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…)

The text accompanying the image reads as follows:

October 12 2008
17th NHRA California Hot Rod Reunion
Auto Club Famoso Raceway , Bakersfield

My dad got me into racing. Now I’m here in the Californian desert with a friend of his, dragster legend Bob Muravez, aka Floyd Lippencott Jr. Night has fallen and the temperature has dropped to single figures. There are dozens of drag cars lining up along the length of the Auto Club Famoso Raceway. White hydrogen flames are jetting out of exhaust headers. The air is thick with the acrid scent of nitro, and the noise is insane. This is the cacklefest.

Racing is racing, but the cacklefest is the heartbeat of the Hot Rod Reunion. There’s a whole bunch of memories getting stirred up by the sights and sounds and smells. A lot of the guys watching were there the first time around. For them, these cars are like old friends, and not all the tears shed can be blamed on the nitro fumes.

For the rest of us, experiencing it all for the first time, it’s no less visceral. Your senses are blasted, and that sensation lingers long after the last car falls silent. You don’t forget the cacklefest in a hurry. They did it for love, so they say, and that’s plain to see.

NHRA
Auto Club Famoso Raceway
Mensfile

Despite the absolutely unexceptional nature of my time trial career (which could be succinctly summed up as sporadic, unprepared and underwhelming) I have always hankered over a dedicated time trial bike. Unlike a conventional road bike (which has quite a variety of qualities expected of it), there is definitely something particularly beguiling about a machine conceived with one thing in mind – absolute speed. Now, when some bloke comes whizzing past me on a piece of sculpted carbon, over-pressured Chrono Evos rumbling like thunder, tucked into a ludicrously hunched position, topped off with a spaceman helmet and a skinsuit that ought to carry an 18 certificate for the benefit of spectators, I am sensible enough to realise that the reason he is going faster than me is entirely down a combination of his heinous training schedule and probably plenty of natural talent. The advantages that his equipment bestows are secondary to his physical preperation, and only really become significant when he is going proper fast. Only a complete imbecile (or Alan Sugar – although that distinction might not actually be necessary) would go out and buy a fully fledged time trial machine, replete with carbon wheels and all the other associated aerodynamic paraphernalia unless he had already proved himself in some way against the clock.

Luckily, I have proved myself against the clock. I have proved that I am average. Possibly below average. But proven nonetheless. So, onto the next step. Some months ago I came across a site called Fixedwheel which details all sorts of fixed gear time trialling endeavours, along with gear inches vs RPM vs speed tables to facilitate gearing decisions and pedalling strategies. There are also plenty of tales of fixed gear hill-related derring-do that make my knees creak just at the thought.

Anyway, the idea of a fixed gear TT bike was appealing both in terms of simplicity and budget. As such, when I recently discovered an attractive looking Brian Rourke lo pro frame and forks on eBay it was time to initiate Project : Lo Pro.

The frame had been custom built for a rider of pretty much the same stature as the one I enjoy (anthopometric data of Vitruvian perfection I should imagine) from Reynolds 653 tubing. I am led to believe that this was a mixed tube set, using some 753 (for the stays) and 653 main tubes, with 531 for the forks. The frame features the delightfully detailed wrap-around seat stays (visible in the second image) and also horizontal dropouts that will allow it to be run fixed without too much complication. As far as the materials are concerned, I am not an aficionado of Reynolds and have absolutely no idea what to expect, other than (hopefully) a fairly comfortable ride. I think the frame had enjoyed a bright blue 80s style paint job originally, but the vendor had had the machine blasted and then powdercoated the rather attractive grey / blue visible in the images here.

I now wish he hadn’t, because one of my original specifications for Project : Lo Pro was that the bike should be stealthy. It would have been great fun to embark on a fluorescent retro aesthetic – fluorescent yellow to pink to blue graduated spray job, fluoro cable outers, original Profile tri-bars with bright pink bar tape, maybe a Look Ergo stem, white Turbo saddle, white Specialized Tri Spokes. You dig. But while that would be a magnificently enjoyable exercise in questionable taste, it would inevitably draw far too much attention to me, and I would prefer to remain rather more anonymous if it’s all the same to you.

So, you see the bike mocked up in its current state sitting upon a trusty pair of Rolf Vector Pros. Not for long though. Say what you want (but I’m not listening) – that frame is going for a respray. When it returns, it will be 100% weapons grade stealth black. Matt or satin, I’m not quite sure yet. The rear wheel will disappear and in its place will be a Corima 4 spoke carbon track wheel (another eBay acquisition). The forks will be held in place by a Tange Levin LV1500 NJS headset. Instead of going retro on the aero setup, I think I’ll use a Profile quill to 1 1/8th Aheadset converter, and then stick some modern aerobars on top.

At the other end, I think I might pilfer the Easton carbon seatpost from my Litespeed (which has always deserved a titanium seatpost anyway) and, in a nod to tradition, attach an original black Flite saddle. The front wheel will remain, but probably shod in a black tyre instead of the red Tufo S3 that I must have bought on a particularly dull day. I’m not sure about cranks yet – maybe a Miche set with a 50 tooth chainring?

Project : Lo Pro certainly promises to be entertaining though, and luckily there are some months yet before I have the chance to suffer the indignity of being overtaken astride this particular stealth machine.