So the circus that is the Tour de France has been rolling into towns across Holland, Belgium and France for the past week with all the thrills and excitement you’d expect and, as with any circus, a couple of shifty looking travelling folks:

You're my wife now, Dave.

This year’s race got off to a predictable start with Fabian Cancellara winning his 5th prologue in imperious style. Camcellara had hoped that this win and subsequent x-raying of his bike would finally kill the rumours about his *mechanical doping* (the asterisk is the blog sarcastic air quote) at this year’s Flanders and Roubaix:

X-raying and not a lead jerkin in sight. Have they not seen 'The Hulk'?

Sadly for Fabian, the results proved inconclusive:

Enjoy Coke

In a further attempt to dispel “the rumours” Cancellara quipped to journalists: “After they checked my bike, I said, ‘You should also check the motor: Me!’”. Despite this evidence to the contrary, Cancellara has had to develop a pretty decent sense of humour in recent months as surely as his years of hard work have developed his *bionic* legs. And any sane person believes that to be true – Cancellara’s victories are thanks solely to his physical abilities and hard work. Although some – those nearer the Gazza end of the sanity continuum – might suggest his similarity to the Six Million Dollar Man doesn’t stop at bionic limbs. For this Tour has revealed that he switches his team radio to “transmit” by tweaking his right nipple:

The simple act of squeezing together his index finger and thumb enables him to both send updates to the team car and a frisson of excitement to himself. By all accounts by twisting his left nipple, Fabian can control the speed of his Gruber electric assist.

His motor was put to good use over the cobbles of the Ardennes as he successfully guided Andy Schleck through the treacherous cobbles (insofar as cobbles are capable of treachery) in the final 30kms of stage 3. Of course, Fabian’s guidance of Frank was less successful but 1 out of 2′s not bad. That stage also produced the shock of the week if most commentators are to be believed. They all professed that feather weight Contador would cross the cobbles of Paris-Roubaix with all the grace, and ultimately success, of a drunk clown crossing a tight-rope. I can only guess at the number of complementary croissants were spat onto keyboards as Contador crossed the line just behind the lead group.

Crash! Bang! Wallop!

As with every Tour there’s been no shortage of crashes in this opening week. Stage 2 in particular, as the riders descended the Stockeu, turned into a decidedly disastrous dress rehearsal of “Le Tour on Ice”. La Grosse Chute – in which every rider was obliged to fall off at least once – put an end to Christian Vande Velde Tour with broken ribs and Frank Schleckt’s was over the next day with a broken collar bone but the “Bad Luck of the Week” award has to go to Armstrong. His legendary bike handling skills appear to have deserted him to such an extent that Denny Menchov has been giving him some tips on staying upright. In fact, so far in this Tour Armstrong’s been on the floor more times than an MP waiting to vote. For someone with GC aspirations that’s bad enough but let’s not forget that Armstrong’s approaching an age where having a “nasty fall” could leave him hospitalised for months. Finally on stage 8 to Morzine-Avoriaz, Armstrong’s bad luck put an end to his challenge for an eighth title – he came off his bike 3 times and lost nearly 12 minutes to the day’s winner Schleck. It was sad to see that the days when Armstrong was able to make his own luck are well and truly gone but at least he can use the bad luck as an excuse as a crutch for his failure to win. And if he keeps falling off at this rate, it’s crutches that he’ll need.

Just as Armstrong’s luck seems to have gone, so too has the dignity of QuickStep’s Carlos Barredo and Caisse d’Epargne’s Rui Alberto Costa. For there are few more pathetic sights than that of a grown man dressed in lycra scrabbling around on the floor with another grown man also dressed in lycra:

A deleted scene from the BBC series Rome.

The fight reached its climax at the end of stage 6 as Costa removed his front wheel and set about Barredo’s head and neck. As bicycle sourced weapons go, a front wheel isn’t going to do much harm to your opponent – unless you throw it like Odd Job’s bowler hat – but I suppose, save an empty bidon, it was all he could removed while he was still in a rage. Costa must be cursing the day bike manufacturers introduced the integrated seat post.

