So here they are…

The Cotic X – Late for work from Joe Bowman on Vimeo.

Snowdon Ranger Path – Easter 2011 from Matthew Cope on Vimeo.

Osiris Shoes – Ryan Nyquist & Arik Elstran in Milwaukee from Osiris BMX on Vimeo.

Aaron Ross | 2 Texas Cement Parks in 3 Days | Empire Bmx from Empire Bmx on Vimeo.

Chris Akrigg THE MAURICE.0 from chris akrigg on Vimeo.

CRC/Nukeproof team – Prepare to Succeed from chainreactioncycles on Vimeo.

There are a number of sartorial dilemmas that can cause the style-conscious cyclist a good deal of head-scratching. Issues such as short length and sock colour are amongst the most hotly contested. Then there are philosophical conundrums, such as the Armwarmer-Tights Paradox. (You are wearing armwarmers and full length tights. You get hot. You can only remove your armwarmers if you are wearing shorts, but you are not wearing shorts, so your removable armwarmers are no longer removable, but instead have become temporarily fixed to your jersey sleeves by incontestable sartorial logic.

Just as with the bicycle itself, less is usually more, though there are various adornments that can add a bit of style – a well-chosen cap, or a pair of sparkling white oversocks. Accoutrements beyond this point (especially eccentric flourishes like silk ‘kerchiefs, or garbadine capes) are best left to the urban dandy.

The question of eyewear is one that poses a number of questions. As we all should know, the foremost and vital function of a pair of sunglasses is looking good. As far as cycling is concerned, their secondary purpose is to help one see where one is going. Regarding the latter, it is useful if the eyewear in question is capable of blocking out a healthy proportion of the sun’s rays, though not so much that, on entering a wooded area, you are rendered temporarily blind. As far as the former is concerned, rather like a cheap pair of shoes with a decent suit, glasses that look shit will drag down the overall aesthetic of even the very best turned out rider, so if you don’t make the effort you may as well give up with the rest of the outfit.

Of course, if like Alan Sugar you look like a hairy little troll with no discernible vestige of elegance, sartorial or otherwise, it doesn’t really matter what you use to keep the sun out of your eyes.

In the good old days, chaps such as Ottavio Bottecchia (below) sported natty little goggles – these kept both sunlight and dust at bay, often causing an amusing panda-eye effect by the end of the race that apparently went down very well with the ladies.

In the post-war period, Fausto Coppi apparently favoured Persol sunglasses (modelled below by Coppi’s legendary domestique Chris Brown, as well as team car driver Steve McQueen – top). Persol eyewear seems to be currently making a comeback, and I will revisit it later on.

The golden era of cycling eyewear ran from the late 80s through to the late 90s, and was characterised by the crazy, space-aged lunacy of Oakley and Briko. Oakley were originally a little Californian company run by a madman (as so many are) on a mission to flog amazing, freaky alien invasion type glasses. Modelling original Oakley Eyeshades below are Andy Hampsten and Adrian Timmis.

Then there was the M-frame (modelled here by Sean Yates), slightly less crazy, and still in production today.

The apogee of the crazy-tech coolness curve of Oakley’s product development was the Sub Zero (below). One of my schoolmates had a pair of these. They looked very cool, until he put them on. Then he just looked like a cock. Herein lies the problem of spaceman glasses. Unless you have the visual personality of an MDMA-soaked rocket scientist (i.e. you’re Mario Cipollini), they are quite hard to pull off.

Oakley seemed to tone things down a bit after the Sub Zero, but during that retreat they did fire a Parthian shot in the form of the Overthetop. These ludicrous specs were absolutely fucking crazy, but this incontrovertible fact didn’t stop a number of celebrity sportsmen from fielding a pair, most notably (in cycling) David Millar in the 2001 Vuelta prologue. Civilians would never be able to pull off such a look, but Mr Millar at least proves that the professionals are able to push the boundaries a little further and (vaguely) get away with it – in this case, aided by the aero helmet. Still, I would heartily suggest that you don’t try them on the Sunday cafe run.

