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. 9: THE PERILS OF EBAY, PART 2

There had been some sort of mistake. After over a week of waiting, that second-hand jersey I’d ordered off of eBay – the one made from a wool and polyimide mix – still hadn't shown up. At first we blamed the post, and the guy who ran eTailBar was preparing to refund me my money. Because we were only talking about £16 (and because I was wondering what to buy my brother, Evans [S], for Christmas this year) I asked if eTailBar might prefer to send me the Descente jersey I really liked but had previously concluded was probably a little too big for me. And if it was too big for me then my brother could be its lucky recipient. To this plan eTailBar was receptive.

It was in preparing to send my replacement jersey that it was realised my house number wasn't registered with eBay. This is not the sort of information I would normally neglect to enter, but this was the first item I had purchased off of eBay (of any description) so it is hard to know for sure whether this was a technical hitch or an uncharacteristic oversight on my part. But the Guy At eTailBar was happy to send the substitute jersey regardless of where the fault lay, which was in keeping with the excellent level of customer service he gave throughout this protracted transaction.(The Descente jersey was approximately £3 cheaper than the one I ordered.Therefore, assuming that my original purchase eventually finds its way back to France, I should have almost covered the cost of sending its successor).

Meanwhile, there’s a Dutch company called ONBIKE.NL auctioning off some of those Solo jerseys I like the look of. They retail at £63 on Wiggle (and that's hawked as a reduced rate) so it’s very much worth pursuing. Based in New Zealand, this is what Solo has to say for itself:

'Each Solo Classique jersey is our interpretation of the styles worn by the great riders of the 50's - 70's. Our jerseys are tailored from Nuovotech polyester with superb moisture-wicking qualities. This means we can use colours, patterns and styles that are not possible with wool. It's the best of both worlds - retro style using modern fabric. Look closer and you’ll notice the meticulous attention to detail throughout each garment. Solo Classique jerseys look amazing and feel great to wear.'

According to the sizing chart on their website, with my 38ʺ chest I should take an extra-small. However, the reviews on Wiggle consistently lay claim to the unreliability of this information and advise potential customers to order a size up. This is surprising because in my experience the people of New Zealand are buff, sport-loving types. Further, there’s an extra-extra-small size in Solo’s repertoire, purportedly for folk with a chest measurement of 35.5ʺ, which, if the reviews on Wiggle are to be believed, pitches me at just below average (for sizes reach extra-large at the other end of the scale). I don’t mind admitting that I'm quite a thin fella, so I wouldn't normally expect to find myself so high up the chest measurement scale. Perhaps Wiggle’s customers just like a looser fit?

I discovered all this before the eTailBar situation had been resolved, when I assumed the first jersey was still on its way and at the point where I’d begun to think about buying a cycling shirt for my brother. With his physique more to mind, I threw in a speculative bid for the medium-sized and very handsome Café Serrano – ‘dedicated to Spanish cycling’. I set my maximum bid at £8.50 and saw the jersey sell for £33 six days later. Good value, you would think, but I sensed we could do better…

Onbike.Nl doesn’t carry the full Solo range and has only limited sizes available amongst their stock, so I decide to submit fresh tenders for: the medium sized Moretti – reflecting the ‘passion, colour and excitement of Italian cycling’ – with a ceiling of £16.50; the medium sized ATR – ‘dedicated to Denmark’ – with my limit set at £5.00; and the small Heuvel – ‘Solo’s tribute to the great cycling nation of Belgium – with a maximum offer of £8.00. This time around I intend on monitoring the situation and upping my bids accordingly. I'm certainly not interested in buying all three.

Unfortunately, come the final day of auction my second-hand Descente still hasn't arrived. This presents something of a quandary for it was to inform the focus of my continued bidding. On balance, this supposedly medium-sized jersey will probably fit my brother, so I let the Solo ATR pass me by. This, it turns out, is a grave error, for the thing goes for the paltry sum of £16 (I’d have probably been able to sell it for double for that myself). I raise my limit to £16 for the Moretti but bail out when I see the price heading towards the £25.90 it eventually sells for. I was right: there are bargains to be had.

I'm now left with just the Heuvel. I'm sort of hedging my bets here: if the reviewers on Wiggle are correct about the sizing then it will fit me well, but if they’re not then it will be too big for me but should be just right for my brother. The only thing to consider now is that I could end up with two cycling jerseys that fit my brother but nothing that’s of any use to me.

I am victorious in the war for The Heuvel with a winning bid of £26.55. In those nervous closing stages of auction I submitted a maximum bid of £29, but the guy I was duelling with – and who very nearly caught me out – obviously hadn't gone as high. I suppose you could say I got a bit carried away.

The very next day the Descente shows up, and it fits me like the proverbial glove. This I did not expect but I am pleased. For one, it really is a very nice jersey. Second, if I possibly can, I’d rather buy my sibling something brand new.

            Unsure of which way The Heuvel’s going to swing, I submit another bid for the medium sized Bear – ‘dedicated to Russian Cycling’. I think I can safely assume that The Heuvel will have been delivered before this latest auction reaches fruition and I’ll be well placed to know whether to keep bidding for the Bear in the name of my brother (assuming my offer of £8.00 is trumped, which it almost certainly will be). Because I now face a reversal of the scenario entertained at the beginning of the week: two jerseys for me, but nothing for my brother. But now I know my bike for the strange Franco-Belgian hybrid that it is The Heuvel has taken on a deeper resonance, and it would make for a suitable homage to both Dirk Baert and Carlos if someone’s flying the Belgian colours come next June. And despite the obvious beauty of that Descente jersey, I'm not sure if I’d rather that someone was actually me.

  

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

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

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

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

 

(Dirk Baert - Courtesy: Guy Didieu)

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

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

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

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.]