Cast your mind back, if you will, just a couple of years to the sordid case of then FIA chief Max Mosley and the 3 prostitutes. The nation was thrown in a state of moral outrage when it was revealed that Mosley, whilst dressed in a ridiculous outfit, paid for the privilege to be subjected to sadistic pain and humiliation all for a little sexual pleasure. What kind of despicable pervert must he be?

Anyway, enough of that, last weekend I rode the National Cyclo-Sportive:

Just 3 of the 300 or so people who overtook me on Saturday

Yes, last Saturday I survived – for 95 miles in 9 hours can’t be dressed up as anything else – the National Cyclo-Sportive (aka the Pendle Pedal) at Barley in Lancashire.

I suppose before going any further, I should say that,  yes, I did wear a ridiculous outfit (ridiculous to the average Daily Mail reader at any rate). Yes, I did pay for the privilege to be subjected to pain and humiliation but no, I didn’t take any sexual pleasure from it. Not one drop. If for no other reason than – as any male cyclist whose mind has wandered to a different kind of riding or even one who’s just enjoyed the tingle of chamois cream a little too much whilst riding a bike can testify – even the slightest arousal of the Member for Crotchly South is excruciatingly painful. Something that’s still true despite saddle makers designing their wares to look like a sex toy for  lonely men:

After a couple of drinks she's an 8 maybe a 9

Back to the National Cyclo-Sportive. This was my first time in Lancashire and as a bike rider I thought it was both spectacularly beautiful and unnerving in equal measures – much like the sight of a super-model approaching you with a pair of sheers and a sinister glint in her eye. In fact the county was so picturesque that even the view from the window of the sterile Travelodge-next-to-a-motorway room that I stayed in the night before the ride was pretty (I believe this maybe the first time those words “Travelodge”, “view” and “pretty” have ever been typed in the a sentence without including the disclaimer “only a pit pony would think that…”.)

As morning broke on Saturday, my bladder was filled with yesterday’s PSP22 and my stomach with a sense trepidation at what the day’s riding would hold. The sky had a light covering of cloud with shafts of sunlight already breaking through hinting at the temperatures that were to come. A quick shower using the world’s smallest bar of soap/towel combination – what do you expect for 30 quid a night? – helped me shake off some of the nerves as well as the tiredness from a night sleeping on a pull out bed a good 6 inches shorter than me. Arriving at the car park and the sight of Pendle Hill filled the pit of my stomach with those bad feelings once again.

Water! Water!

I shan’t bore you with a pedal by pedal account of the 154 kms that I rode except to say it was every bit as challenging as the organisers had warned it would be. I’d convinced myself that I was prepared for the climbing involved – I’d bought a smaller mini-pump for God’s sake! –  but the reality was I was ridiculously unprepared. Compared to Lancashire, Staffordshire is as hilly as a mill pond and by the top of the first big climb, Waddington Fell, I knew I was in trouble. In place of training properly before the day I’d studied the route profile, erm, studiously so I knew that the first half of the day was tough but the second was tougher – it was hot, it was hilly and it was relentless.

The going was made slightly harder because I, like virtually every other rider, missed the ‘secret’ first feed station. I call it secret because every other turn and feed station was so well signed that they were impossible to miss but I pedalled straight by this first stop. By the time I made it to the 2nd feed stop – at 75 kms – I was running on fumes. But no need to panic, I knew that gallons of Gatorade waited for me. Although a drop had never passed my lips before in my life, I was convinced that this elixir would expunge those 75 kms from my legs and get me to the finish in no time. So imagine my disappointment as I rolled into the feed station not to be greeted by the sight of a Gatorade tanker lorry. Infact, I could see no Gatorade at all. It was a real punch to the stomach and by now I was low enough – both my energy levels and my motivation. I dragged myself over to a trestle table in the shade of a tree.

“Is there any Gatorade?” I asked a guy chopping bananas in two.
“No, but there’s a tap in the toilet block”.
“Is the tap sponsored by Gatorade, at least?”.

Sadly, it was not.

