Exceedingly Good Writing

On the face of it Competitive Cyclist would appear to be just another one of many box-shifting big-brand evangelists with a pretty website, replete with all the 'right' logos to sell bikes. And a US one at that, which for an unrepentant Europhile makes me immediately assume that they really just don't understand racing in Europe, or anything that surrounds it. New kids on the block, surely, with a modus operandi of uninspiring lip service to the marketing departments of the various product manufacturers in their line up (for the most part, read 'copy-and-paste' from the latest press release). Next, simply pile the kit high and sell it, well, not that cheaply at all. And because it's online, you can't even get to fettle the stuff before you buy it. It's the price we pay for modernity, right?

So, after that uncharacteristic xenophobic sleight, I'm suitably embarrassed to admit that once I'd bothered to have a scratch beneath the glossy surface, I've been pleasantly delighted to find some really insightful English-language journalism on the CC pages, much better than I've ever seen on equivalent UK cycling retailer sites who might claim a stronger bond with the European scene, or at least some kind of residual kinship. Of course I'm aware that CC's writing is just part of a very persuasive marketing strategy to get me to buy into their brand, clever Roy Brooks prose to differentiate them from their rivals in very competitive market. If nothing else, I'm finding reading articles on their site an extremely enjoyable experience, which, surely is the whole point: keep me on there long enough, and who knows? I might buy something from them - and feel good about it too. It's refreshing to read something intelligent like this example, from the Willier Triestina frames page, which jibes nicely with my own opinion, and fears, on where bike companies are going within the industry, and by extrapolation, the sport itself:

The 21st Century has not been kind to the titans of Italian bicycle manufacturing. Brands that were iconic from the Gimondi era to Saronni, then from Saronni to Argentin, then from Argentin to Bartoli -- sadly, many have faded from consequence. The forces of globalization and the expectations of a new generation of cyclists (more keen on performance, less so on romance) have definitively re-set the pecking order. Prestige, desirability, and the very viability of countless Italian companies bear little resemblance to the market landscape of the 90's. No category of Italian goods has been spared: Choices are narrower than ever before for wheels, tires, bars stems, and most of all framesets.

This indictment implies that today, we - the public, the market - are no longer bothered about heritage, provenance, artistry or individuality, in a similar way that we abandoned local shops in favour of out-of-town hypermarkets and shopping malls because we were convinced that they were somehow better. Isn't it also this type of warped business logic that's responsible for the demise of 'unprofitable' classic European races like the Grand Prix des Nations, Midi Libre, and the near-loss of Paris-Nice, to name only a few? Given the trend, ultimately it's possible that the very essence of what cycling surely is, as embodied in races like these, will be diluted and lost, replaced by a dismal F1-style circus, where anonymous, indistinguishable riders, reduced to pedalling billboards in helmets and shades (there's a whole further post on that topic), will compete in cycling devoid of any sense of history and romance, of what those passionate about wine might term terroir. In its place, bite-sized consumer-friendly circuit events, requiring half-time cheer-leader style product-placement 'entertainment' to keep the fans supposedly engaged. Most of these will simply be the disinterested, yet grateful, recipients of 'corporate hospitality', for sure. Not a cheery thought. Contrex swallowed by Coke, Merlin Plage just done by Nike, Radioshack replacing Renault, Scott for Scapin. You get the picture.

It's not often that you'll finding quality writing on a site whose ultimate goal is to simply sell you stuff. I'm enthused how CC's writing succinctly sums up much of what Rohan Dubash and I have sadly witnessed and discussed over the last few years. We both love cycling, and sure, we're no doubt emotionally attached to the modern bikes we've decided to purchase, but we're certainly more that just nostalgic for the past. As the CC blog points out elsewhere, we're certainly 'unaddicted to sentimentality'. Rohan has nevertheless described the bike industry he works in today as being predominantly uninspiring and bland, devoid of emotion, with little to significantly differentiate between brands. Is this a failure of the manufacturers, removing the vital DNA from their products by, for example, outsourcing manufacture to the Far East, leaving marketing-types nothing to go on to except to enthuse over over a new logo, some fancy graphics or pointless design innovations - neigh, 'systems' - described with ridiculous TL and FLAs, with graphic applications to remind you as such? Once the very soul has been removed from a product - and that's the terroir argument again - it must be impossible to engender excitement and brand loyalty, because there's simply no credible backstory to be told. I particularly like this article about Franco bikes on CC's superbly written company blog, the Service Course, which goes some way to describing how I feel, and indeed, gives a ray of hope for the future:

Franco is a company you should get to know. Given the ever-growing and ever-darker dual shadows of Specialized and Trek, their business model is a logical next step within the bike industry. What Franco is doing has already been successfully done in fashion, in hotels, in restaurants and in other verticals: When the preponderance of product choices are both homogenous and broadly available, even if these choices are of reasonable quality and economic value, a certain segment of customers will make buying decisions based on emotional affinity instead.