These days, Oakley are a huge company, with a massive range of glasses as well as a load of other stuff too. I bought some Jawbones last year – they do seem to work very well, and the hinged frame that allows lens swapping is nicely designed. Unfortunately, it is still hard to not look like a bit of a cock when wearing Oakleys. I think one has to approach their use with a fair degree of forward thinking. If you are riding long hard miles, in the sun, with lots of bugs in the air, or you’re riding in a forest when you might get crap in your eyes, wear the Oakleys. If you are wearing your fancy kit, riding your fancy bike, and are hoping to catch the eye of that millionaire widow in the droptop Mercedes, perhaps some other eyewear might be more appropriate. The exception to this Rule of Oakley is the Frogksin.

Backtracking a bit, the other eyewear company worthy of serious adulation is Briko. Briko was the choice of the badass Euros back in the 90s. Mario wore Briko, which gives me another excuse to publish the photos below.

Marco wore Brikos too. If Marco and Mario both did something, it is probably worth doing. Coke and hookers, for example…

Briko glasses were ace. Zen, Shot, Stinger – I’ve had them all. But again, whilst I thought I looked pretty cool wearing them, it’s fairly safe to say that the majority of people outside the cycling fraternity probably assumed that I was a cock.

So, what glasses should you wear if you don’t want to look like a cock. First up, the Oakley Frogskin, as previously mentioned.

Next, the Steve McQueen Persol.

Lastly, may I suggest the Oliver Peoples Altman.

(I completely failed to find any examples of mid 20th century cycling eyewear that was in any way interesting, unusual or downright horrid. If anyone has any suggestions then let me know!)

Departing the Row, we headed into Regent Street, which we navigated in a northerly direction. It was around this point that I was witness to some decidedly inappropriate intercourse between a chap on the front of a tandem, and a lady not three yards in front of him. The lady was wearing a skirt that was really rather provocative in its Lilliputian minisculity – quite unsuitable for ladylike activities, let alone cycling. I couldn’t miss the acreage of décolletage she had on display either. Neither, it seemed, had the chap behind. The conversation went something along these lines.

“Well, hello!” said the chap.

“Good afternoon!” replied the lady.

“Is say, is your husband about?” said the chap.

“No, he’s not. He is away. Flyfishing!”

“My wife is away you know, what!” said the chap, who was rapidly adopting the tone of a caddish predator. “I say, is that a ladder in your tights? Or could it be…”

A groan emanated from the cad’s companion on the back of the tandem.

“Could it be,” the cad continued, “A stairway to Heaven?”

Snorting with derision, I gave the Dursley a couple of firm strokes on the pedals to distance myself from the cad and the hussy – I can’t abide such ignoble, base behaviour. If I ever see that chap in my club, I will have a few firm words with the management!

By now, I was definitely running on the reserve tank. It had been hours since I had enjoyed the sustenance of tea and tobacco, and so it was with great relief that we rapidly navigated Gower Street and Bloomsbury to present ourselves in the leafy environs of Lincolns Inn Fields, which was to be the site of a break for refreshment.

A queue of Brobdingnagian proportions had formed across the square, which suggested that I was not the only chap who had developed pangs of hunger and a frightful thirst. Without my man to take my place in the queue, I endured it myself, and a jolly friendly queue it was too. After I had sucked down a thoughtful cup of tea, I gobbled some hard-earned cucumber sandwiches and considered the spectacle. A minute later, I was approached by a photographic Johnnie who politely requested that I pose in front of a large rhododendron whilst he captured my image. I was led to believe that he represented one of those gentlemen’s magazines – you know the sort – the ones that provide sartorial guidance as well as reviews of shaving soap and details concerning popular hotels on the Cote d’Azur. I was perfectly happy though, not unaccustomed as I am to having my likeness reproduced!

The marshal Johnnies then instructed us to mount up yet again, and we were directed in a necessarily convoluted fashion towards the Borough of Clerkenwell. We passed the noted velocipede-themed hostelry Look Mumsie No Hands! in front of which was gathered a crowd of jolly well-wishers. Onwards we rode, over the Old Street circulatory, and up through Shoreditch, where we witnessed some of the local characters, attired in their much-lauded whimsical outfits – pink and black striped smocks, eyeglasses fashioned from iridescent Bakelite, and clown-like shoes with India rubber soles. They seemed to be mostly in high spirits, though some of them appeared to be suffering from a nasal allergy, sniffing repeatedly and twitching slightly. Others had a decidedly inebriated air, clutching bottles of ale.