So I had to make do with a bottle of water, half a banana and a fistfull of CNP cola flavoured electrolyte gels – the consumption of which is much like having a diarrhoetic monkey shit in your mouth only with a slightly worse after taste.

Still, it seemed to do the trick and got my legs turning again.

Thank God, I’m Not the Only One!

The combined effect of my inadequate preparation, the heat, the hills, the dehydration left me ready to quit, ready to be swept up by the broom wagon each time I approached a feed station. “I’ll make it to the next feed station then pack it in” I told myself. “How far to the next feed stop?” I’d ask a marshal. “‘Bout 5 mile”. “5 miles and I’ll pack it in, then”.

But at those feed stations, sat on the grass, leaning against the walls, heads hung over their bars were dozens of others in the same boat as me. And each one of them squeezed a gel down their neck, then swung their weary leg over their cross bar and set back out into the hills.

This shared suffering is strangely reassuring. It’s the feeling of a condemned man, walking out to face the firing squad, only to temporarily forget his fate as he sees someone else is being shot that day. “Thank God, I’m not the only one”. So I let the monkey shit in my mouth, swung my weary leg over the cross bar and set back out into the hills to see how long I could survive for.

And thanks to some encouraging words and a tow from a high spirited bunch of Clitheroe Bike Club riders and the company of another condemned man, Julian, I did survive. My sincere thanks to both.

So finally, it was over. And as I sat on the grass verge at the start/finish area, with water pouring down my chin, I was struck by just how much endurance cycling is much like child birth. You lose all sense of your own personal dignity, bodily fluids are discharged, you look an absolute shower and you just couldn’t give a monkey’s. And it all leaves you walking like John Wayne, unable to sit down for a few weeks afterwards.

Pain is Temporary

I’ve been reminded since the ride of Lance Armstrong’s motivational words: “Pain is temporary but quitting is for ever”. But let me tell you those 9hours under the sun in the Lancashire dales it certainly felt like pain was actually forever as well – and thanks to the mother of all saddle sore’s pain has lasted at least a week.

In the face of the FLandis doping allegations Lance Armstrong remained at his statesman best. Calmly dismissing the accusations made as being so beneath him that they’re not even worth commenting on and in doing so not actually having to comment on them.

Picture taken seconds before Lance poked me in the eye

But it seemed as if it had all became a little too much for Armstrong as he crossed the line to finish 3rd in the 2010 Tour of Luxembourg. Because as he did so a heckler dared to cry “Liar! Cheat!” from the crowd. And again as Armstrong was being interviewed came the cat-call “Liar! Cheat!”. This was a heckle too far for Lance, and out went the statesman’s poise and in came the bad attitude.

“Come and do that to my face!” Armstrong repeatedly spat back as he mounted the barrier and curled a finger.

Armstrong followed this outburst up by claiming, with some exasperation, that he pitied “the fool who come and do that to my face!”. But fears that the exchange might escalate from handbags into a full blow ruckus – possibly involving a cabbage cannon – were thankfully not realised. And as Armstrong was lead away by his security guard to enjoy a glass of ice cold milk he could be heard muttering “I ain’t flying on no plane with no crazy fool”.

Hear Europeans Boo!

I’m sure you’ll be amazed to learn that the account above doesn’t strictly follow actual events. If you’d like to see what actually happened then have a look at the video below.

Warning: This video contains 5 minutes of booing and particularly grating European voices dully calling “Laaance!”

I’ve wallowed in the smugness of that title for so long that it’s not exactly news any more that Vino won the 2010 Liege-Bastogne-Liege. But his return, and more importantly his return to winning ways, has left cycling with a bit of a headache.

How to solve a problem like returning dopers?

This particular headache is in no small part due to cycling behaving like a jilted lover who’s hit the bottle to try and forget those those painful memories of someone you loved cheating on you. They’ve been mulling over that pint now for 12 years – ever since the Festina Affair – pretending they’re searching for the answers to their problems but in reality all they’re doing is hiding from them.