So, just as we woke up and realised that there was a joy in returning to small, local, independent retailers, how we embraced the Slow Food movement and rediscovered the importance of where our food comes from and how it tastes, I sincerely hope that it's not too late for something similar to happen within cycling. Maybe the trend for retro clothing pioneered by Rapha, hand-built steel frames with reworked lugs, fork crowns and chrome and equipped with NOS components and the popularity of events like L'Eroica constitute a positive sign.

Day Seven: Caromb to Carry-le-Rouet, via Le Mont Ventoux, 175km

No sooner had I fallen into an exhausted sleep than it was time to get up again. It was going to be a long day for sure, so we'd arranged an early start ... although even a late start would still have felt too early for me. Bleary eyes, coffee, no real breakfast that I remember, so it'd be a putrid diet of energy bars and sickly-sweet, sticky carbo drink until lunch. Oh, for a full English this morning, the accused's last meal: take him down. I'd heard mutterings that the weather was going to be thundery and stormy after the previous day's canicule, and had gone to bed harbouring a secret hope that perhaps we wouldn't have to ride the mountain this morning. Weird, to come all this way, and have this desire not to ride what was the underlying reason for coming. Cycling really can be so hard and unforgiving at times though - you're supposed to welcome the pain like an old friend - making the whole experience a distinctly retrospective pleasure. It's virtually impossible to really enjoy the climb as it happens - certainly if you're not going well - but if you do the ride and get through it, you know you're gonna feel brilliant, flooded with mix of endorphins and pride. 'Better than sex', as Kingy has described it in the past (it does make me wonder if he's doing it - sex - right though). I know what he means because I know that feeling, but clearly sometimes I'm simply not ashamed enough to entertain the idea of not riding, instead to stand in civvies, self-pitying and full of lame excuses, to chat with the others as they clip in and ride off towards two hours of torture, poor lambs. There's also my very personal malaise of sometimes simply not seizing the moment too, especially when I can be centre-stage doing something easy like 'entertaining' and there's alcohol involved. We didn't even leave the bar in Les Deux Alpes in July 1998 when outside - just 200 short metres down the rain-sodden road - Pantani won in the cold and wet, an exploit that will always be remembered. Sure, inside was warm and dry, the atmosphere was excellent and the beers had been flowing since lunchtime, yet deep down there is an obvious regret. Of course I tell people 'I was there', but in reality I missed the opportunity to witness one of the Italian's - and cycling's - greatest moments up close, for real, instead of simply on a TV screen like everyone else.

I've always been afflicted by this strange attitude, almost as if not riding the climb, or not seeing the stage and regretting it makes just as interesting a story as if I'd actually done it.



The sky was red - red sky in the morning, sailor (or shepherd) take warning - and it was making me apprehensive. I knew this was going to be tough, but this time there was logistically no way of getting out of it. Bouyed by the conviction that I'd surely 'ridden myself in', to an extent, over the previous six days, I made an effort to snap out of it. The first time up the mountain in 1989 was purgatory because of my back, 2000 was better for no apparent reason, certainly not anything to do with training, so what would it be like this time out, with 20 years of bodily wear and tear? I'd had niggling neck and shoulder ache throughout the ride so far - until now I'd never really bothered with a helmet which I now thought was the possible cause, but being married brings certain responsibilities - but nothing unbearable like the back pain I'd had in the past. We set off, briskly, my heart and head not really in it yet: tired, finding the pace hard already, where Jamesy seemed to be storming off before we'd even hit Bédoin. I already felt disheartened that his actions implied that he didn't think it would be something special to ride up together on this 20th anniversary, and that he'd put his narrow ambition aside and wait, at least for once. I've always been the emotional, sentimental one in the relationship, the antithesis of his more stoical attitude which would often drive me to vocalise feelings I should really keep to myself. It has been a pillar of our friendship for years, and this trip would be no different. We're a real-life embodiment of 'The Odd Couple', except we aren't often playing for laughs. It'd be funny to watch our behaviour through a hidden, candid camera though, I'm sure. How I'd cringe.