As we approached Bethnal Green Road the pace slowed. Some local urchins had seemingly procured themselves bicycles of their own, and they attempted to ride alongside us. One particular fellow was trying to raise the front wheel of his bicycle aloft! He was right in front of me, so I had to take action to prevent his actions causing harm to any of my fellow riders.

“By Jove! You obstinate devil! Take that!” I yelled, and gave him a shove. He fell into the path of an oncoming vehicle – I think it’s safe to say that’s the last time he will cause any such trouble again! So dashed absurd, don’t you know, that kind of behaviour. There’s just no call for it.

And then, dear reader, we reached the finish! Our ride was over, and we were invited into the most impressive-looking Bethnal Green Working Men’s Club to celebrate the conclusion of our adventure. I felt a bit of a fraud, having never done a day’s work in my life, but no-one seemed to noticed the delicacy of my hands, untroubled as they are by the coarse callouses of manual labour, or the ink-stained digits of the professional classes.

I must admit, after a full day on the Dursley, I cannot for the life of me remember a previous occasion when I’ve been quite so infernally uncomfortable, although I should also perhaps draw attention to the fact that I had not been to the lavatory since leaving much earlier in the day. Suffice to say that the old chap was very much relieved at being taken off duty.

The Working Men’s Club didn’t have much of a cellar unfortunately, so rather than celebrate with champagne and St Emilion, I found myself toasting the Tweed Run with some quantity of a rather fine ale, hailing from the Orient. I do not recall laying my eyes on the aforementioned moving picture actor, who has subsequently been the recipient of a lot of attention in the cycling gossip columns. Apparently he was quite a prominent personage.

The Oriental ale was potent to say the least, and it had the effect of creeping imperceptibly into your system so that, before you knew know what you’re doing, you’re starting out to reform the world by force if necessary and pausing on your way to tell the large man on the Pashley that, if he looks at you like that again, you will knock his head off. I had enough sense to make my excuses and leave before I ended up knee-deep in the bouillon so to speak! Wobbling off down the road, I considered what had been a most agreeable day! The Tweed Run was a wondrous success. And what’s more, I’m going to do it again! I’m going to do it every day. If ever you see me tweed-less, tap me on the shoulder and say, ‘Tut! Tut!’ and I’ll apologise and remedy the defect.

The Tweed Run from Studiocanoe on Vimeo

You know, I rather think I agree with those poet-and-philosopher Johnnies who insist that a fellow ought to be devilish pleased if he has a bit of trouble. All that stuff about being refined by suffering, you know. Suffering does give a chap a sort of broader and more sympathetic outlook. It helps you to understand other people’s misfortunes if you’ve been through the same thing yourself. Well, the old Dursley was doing its best to rub me up the wrong way. Despite twenty two ounces of the finest Harris between my arse and the woven saddle, well, as that playright Johnnie once ascertained, “Aye, there’s the rub”. Moreover, the Dursley is equipped with a rather incomprehensible gearing system based, according to Ball, on the principle of counter-rotational shafting. Now, shafting I can take without blinking, but banging is simply not cricket. You see, reader, the aforementioned requirement to keep one’s knees tucked in between Mr Pedersen’s handlebars meant that I was continually banging the inside of my lower thigh into the apparatus for shifting the shafting mechanism from one gear to another, which my great chum Freddie Spalding had affixed at a height most convenient for a man of his stature, but one resolutely unsuitable for a taller gent such as myself. My thigh was most unaccustomed to such abuse, and I begun to concern myself with the long-term effects if I continued this course of action.

The shifting apparatus had three positions, which via a mysterious interconnectedness with the shafting mechanism allowed the rider to determine the speed at which his legs would rotate at any given velocity. I’m a bit foggy as to what the beneficial aspects of such an arrangement are, but I am aware (again, thanks to my man Ball) that there are various schools of thought on such manners. It is my understanding that the fast spinning limb approach was popularised by a Mr Armstrong, of Austin, Texas. Mr Armstrong was victorious in a number of races in which he applied this principle, although his performances have subsequently been called into question, over allegations of unfair advantage gained by his preference for uncommonly long hosiery.