But suddenly cycling has been shaken from it’s stupor. The ex is back and they’re looking as good as ever:

Vino’s Got Class

How time has changed since Vino first last crossed the line last first in Liege. Gone was the adulation of the fans and the plaudits of the commentators. Replaced by the jeers of derision (“Boo”) and whispers of suspicion (“Did he just steal my wallet?”). And an overwhelming fear that Vino had just besmirched the otherwise smirchless Old Lady in a way that previous winners like Alejandro Valverde, Tyler Hamilton and Frank Vandenbrouke couldn’t possibly imagine. Even if you drew them an extremely graphic picture of the besmirching using cuttings from Nuts magazine.

Spare a thought for poor Vino himself though. He’s completely dumbfounded by this reaction: “All I did was sleep with your grandma and you’re like all “boo!” on my arse. Give me a break, will you?” – I’m paraphrasing there, but you get the drift.  He seems totally oblivious to his betrayal and remains resolute in his refusal to admit any guilt. He has gone as far as referring euphemistically to his “dark years” but this only serves to makes it sound as if he’d gone a bit over the top with the fake tan rather than taking part in a systematic and premeditated doping regime. Surely if David Millar has shown the dopers anything, it’s that to be accepted back in the fans hearts you got to show contrition.

“Hang Him!”

So how should we treat returning dopers?

Some will claim that letting a former doper return to the peleton, particularly one who continues to admit their own guilt, is like letting a crocked accountant run your finances. It all comes down to an issue of trust – and even if they are now perfectly straight, if they’ve seen the error of their ways, they will always carry an air of suspicion with them. If they’re subjected to the same controls as all other riders and they continue to pass those tests we have little choice but to let them ride.

I still think that cycling would have a better, brighter future without Vino coming back – let alone winning a monument but until the day he does finally retire we’ll just have to wince at the thought of a relationship that could have been so beautiful but turned out to be so painful.

As we all know, cyclists are one of the greatest scourges of modern life.

Despite there being no evidence whatsoever to prove it, acts of wanton cycling, such as riding through red lights, down one way streets or a short dash along a pavement to miss a dangerous junction, are more than likely responsible for the meltdown of the global financial markets, the rise of binge drinking and the MPs expenses scandal.

And it will come as no surprise to some if it transpires that cyclists were stood on that Grassy Knoll, are the reason men go bald, and faked the moon landings.

It’s heinous acts like these that’s made it particularly grating for readers of the Daily Mail that a “complete waste of my hard earned tax payers money” quango has recommended vulnerable road users – such as cyclists – should be greater protected as they go about their destruction of society by the introduction a “strict liability” policy in the UK.

The bastards!

Strictly Come What?

In short, “strict liability” takes the onus off the most vulnerable road user to prove that they weren’t at fault if they’re involved in an accident. For more accurate information about it, check out Road Peace’s web site.

So that’s it. Nothing too controversial there. Defending the vulnerable is a noble and worthy cause, wouldn’t you say? Well, somewhat surprisingly for the internet, there’s been an ill-informed shitstorm whipped up by this suggested change, and that’s all it is – a suggestion. Shockingly, the Daily Mail has been in the eye of the storm and chose to lead their coverage with a sensationalist headline to report the, erm, report:

“Motorists should be made legally responsible for all accidents involving cyclists, even if they are not at fault, say Government advisers.”

As Roy Walker more than likely didn’t say when he probably didn’t read that “It’s close, but it’s not right”.

Not happy with one misleading headline, to really fire up the mob, the Mail also published an ignorant opinion piece by Robert Hardman about what an “undeserving bunch of lawbreaking shits cyclists really are” – I’m paraphrasing there –  which amusingly includes the phrase “Lycra Louts” in its title.

Go on, read it. I dare you.

Despite opening his “strict liability” bashing piece by describing a situation in which he himself would actually have benefited from the change in the system, what really caught my eye was Hardman’s lovely comparison of cyclists and African paramilitaries:

“I prefer to think of them as the Mai-Mai, the Congolese militia who believe that they are endowed with magical qualities making them immune to bullets.”