Even the first few kilometres of the D974 before Saint-Estève, where I knew the gradient cranks up to 10% or more, seemed to be ridden on heavy, momentum-sapping tarmac. You'd look around you into the vineyards around Sainte-Colombe and Les Baux and feel that you weren't even on the climb proper yet, that this was just false-flat, and already you were struggling. OK, Jamesy was gone, but the good news was that my back was OK to this point. A positive sign. Dave was not far behind, Iain, Trev and Andy likewise, whilst Paul and Les had decided - sagely - that perhaps riding the climb again, having done it around 30 times between them, was just not worth it this time out. We'd agreed that the original route was also too ambitious. Instead of riding through Jean de Florette villages like Gourdes and Loumarin and the vicious climbs to get to them, we'd head west and take the flatter route back through Carpentras, Cavaillon, Eyguieres and cut down the west side of the Etang de Berre through Istres, bypass central Martigues and along the wonderful winding pine-scented Mediterranean coastal roads to Carry-le-Rouet. And so Paul and Les would set off later for the Med, whilst the rest of us took on Le Géant de Provence.


Jamesy pushing it on the steep lower slopes of the shaded forest section - the first 15km from the official start in Bédoin.


Mike follows Dave, as ever time-trialling his way to the top; Mike searching to finally ditch that bloody helmet.

Jamesy was gone, on his personal mission to get revenge on the mountain for the hours of training and sacrifice he'd put in to the detriment of his family. See - I don't really begrudge him his focus; it's no doubt rooted in envy. Dave and I seemed to be well matched for pace through the forest, whilst behind Trev, Iain and Andy followed at varying distances. Fortunately the bad weather failed to materialise, and the lower temperature was undoubtedly doing us a favour. I'd oscillate between feeling great, moving along quite swiftly, then suddenly paying the price for the enthusiasm and having to ease up. As a result we all came into Chalet Reynard at different times, and left for the summit accordingly. Once again, Jamesy dashed off - we wouldn't be repeating the camaraderie of 1989 - and it was here that Trev decided to get into running kit and do the final 7km on foot with Graham, while Iain, his damaged arm giving him grief, turned back for Caromb to rendez-vous with Paul and Les on their more leisurely - and gastronomic - ride to Carry-le-Rouet.


First food of the day for me at Chalet Reynard, or at least it felt like it. Left to right: Dave, Mike James, me, Andy. Iain and Trev still to arrive.

I found the upper exposed sections of the climb easier than I remembered, and approaching the summit - the Simpson Memorial - got terribly emotional. Life & death. My dad, and mum. Time passing by so quickly, and needing to achieve something worthwhile in your alloted stint here, in the sometimes-fragile carapace that is your body. My wife. Marco Pantani, che poverino, of course. I stumbled across Jamesy, also a bit puffy-eyed, who'd been feeling similar, but for his own reasons. He'd already 'summited', to use an American turn of phrase that I really dislike (so why use it here?), and had come back down ... to meet me perhaps? Dunno, but it would be nice to think so. We all rode to the top, fannied around for a while for photos, souvenirs, ice cream and staring at the vast expanse of cloud-covered Provence way below us.

Jamesy still pushing it, and looking good. He really should get a black Assos jersey to match the shorts and hat though, or maybe a first item of Rapha gear for the wardrobe ... I've heard the banks have started lending again.


We're well above the clouds at this altitude, on the final 7-kilometre limestone section that gives the 'Bald Mountain' its name. Me, focused, the emotion building.

Dave and Andy at the same point nearing the summit, just behind me.

Twenty years on from our first time. Thoughtfully there are steps up to the Simpson Memorial now, obviously to cater for ageing bikies like me and Mike.


Heroes. And just for one day.

1912 metres in the sky, at the summit of La Montagne Chauve, ready to go down in 20 minutes what we've just taken two hours to come up.

The descent was all too swift - worries about the structural integrity of the frame still lingering - and the remainder of the ride consisting of mostly flat and rolling roads at the head of some serious-looking thunder clouds. I have little memory of it, other than taking a wrong turning for the first time on the trip (had Steve and Graham finally got a little complacent?), a welcome lunch in L'Isle-sur-la-Sourge just at the right time, a promised beer-stop in Martigues never materialising - now that really was hard to take - and the final fast run-in to Carry. Predictably these last few kilometres saw Jamesy and me 'clip off the front of the group' and where, of course, he jumped me to take the final chequered flag of the trip, the bastard. It was all his idea after all, so in all fairness I suppose he had to take the honours.

Trev, changed and back on the bike, whilst Mike and I follow on the way south on the outskirts of L'Isle-sur-la-Sorgue.


I knew this would happen, but short of running him off the road still couldn't do anything to stop it.


By engaging in this act of gratuitous, casual racism redolant of 1970s British comedy sitcoms, we were hoping to get arrested and then repatriated courtesy of the French State, and so save on our Easyjet airfare. Mais non. Where are les flics when you need them, eh?

Yes indeed, France, travelled by bike, from Coast to Coast. A Travers La France.