The opposing school of thought was most famously championed by Herr Ullrich, of Rostock, in the German state of Mecklenburg-Vorpommern. Herr Ullrich used his generously-proportioned legs to turn the pedals of his bicycle less like a startled hamster, and more like the pistons of a steam locomotive. However, despite a hearty diet of Bavarian beer and weisswurst, Herr Ullrich was unable to vanquish Mr Armstong, and retired to a life as a ball-room impresario.

The lowest position of the Dursley’s shifting apparatus was seemingly inoperative which precluded me from employing the former, and I took great delight in emulating the fierce power of the gentleman affectionately known as “Der Kaiser”.

In fact, the incline at the northern end of Duke of York Street was such that I had to resort to a modicum of huffing and puffing, until I reached the crest at Jermyn Street. I considered halting at the noted cheese emporium Paxton & Whitfield for a restorative slice of Caerphilly, but to do so would’ve been to interrupt the progress of my fellow cyclists, and so I continued on an empty stomach.

North again, and via New Bond Street, where we passed the rather tawdry showroom of recently immigrated Italian rag merchant Signor Armani, his window a riot of baggy linen and floppy-collared nonsense, decorated with an incongruous and frankly loathsome albumen print of an Association Footballer in his supportive undergarments.

It was with great relief, then, that we presently arrived into the altogether more salubrious surroundings of the Row. The chaps at Huntsman were out in force, effervescent thanks to lavish helpings of Pol Roger, and charged with the onerous task of assessing which of one of us gentlemen was the most dashing. I concluded that the fact that I did not clinch victory was down to the confusion surrounding my lost armband, as my outfit was definitely most deserving of a prize! Perhaps it was the shade of my cravat. Ball had suggested that the green gave me a slightly bilious air, and had advocated a blue, with red domino pattern instead. No matter – I am not a sore loser!

I also made the acquaintance of the guardian of another fine Dursley-Pedersen. This particular version had the appearance of a slightly later design, with handlebars at a friendlier height, and very fine nickel plating on the tube junction lugging. Alas, I failed to note down his particulars – I will have to task Ball with the job of tracking down this elusive chappie!

Now then, as I remarked just previously, the Dursley is really quite beastly at slow speeds, and as we pulled away from Paternoster Square, well, by jove were we crawling. I tried to keep the bicycle upright, but the bally thing was rocking like a jelly in a high wind. The crowd was treaded to a curious display of bicycle manhandling by yours truly, no doubt sporting a face writ large with concern at impending doom and the mangling of soft-soldered steel. Suffice to say, I began to worry that, if the Terror of the Dursley were to continue unabated, I might end up the subject of the wholly unwelcome Tweed Runs.

But before too long the speed increased to a rate commensurable with less problematic Dursley navigation, and my concern became delight – feelings of dread rapidly transforming into a realisation that I was tolerably full of beans. Quite hot under the collar too as it happened, for the sun was beating down like a prizefighter – quite how some of the three-piece tweed Johnnies were not breaking out with heatstroke was beyond me!

We pedalled on, full of merriment and good cheer, over Blackfriars Bridge, and then west towards Waterloo. I brisked it up a bit here and there, and the Dursley responded with an eager surge that belied its one hundred and ten years. If I go half as well as that when I am that age (or as well as that when I am half that age) I think I will justifiably be able to award myself a decent pat on the back.

The sturdy young fellows whose job it was to marshal the event proceeded to take us north again, across the fair River Thames, and up to Big Ben. The crowds here were considerable, mainly it seemed made up of our colonial cousins and our continental neighbours. They appeared curiously dressed, with collared shirts and ties noticeable by their absence, and instead clothed in brightly coloured fabrics, with similarly gaudy haversacks hanging from their personages. You cannot judge a book by its cover though!

I doffed my cap, and cried, “Tally ho!”

On Parliament Square itself, there were a number of wizened types sitting outside what appeared to be rather shabby-looking tents. I took them to be explorers, probably just back from the jungles of Malaya or the Arctic wilderness. What charming individuals – back from the ends of the earth and here to support us in our own little adventure around London. I must admit, if I had just arrived home from such a journey, I would immediately take myself off to recuperate on the coast – possibly St Leonards-on-Sea or Bexhill – but these chaps were clearly made of sterner stuff, and their support was both touching and invigorating.