OK, OK, Robert’s trying to be funny. I know. I know. Cyclists think they’re invincible which is why they all ride so recklessly. Very good. But all the same it’s a little strong to slyly compare people commuting to work (sometimes illegally on the pavement) with terrorists. I suppose I should be glad that he didn’t go the whole hog and call us “Nazis on Bikes”:

The healthier way to go to war.

The Cycling Terrorists Club

After reading Hardman’s article and once I’d finished my self-righteous, teeth-grinding, head-shaking and tut-tutting, I drew up my own, mercifully short, list of cycling terrorists organisations (just when you thought it Hardman’s article couldn’t do any more harm, hey?).

So, strap yourselves in for some fairly horrific pun based terrorist action:

Shining Cycle Path
Even Peruvian Communists enjoy a good bike ride, you know.

Real Tyre.A
Dissident group fighting for the freedom of Irish cyclists.

Cycle-Qaeda
Riding bicycles into buildings is so much less destructive.

Raleigh-ban
Bike brand specific cycling hardliners. Very keen on compulsion.

And you can open your eyes again now.

On the off chance that you’ve not laughed up too many of you major organs please feel free to add any of your own in the comments below.

Except obviously he didn’t.

OK, there’s a very slim chance he did but he probably didn’t.

Anyway, what he definitely did do was to write a review of the Tesla Roadster in the Mail on Sunday’s LIVE magazine which included a lefty baiting rant about hating herbal tea drinking cyclists and an anecdote about parping his horn at a group of cyclists as he silently sped past in the electric sports car. The sheer shock of him tooting his tooter, according to his story at least, forced the unsuspecting riders off the road into the hedge.

James Martin successfully catches the first of 1000 bikes to be thrown at him.

Sadly his version of events have been deleted from the Mail’s Website so I stole them from elsewhere:

Twenty minutes into my test drive I pulled round a leafy bend, enjoying the birdsong – and spotted those Spider-Man cyclists. Knowing they wouldn’t hear me coming, I stepped on the gas, waited until the split second before I overtook them, then gave them an almighty blast on the horn at the exact same time I passed them at speed.

The look of sheer terror as they tottered into the hedge was the best thing I’ve ever seen in my rear-view mirror. I think this could be the car for me.

Brilliant, James. Just brilliant.

And his article has caused an ugly storm on the internet. Thanks to the wonder of Twitter and seemingly all the internet’s cycling Web sites every British cyclist has now read the article and become outraged by his now deleted words. In fact the shock of reading the article was so great I sprayed my Clippers Green Tea with Echinacea all over my keyboard!

Did it Really Happen? Did it?

Now, I realise this fact will amaze and shock you in equal measures: I’ve never met James Martin – but its hard to find anyone who’s not on HRT with anything nice to say about him.

Take the British Courts, for example. They ruled he was a liar. Back in 2008 his former stepmother sued him and won damages after extracts of his autobiography were published in a paper in which he labelled her the “ugliest women he had ever met” – oh, and he wrote some nastier stuff about her being a terrible witch of a stepmother that wasn’t as school boyishly funny so we’re under playing that.

However, what with this being the Daily Hate Mail I suspect that, as inappropriate as his comments were, James’ article was somewhat playing to the crowd. Was his encounter with the cyclists simply an exaggeration to add a touch of spice to his review? From my experience of Daily Mail readers, the tale of James’ Mr Toad antics could only have raised more self satisfied guffaws from the breakfast tables across the Home Counties if it had turned out the cyclists were, in fact, disabled, illegal immigrants.

Of course that doesn’t excuse him. His words were at best ill-judged and at worst an irresponsible admission of law breaking. Nor does his subsequent “sincere” apology – although apologies phrased as “Do you lot not have a sense of humour or what?” never seem particularly sincere to me – provide him with a get out of jail card.

But his claim that it was just a joke only leads me to believe that James either has a very strange sense of humour or he made the whole story up.

54,00 Complaints

Ross and Brand: A right pair of fuckers.

What’s interesting about this affair is how similar it seems to – the lazily named – Sachs-gate scandal that quite literally rocked the Daily Mail’s readership to its very stone-hearted core last year and yet how different the response of the Mail is.