The Bike is Ready (But I'm Not)

Many thanks to my old mate Rohan at Sigma Sport for transforming my C40 from the heap of crud I'd let it become (Boo! Shame! Stone him!) and back into the beautiful machine it was supposed to be. The poor thing has been banished to my loft for the past three years after a dismal performance on it at La Marmotte: I only managed to haul my fat arse and creaking back to the top of the Croix de Fer before despondantly turning round, descending back to Bourg d'Oisans and getting pissed in the sun over steak-frites in a (rather splendid) bar. Mmmm - not something you'd expect to read on a blog all about the love of cycling is it, eh?

I'd done the RAID Pyreneen the year before that, and was riding the best I've ever been since my early 20s. I'd trained well through the winter, done lots of flexibility work, and the ride was one that made me fall in love with the bike all over again. I felt really good about myself, as if I'd finally matched the constant unfair demands I put on myself to be that fit and to actually make use of some of the ability I believe I do have, but more often than not have wasted. I talk the talk, but walking's always been a bit of an issue.

So, it's been hidden away because I felt I somehow didn't deserve to ride such a bike. All my training rides have been on my deathly-dull burgundy Look KG176, which is more a shade of brown in a certain light, appropriately. The lack of training I did for the Marmotte back then has been duly replicated this time round too, but then at least there's the opportunity here to hopefully 'ride myself in' with the longer, flatter initial stages. That's what I'm hoping anyway.

The bike looks awesome IMHO. Blue Colnago grip tape has been swapped for crisp white Deda tape, and it really brings the whole bike up a notch - there's much unpainted carbon weave around, and the bike was much too dark, even if black is currently in vogue. Rohan cleaned it all up, and finally cut the fork steerer to length. I'd been riding around with a 1" Martello Tower atop the Deda stem despite considering myself a perfectionist on a bike, so clearly my standards have been slipping with age. Now it's 10mm of carbon spacer below, 5mm above to give us a bit of play if needed, but more importantly to give the stem a larger area of steerer to clamp onto.



Long and low position. 14cm Deda Newton stem to accommodate my Mr Tickle arms.



First-generation Record rear mech, and look at those dinner-plate sprockts: 13-29 Chorus, and I'm sure I'm gonna need it on the Ventoux. I can't believe that Jamesy and I rode up there in '89 with 53-39 rings and 7-speed Maillard screw-on blocks, probably robbed off our cyclo-cross bikes for the trip. Not that the gearing was wrong, but just so unsophisticated.

Note the gear the bike is in, as chosen on all bike adverts ever produced: 53 x 12. I don't think I've ever used it.

It's well documented that Rohan's a perfectionist. Tape installed in 10 minutes, finished not with the usual colour-coded insulation tape which invariably stretches, comes unstuck, leaves gummy adhesive everywhere, but instead painstakingly cut to shape and superglued to give the cleanest of finishes.

Ubiquitous shot of that head badge. What is it about Italian bikes? Or cars? Or scooters? Or food? Mama mia, why aren't we riding across Italy for goodness sake? Santa Patata!

One of the original Record carbon chainsets: saw it, wanted it, haemorrhaged £550 for it. Aluminium exo-skeleton, hand-wrapped in carbon fibre. Beautiful, and apparently made by Zipp... Water bottles to match the frame's NL30 paint scheme sourced from the US.

We swapped my light-blue Michelin Pro-Race for something that better fits this Italian classic. I'd hurriedly and reluctantly had to change my knackered blue CX twin treads at La Marmotte for them (further proof of a lack of preparation) as they were all I could get after the 90-minute queue in the only bike shop in Bourg where the hassled machanic really didn't appreciate my asking him to fit them. No wonder the sidewalls came back covered in black greasy fingerprints, him blowing out his cheeks to produce the classic French 'boff', in true je m'en foutiste tradition. It was just a further item on the list of excuses for packing. French tyres on an Italian bike is verging on sacrilege, and Ro had a small, until-now secret, stash of these retro-looking CX with exposed amber cotton sidewalls that just seem to fit the era of the machine perfectly. I love the way the Italian tricolour is used in the 'V' of Vittoria, and that the tyre has only a reasonable amount of pointless technical TLA/FLA guff printed on the side.

I've tried and failed here to replicate the pant-wettingly cool ads that used to appear in Winning Magazine for Ten Speed Drive Imports, if you ever remember them: always splendid 3/4 shots of the bike - Guerciotti, De Rosa, Somec, Tommasini - inevitably kitted out with the must-have gruppo and components of the time: Camapag C Record, Colbaltos, Almarc leather handlebar covering, 3T Record 84 black stem, San Marco Rolls and more pantographed kit than even a fetishist like Rohan or myself could dream of. Well, maybe not

Here's hoping the weather stays good in France, or those sidewalls are gonna quickly look like sh*te. And here's hoping even more that the long miles and reasonable pace of the ride allow my body to adapt and remember what it's actually like to ride a bike - and enjoy it.