We continued on our merry way towards Buckingham Palace, where we gathered the troops for an assault up the Mall. A cab driver called out to me through his open window.

“So what’s the point of all this then, mate?”

I tried to think of something to say, but nothing came. A chappie has to be a lot broader about the forehead than I am to handle a tricky question like this. I strained the old bean till it creaked, but between the collar and the hair parting nothing stirred. I was dumb. Dumb, but saved by a much cleverer Johnnie than myself.

“It’s the Tweed Run!”

“What’s that then?”

“Umm, it’s a bicycle ride. With tweed.”

“Oh, right. So when are you all going to piss off?”

Rum chap.

Soon enough we were on the move again, saving us both the indignity of conversing further with the tiresome cabbie. I really do wish that the impudent little buggers would stick to driving and leave the talking to chappies like us.

Onwards then, past my club and into St James’s, where some of the chappies had their facial hair assessed (I think) by some sort of moustache aficionado. Quite what the judging criteria were is beyond me. I assume the victor was sporting a hairy combination, with a shapely configuration, well-waxed, bushiness trimmed to an appropriate level and an overall degree of follicular magnificence. Either way, I was much obliged to take the pressure off my backside for a few minutes!

The Dursley-Pedersen is a fine piece of engineering, but my journey to Paternoster Square was plagued by the most beastly wobbles. The rightful owner of this particular bicycle is a chum of mine by the name of Freddie Spalding. Freddie is a good deal shorter than me, and the ergonomics of his velocipede bear testament to this fact. Occupying six feet and two inches of height (of excellent proportions I might add), my knees had to pass in between Mr Pedersen’s curiously shaped handlebars, which caused a degree of difficulty in executing cornering manoeuvres. It did not take long before I discovered an approximate technique with which to keep out of trouble – namely, keeping the outside knee high mid bend, allowing the space previously occupied by my inside knee to be taken up by the rotating handlebar, in opposition to the received wisdom concerning high speed directional changes on a two-wheeled vehicle.

Pulling away and slowing down were also manifestly awkward. The former because, again, knees had to be immediately inserted ‘twixt handlebars, or else a wide-legged bandy-kneed approach (reminiscent of the harlots of Cannes) would be the only course of action that might facilitate the avoidance of an immediate return to the pavement.

The latter was a simple case of insufficient braking. Freddie’s renovation of the Dursley, whilst mostly efficacious, had not yet fully restored the action of the retardation apparatus. The braking blocks on the rear wheel at least came into contact with the rim (which is more than can be said for the front retarder) but alas the contact points were minimal and pressure equally so. The distance required to slow one’s forward motion sufficiently to come to a rest was so extensive that it was necessary to keep one’s eyes on the road ahead at all times, rather than allow oneself to be distracted by scantily clad perambulating crumpet, as is usually my way. I ruminated about this particular inconvenience, but it did not take Mr Holmes to deduce that, whilst eventful first impressions have led to much fruitful intercourse, crashing a late Victorian velocipede into a young lady is simply not on.

Arriving in the vicinity of Paternoster Square and St Pauls, I made the acquaintance of a bearded chap whose name escapes me.

“What ho!” I exclaimed.

“Jolly good day for it, what. I say, have you any idea where we’re supposed to be heading?” he said, but he needn’t have, because at that moment we both spotted a veritable forest of tweed, gathered in the shadow of St Pauls.

Now, I rather fancy it’s Wodehouse – or, if not, it’s some equally brainy lad—who says that it’s always just when a chappie is feeling particularly top-hole, and more than usually braced with things in general that Fate sneaks up behind him with a bit of lead piping. There’s no doubt the man’s right. It’s absolutely that way with me. Take, for instance, the case of my Tweed run armband. You see, with all the excitement concerning the loan of Freddie Spalding’s Dursley-Pedersen, to which Jeeves had carefully applied my Tween Run number plate, I had completely forgotten about my Tweed Run numbered armband. It was thus that I found myself queuing at the organisers’ desk. Miss Jacqui, co-chief organiser of the event, was clearly in no mood to suffer fools gladly. My lip was quivering.