On that ocassion the Mail embarked on a moral crusade to defend public decency – sadly it was too late to defend the chastity of Manuel’s Satanic Slut granddaughter, Georgina – which resulted in 54,000 complaints – 53,999 of which came from readers who hadn’t even heard of Russell Brand let alone the broadcast itself before the crusade began. But it also resulted in Brand and the controller of Radio 2 resigning and meant that 100′s, if not 1000′s, of Bridge Clubs had to cancel matches as their memebers stayed at home to write “Outraged of Eastbourne” letters to the Beeb.

Fast forward 12 months and when the Daily Mail publish an article – written by a BBC employee – containing a remorseless admission of “driving like a nutsack” that could, without exaggeration, caused someone’s death, they’re keeping tight lipped.

Harassment of the not so vulnerable elderly – oh no, no, no. Harassment of vulnerable cyclists- oh yes, yes, yes.

Has the Mail started a crusade to sack James Martin from its paper? Has the Editor resigned? Have they even mustered an apology? Has a monkey flown out of my butt?

This hippocracy is undoubtedly down to the Mail not really giving a flying fuck about cyclists – although if the truth be told, they didn’t give a flying fuck about Andrew Sachs or his granddaughter either they simply had an axe to grind with the BBC and a paper to sell. And they seem not to give one about honesty, transparency nor the decency that they previous did so much to defend. By demonstrating a level of journalistic integrity that you’d wouldn’t expect from a shoddy blogger they surreptitiously removed the offending words from the online version without so much of a by your leave, and closed the comments section’s flood gates to stop the deluge of complaints.

So James Martin might not have fucked your granddaughter but he surely deserves the sack from the Mail just as much as Britain’s cyclists deserve an apology from the paper.

There’s something undeniable naff about folding bikes. Endearingly so, maybe, but naff nonetheless.

Naff. Naff. Naff.

I suppose, before I go any further, I should come clean here and confess that my feelings towards folding bikes are more than somewhat coloured by the fact that, when we were children, my sister had one. It was a real horrorshow of a bike – some sort of Raleigh, its cream finish offset delightfully by the white wall tyres on the tiny wheels. It had moulded plastic handlebar grips that after ten minutes of riding made your hands burn as if you’d been holding a pair of curling irons. It was hard to make “go” because the lever on the Sturmey Archer was stiffer than a teenager at a women’s beach volley ball tournament and even harder to make “stop” thanks to brakes that had so little power, pulling the level felt like you were pressing a wet sponge against a jelly. It also had a basket.

And worst of all, my sister – being 2 years older than me – used to regularly kick my arse on it.

So, there, now you know.

Shockingly, despite this naffness – and my deep psychological scarring – the folding bike is now more popular than ever with 60, if not 70, percent of all doorways on trains into London currently blocked by a folding bike. All of which might be a pain for those commuters without their right trouser leg tucked into their socks, but is great news for the granddaddy of the folding bike - Brompton.

What’s not quite such good news for Brompton, is that the folding bike’s image problem is compounded by the fact that it’s also British built – a fact which essentially uses the unstylish, yet powerful, thumb of bad taste to shift the bike’s Sturmey Archer hub of naffness into third. Because, and I’m wildly generallising here, British manufacturing has struggled to do the whole “cool” thing making everything seems to be a little bit, well, naff.

But before you tut-tut and tell me I’m “Bally well out of order, old chap”, it’s not just me. Look! Alexei Sayle thinks so too:

“If the British had invented the Walkman, it would have been a teak box, covered in leatherette, with the headphones out of a Lancaster bomber”

Maybe it’s our pragmatism that makes us place function over form. Maybe we’re too rational and not emotional enough. Maybe we genuinely would rather be Richie than the Fonz. Whatever the reason, while we were out taking “country jaunts” on our drab Pashley’ Roadster Classic:

More tea, Vicar?

Our European neighbours, the Italians, were knocking out things of beauty like Coppi’s 1952 Bianchi:

"I've just shagged a nun."

Hey, You There! What Are You?

