carlos than it was on the Jamis Beatnik, accounting for their apparent – but inaccurate – similarity of stature. I concluded that if the stand-over of any given bicycle is correct, and the top-tube sits the requisite couple of inches below the crotch, then the bike probably fits. The saddle, seat-post and handlebars are designed for adjustment, it’s simply a case of playing around with them until one feels comfortable – crises over. I couldn't complain. Indeed, I was content with what my £295 had delivered and looked forward to taming my steed over the coming months.

 

It’s been cold of late but the wet weather has abated. The wind continues to be an irritating presence - it is autumn, after all - but there's been nothing to stop me from getting out there and riding my new bike. The sun has even been moved to put in a few appearances providing the perfect conditions for a spot of bicycle portraiture. (At this time of the year, the sun sits quite low in the sky, allowing for good pictures throughout much of the day.) I don’t expect such clemency to hold out for much longer, and it won’t be long before Carlos is retired for the winter, whereupon I shall be running instead.

So sit back and relax, then, and take a look at these pictures, taken in far from ideal conditions, but tweaked in Picassa to make them just about passable:

[Images: author's own]