“I say,” I said. “I’ve been a bit of an arse. A right chump. A prize turkey. I have, I mean, my man has left my armband at my place in the country. I don’t suppose you have a spare, what?”

She glared at me, like my nanny used to whenever I soiled my longjohns.

“What the devils the matter with you?” she exclaimed. “The instructions quite clearly state…”

“Steady on old girl,” I started, but then cut myself short when I noticed a formidable Johnnie bearing down fast on her flank. “Look here, my complexion might be first class, but my brain is not. Can you possibly bend those rules and excuse my dim-wittedness?”

I gave her a bit of right eyebrow, and it seemed to do the trick, because an armband was immediately thrust into my possession. I made a mental note to purchase her a sherry later in the day.

There was still plenty of time before the off, and so I took the opportunity to introduce myself and the Dursley to the assembled throng. Chappies introduced me to other chappies, and so on and so forth, and it wasn’t long before I knew squads of the right sort of splendid looking gentlemen and some lovely ladies too. I spotted Teddie, Miss Jacqui’s co-chief organiser, looking the last word in a fine Huntsman. That suit was the real, red-hot Tabasco.

Also present were the renowned fashionable costume historian Mrs Velo-City-Girl, noted scribe and Twitterer The Fixed Factor, and a jobbing actor by the name of E. McGregor, Esq.

The Dursley was proving to be a sensational hit, to the extent that I was fighting off Johnnies right left and centre, so it was with a great deal of relief that we were summoned to the steps of St Paul’s whilst some photographer Johnnie attempted to capture a couple of daguerreotypes of the assembled throng. We tossed our headwear aloft (not that aloft in my case, conscious as I was of the inopportunity of mislaying the work of Messrs Locke & Co) and then advanced to our steeds. The Tweed Run had begun!

Spring has sprung you might say. Why, only last week I instructed my man Ball to lower the roof on the Alvis – a frightfully fine motor car I might add – for a tootle down to the coast. Whilst purchasing the picnic at Fortnum’s, he noticed an unusual abundance of enthusiastic young whippersnappers, no doubt there to pick up provisions for this year’s Tweed Run.

“Dash and blast”, I complained. “Why ever didn’t you remind me? You terrible fool, Ball!”

“Sir, if I may explain. I took the liberty of registering your entry myself. Quite a popular event I must say. But I got in there in the nick of time.”

“Ball, you are a most extraordinary chap. But wait – what am I going to wear? Those chaps at Huntsman are speedy blighters, but there’s surely no time…?”

“Indeed sir. I troubled Mr Smith, but regrettably they couldn’t squeeze you in, so I have laundered and pressed the ensemble that you sported in last year’s edition. The Connolly jacket, tweed plus fours, silk waistcoat, green cravat, and the red and purple socks from New & Lingwood. A most fetching outfit I must say…”

“Excellent!” He really is a clever chap. “I assume you’ve polished my flying goggles too?”

“Sir, no. I deemed them unsuitable, and returned them to Harrods. They did not become you.”

“What absolute rot Ball! Damn it man.”

“As you say, sir. Now, will you be using the Colnago as you did last time?”

“Ha ha!” I exclaimed! “No Ball, I will not be using the Colnago. Freddie Spalding has been a decent sort and offered me his Dursley-Pedersen. He’s leaving it to me in his will, what. Anyway, it’s all prepared. 1899, or thereabouts. Quite a machine Ball!”

“The Colnago would be my preference sir, but as you are. May I suggest a lavish application of…”

“Chamois cream? Indeed Ball. I am not altogether familiar with the Dursley’s saddle, and I think it would be a worthwhile precaution.”

“Chain oil, sir. Penetrative lubrication…”

“Oh Ball, whatever are you on about,” I said. “Right, I will finish this tea and then get dressed this instant. Prepare the Dursley, and point it in the direction of Paternoster Square!”

“Very good, sir.”