But in the midst of all this naffness, almost behind our backs, something unusual happened. Something completely unexpected has happened. Something involving Brompton turned out to be *cool* – the Brompton World Championships.

As you can imagine, these *cool* Championships weren’t held in Britain. The first was held back in 2006 in Barcelona by the Spanish importer of Bropmton bikes. And despite not being able to find any reports or pictures, I like to think that each and every one of those taking part were nonchalant chicos who whilst racing through the exotic streets of Barcelona each offer a casual “Hola, guapa!” to every girl they pass. Sounds like a reasonable, yet in no way over glamourised, and highly plausible description of events, doesn’t it?

Anyway, whatever actually took place in Barcelona, Brompton liked what they saw enough to bring the event back home to Blighty. And, would you believe, in the process turned the World Championships from something that was exotic and cool into something slighly less so:

Some riders will try anything to draw attention away from the naffness of the bike they're riding.

After You. No, After You. No, No…

With its strict dress code of shirt, tie, and jacket the Championship was moved to Blenheim Palace – the home of the most British of Brits: Winston “Bloody British” Churchill – making it a Spanish fantasy no more but a quintessential British affair. A celebration of our spiffing British eccentricity.

Of course, in reality, it’s also a cynical marketing ploy by Brompton – preaching their “brand messages” to the converted. Quite literally peddling naffness to people who are quite literally peddaling naffness. But we’re all too terribly, terribly  British to mention that, aren’t we?

Maybe the quirky rules, the location, and the prospect of another day away from the family is a spot on recreation of your average Brompton rider’s experience of community by train/bike – but it’s not mine. So here are a few ideas I’ve had to make the event a little truer to the my train/bicycle commuter’s experience:

• Before the race, the competitors are held in a cramp, smelly, and searingly hot compartment with their face pressed into a stranger’s armpit for 45 minutes.
• Instead of clapping and cheering on the participants, the crowd geer and throw insults at the riders as they pass.
• Taxis suddenly pull out into the path of riders at various points around the course.
• The event is only held if it’s raining.
• To win the race, each competitor MUST hold a door open for someone – even though you’re the one with the bike – AND have shouted “Wanker!” at someone along the course regardless whether it was actually them in the wrong or not.

Let’s hope they bring these in for the 2010 event to make it proper British, innit?

Don’t I Know You From Somewhere?

Bringing a bit of the Spanish cool to last year’s Championships was ex-Pro Roberto Heras:

Roberto Heras injected some, erm, professionalism into proceedings

What was most startling about his participation in last year’s event is just how much of an improvement to your performance an effective doping programme can really make. With it, you can win a Grand Tour, with out it, you can only finish 2nd in a fold-up bike race.

And speaking of recovering drugs cheat not performing at their best, Floyd Landis finished 25th in the recent Tour of Utah:

Landis about to have his ass whooped for a 2nd time by Williams

After being beaten by Utah Jazz’s Deron Williams in a pre-race publicity time trail, Floyd Landis carried his form into the race proper, finally being beaten by 24 other riders. Jolly good show, Floyd.

Here’s something for everyone who thinks that just because they can do a track stand, they’ve got *bike skilz* (me included):

London’s a mean city.

If someone’s not knife-criming you in the face then they’re voting in a buffoon to run the place presumably on the off chance he’ll do something funny. Which, as I’ve mentioned, is just mean.

And on top of that, it’s not the nicest off places to ride your bike either. Don’t believe me? Take a look at these bike-shed of horrors:

• Sometimes London can be busy and noisy and riding a bi-swicle can be fwitening.
• Sometimes the paths just turn into canals.
• There’s nowhere you can leave your bike without it being stolen – even under your bottom.

Actually, that last one sounds genuinely horrifying.

So to try and make the experience of riding a bike through the Hell on Earth that is London a little more enjoyable, some jolly lovely chaps (and/or chapesses) came up with the idea for Ding Day:

Ding Day 2009 - Boris Johnson gave it a ringing endorsement. A-huh. A-huh.

Yes, Ding Day. All over London on Wednesday, 9th September whenever a cyclist see a fellow cyclist they will give them a little ding-ding on their bell in the hope that, in the words of Ding Day’s organisers, they’ll be “creating a harmony around London’s cycling community”.

Which is all very laudable and on the whole “a good thing”. After all, one of the nicest things about cycling is the sense of belonging to a group. And I think we can all agree that when you’re out on your bike getting a “Hello”, a nod, or even just a raised hand over a brake hood from another rider is nice.

Which is why I can’t help feeling that this is all a sad reflection of what life living in London is really like – you have to organise a special day, have it endorsed by the Mayor – Boris Johnson says “…Ding Day is a welcome addition to spreading the word about the joys of cycling” - just to get cyclists to acknowledge another cyclist.

Whatever next? A special day to stop people hitting strangers about the face and neck with your D-Lock?

Anyway, Ding Day says that through its day full of ringing bells, it aims:

To create a fun experience for cyclists and locals in and around London, with the hope of creating more of a sense of community amongst fellow cyclists, including commuters, parents, children, basically any cyclist young or old. It’s free and open to everyone.

Yes, saying “Hello” to someone else is free and open to everyone. Marvellous, isn’t it? But a word of warning from poor-little Minette Marrin, before you get carried away and start ringing that bell all willy-nilly at strangers:

When I protested at one of these dicers-with-my-death by primly ringing my bell, he got off his bike and was so frighteningly nasty I didn’t dare touch the bell again.

Hmm, London is a mean city.

Responding to the Tourmalet-sized cynicism that’s developed in all of us since it was decided drug taking was bad for bike racing (despite the fact that everyone – inlcuding the soigneurs – were apparently doing it) and manifests itself as an endless moan, Bradley Wiggins was forced to release his blood test values.

Garmin-Slipstream put out his blood values for both haemoglobin count – the concentration of oxygen carrying protein in red blood cells – as well as, what’s becoming the de facto measure of cheating, his “Off Score”.

Now calling it the “Off Score” makes it sound a little more Terry Thomas – “Your Off Score’s really not on, you absoulte scoundral!” – than it probably is. Here’s how Garmin explain it:

The Off Score, which takes into account the relationship between haemoglobin and reticulocyte concentration is currently used as the reference point for assessing an athlete’s blood profile. Since reticulocytes tend to decrease when haemoglobin is artificially high, the combination of a high haemoglobin and a low reticulocyte raises the Off Score.

Not quite as funny as it first sounded, I think you’ll agree. Maybe closer to some of Thomas’ later work but certainly not up there with Those Magnificent Men in Their Flying Machines or Monte Carlo or Bust.

Anyway, much was also made of Bradley’s weight loss in the build up to the Tour – in the 9 months prior to the Tour he lost 7 kilos. Which although might not win him the crown of “Weight Watchers Slimmer of the Year” it’s no men feat for someone who’s not actually a fatso. Of course, for the anti-doping cynics out there this is a hard fact to believe – and Bradley’s partly responisble for this. Judging by the account in his autobiogrphy Bradley used to be an almost Flintoff standard drinker and his cake consumption is estimated to be the same as that of a single woman in her early 40′s.

Which is why Garmin have been forced to release Bradley’s cake and beer intake levels for this year’s Tour:

Bradley Wiggins releases beer/cake values taken during and immediately after the 2009 Tour

At first glance, you might think that this is simply a pathetic attempt at humour, very badly done in Microsoft Paint – you’d be wrong, though. It was actually done using Adobe Photoshop.

As you can see, during the whole of the Tour both his beer and cake intake were very low. There’s only a slight blip plotted on the cake line when Bradley accidentally ate half a croissant. No-one is quite sure how this happened, although it’s currently believed that a member of Saxo-Bank may have spiked his porridge with it. His consumption levels stayed constant until he hit Paris and, as clearly shown above, beer imbibment rose markedly and he Katona’d it on the cake front before returning to a more normal level.

There we have it, categoric proof to support Wiggins’ weight loss based performance increases. We can only hope this will be enough to satisfy the doubters or, at the very least, stop them moaning on and on and on for a couple of weeks.