(With apologies to P. G. Wodehouse…)

Pereira
Weight Weenies

Up until this winter my cold weather riding kit was a bit of a hodgepodge, with jerseys of various thicknesses and arm lengths usually combined in assorted configurations depending on projected temperatures and wind conditions. I must also declare that I spent a couple of winters dressed in the decidedly non-pro Gore paclite jacket / black tights combination which, though at least warm, is possibly about as punter as it gets. Not least because, despite claims concerning breathability, as soon as you hit a hill at pace you rapidly start sweltering. The fact that you also tend to look like a twat, with the billowing jacket blown up like a balloon (either because of the ingress of air or the outward pressure of flab) and skinny black lycra legs poking out underneath like some sort of lolly from hell.

No, looking pro and riding hard in winter is all about softshells and / or decent jerseys. (It’s also about beards too…) My plan for the 2010 / 2011 winter season was to get hold of the much lauded RaphaSoftshell. This elegant, well-tailored offering is about the smartest piece of cycling clothing in production, and certainly the only item of such clothing that appears to excite non-cyclists as much as the dedicated peletonese. It’s the kind of jacket that encourages you to take up cycling just so you can wear it every Sunday…

It’s also very expensive. Which is why I ended up buying something else…

Since discovering Craft a few months back, I’ve been really impressed with their range of kit. Quite a bit more tech looking than Rapha, and as such not quite so easily transferrable to post-ride pub wear, but then again – how often do I end up in the pub after a long winter ride? The quality is really impressive, and the cut is perfect when in the on bike position.

The jacket is warm whilst not being bulky, and decently windproof. Sleeves are long, the fit is slim and it feels a world away from more old school baggier winter jackets. I’ve worn it in the rain, and it took a while for the water to penetrate. I wouldn’t rely on it during a downpour, but I think it would do pretty well during prolonged drizzle, and I would certainly prefer it to a full-on waterproof unless the latter was really necessary. Full marks.

The Craft jacket was delivered in record time by the guys at Always Riding, who also supplied a very smart grey merino wool buff in grey. This has been a welcome addition to most of my recent rides. I’ve marginally overheated when riding at speed – it’s surprising the difference that the buff makes. It functions with the Craft jacket rather like a heat-loss regulator, preventing cold air entering at the neckline. I’ve not transformed it into a balaclava style affair yet – it hasn’t really been cold enough for that recently.

I picked up a new pair of overshoes too, also by Craft. Previous incarnations (Endura, Pearl Izumi and most recently Nike) had fallen apart more quickly that they really should have. The Craft ones though seem to be overbuilt in various areas, with heavy reinforcement around the toe and heel area. They are warm too, and I’m delighted with them so far.

I had intended to invest in a new pair of winter tights, but my trusty Endura ones are still going ok, and despite not featuring the most up-to-date windproofing and water resistance, the think roubaix fabric is still warm and comfortable enough for me.

I’m riding a 200km Audax on Wednesday and the forecast isn’t fantastic – should be a decent test for all the new kit…

Rapha
Craft
Always Riding

Or not. The image above beautifully sums up the fact that throwing loads of money at a bike won’t suddenly turn you into a cycling style icon. Not only does Lord Sugar look like a hairy old troll dressed as a court jester, he is standing next to the very definition of a midlife crisis bike.

We are talking wheels today, so what is wrong with the examples Lord Sugar is rocking? Well, they are Zipp clinchers. I hate Zipp clinchers. They are heavy. They look crude. They’re just not sexy. They’re just like those original Mavic Cosmic Carbones that were basically an aluminum rim with a carbon aero fairing. I hated them too. Mainly because they weren’t the real deal. Those Zipps probably ride well. I bet they’re stiff, and they probably brake pretty hard. But I wouldn’t touch them with a barge pole.

Fancy wheels are, for 95% of us, an expensive irrelevance. They’re probably more relevant to those of us who time trial, but unless you’re pushing the low 20s for a 10 mile or sub hour for the 25, I reckon your money is better spend on sorting your position, coaching, and training harder. On your standard road bike, they are just an unnecessary luxury.

But unnecessary luxuries are what often makes life worth living. The beuatiful leather bag my girlfriend bought be from the Dover Street Market sale for example. Now I could get the train to London and spend the day carrying my bits and bobs from meeting to meeting in a Sainsburys plastic bag. Tough, resilient, capacious. But also ugly and uncomfortable. I put my things in the Comme des Garcons number? Instantly my day gets better.

Lets face it – having and using tasty kit makes you feel good. The exception that proves the rule is the satisfaction of hammering it past someone on a bike (preferably someone like Lord Sugar) that clearly cost a fortune whilst you yourself are on something ancient / knackered / extremely unfashionable. My old, paint-stripped Cannondale was such a bike – perfect for pasting some AmEx gold card sporting weekend warrior. Alas, when I swapped that frame for a Litespeed (albeit a second hand Tuscany) I immediately had to watch out for fast guys on 20 year old 12 speeds. This phenomenon will be crucially important to me when my English arrives. Despite the fact that my training is supposed to be focused on certain key events this season, the reality is that I will be training to ensure that no-one overtakes me on that bike. Ever. The point at which the owner of a fancy bike decides that being overtaken is not such a big deal is, quite possibly, the most tragic point in their riding career. A point of no return. A veritable nexus, where all dignity dissolves, and they find themselves taking all their mirrors down…

Anyway. Back to wheels. Fancy wheels are, for me, an exercise in aesthetic statement making. Light weight, stiffness, ride quality and longevity are of course considerations too, but they are of less interest.

So, first up we have Zipp. Tasty looking wheels, as long as they’re tubulars. I wouldn’t mind a pair of 303s on my English, but they’re getting fairly ubiquitous on the roads (as far as fancy wheels are concerned anyway), especially when you get nearer London. There is also the triathlon connection to bear in mind. Not something that particular bothers me, but some folk have an issue with anything that looks like it should be bearing the weight of a dripping bikini-wearing bloke with numbers drawn all over him.

Corima. I was never particularly fond of Corima in days gone by. Rather like Spinergy, I thought the four spoke wheel not quite as appealing visually as the trispoke. I have relented somewhat as of late, and indeed recently purchased a Corima back wheel for Project Lo Pro. This decision was based on my desire to maintain something of a late 80s / early 90s look with the bike. The wheel in question was a bargain buy on eBay, and should lend the machine a suitably vintage speed machine look. I don’t think I would put such a wheel on the English though – it could start to look too much like something this NYC uber commuter might ride.

Next up we have, for many, the ultimate choice. The CarbonSports Lightweght. As German as Jan Ullrich, wearing lederhosen, drinking beer and anticipating his next sausage.

The Lightwheel wheel system is pretty awesome. Light as a feather, stiff as corpse, with stealthy all-carbon good looks. Also fiendishly expensive. I’d have a pair. Dunno about the clinchers though, and there’s the rub. With the ultimate wheels, you’d need to be rocking tubs I reckon. Fancy tubs at that – either FMB Records or Veloflex Extremes. The more money you spend the more deliciously impractical your ride should be. So Lightweights for me would always be the icing on the cake – for when I’ve got my training wheels, nice summer ride / race wheels, and then have enough cash to blow on something for really special occasions. In the meantime I leave you with Jan riding his Lightweight rings around Mayo-naise and Lance on the way to another not quite really special occasion.

Now, Madfiber is a new(ish) kid on the block, and a company I have been paying more and more attention to as of late. Their wheel design is spectacular and exudes a similar weapons grade aerospace feel to the Lightweights. These wheels look mean and fast. They are apparently planning to bring out a set of clincher versions before too long, but I must admit that I’d be pretty keen to pimp the English with a set of the tubular versions. Again, very tasty…

Next, Enve (previously Edge Composites). The connoisseurs choice perhaps. These are Rob’s favoured high end rim, and I do like the idea of having him build the entire bike, wheels too. Perhaps with these Enve 45 clincher rims built onto Extralite or Alchemy hubs. Fiendishly light, nicely aero, and exuding deliciousness.

Last but not least, the local option. I’ve already been in touch with the guys at Strada about some carbon-rimmed wheels for my new Whyte hardtail. They are best known for their road wheels though, and have various options including these lovely 50mm carbon rimmed lovelies. Seriously tempting.

I have a few months yet before I have to make my mind up. I will almost certainly get Rob to build up a pair of training wheels for the bike – probably Kinlin rims on Alchemy hubs – which will be more than adequate to be getting on with. Ahhh, this is so much fun…

(Thanks for Bikesnob NYC for drawing attention to the uber commuter above.)