French Revolutions

to pop down the shops for a tin of elbow grease, I
was scathingly informed that the ZR3000, as well as being last year’s model and
therefore on a competitive par with a swingbin full of fag-ends and used
teabags, was risibly inappropriate for my task. The lugs, whatever and wherever
they might be, would snap clean through as soon as I attached panniers, and actually
the pannier rack wouldn’t fit anyway, and in any case only a really major
prannet would ever use panniers — and listen to this, Dave, there’s a bloke
here reckons he’s doing the Tour de France, right, and he doesn’t even know if
his bike’s got Presta valves or Schraders.
    It was Martin Warren, perhaps mindful
of the extraordinary number of wankers I would be encountering, who had
suggested I talk to Richard Hallett, technical editor of Cycling Weekly, a man apparently much sought after for his rare ability to offer advice on
clothing and equipment without snorting in helpless derision. I hadn’t really
wanted to trouble him, but being told by two awful men in a shop on the Fulham Road that I didn’t walk like a cyclist was the last straw and I gave the man Hallett
a call. He listened patiently while I explained my quest, then, rather sharply,
asked his only question.
    ‘Are you fat at all?’
    The fact that I am not had, in all
honesty, been my sole source of solace while surveying the library of
cycling-related literature I was steadily building up. The big sprinters might
be bollardthighed bruisers, but the climbers — those whose bikes skipped
lightly up the terrible bare slopes of Ventoux and the Izoard — were often
frail-looking and pigeon-chested in a way I could cheerfully relate to. In
fact, ludicrous as it may sound, in more expansive moments I had allowed myself
to entertain fantasies, based on the recurrent assertion that ‘good climbers
are born, not made’, that even without preparation I might belatedly emerge as
an Alpine specialist of some note.
    ‘No,’ I replied, making the most of a
scarce opportunity to express pride. (Later I wondered how he would have
reacted if I’d said, ‘Why, yes, I am! I’m a great big lardy pie-man!’)
    ‘Well, you probably won’t die then.
Now let’s talk kit.’
    If I had wanted answers like ‘Well,
it depends what you’re looking for’, Richard Hallett would not have been the
man to ask. I did not know what I was looking for; I wanted to be told. Richard
was more of a ‘Selle Italia Turbomatic 3; Michelin Axial Pro 25Cs; Shimano
SH-M036’ kind of guy, and as such deserves my heartfelt gratitude. Saddle,
shoes, tyres, type of lock, tools and many of the other issues I had failed to
consider were resolved in a brief series of staccato sentences. ‘... Then
you’ll need to take four inner tubes, one spare outer casing, hex keys, three
pairs of bib shorts, two bottle cages... oh, and plenty of Savlon.’
    ‘For when I fall off?’
    ‘No. Well, yes, but not mainly. Stops
boils and infections. Need to apply it every morning to anywhere that’s in
contact with the saddle. Do you know where your perineum is?’
    He paused, perhaps sensing that with
this phrase our conversation had moved into unacceptable territory. But perhaps
not. ‘Smear it all over your arse and bollocks, basically.’
    I’m sorry, Mr Hallett, but there is
nothing basic about smearing anything all over your arse and bollocks. I had a
wretched premonition of sitting naked on a hotel bidet, morosely anointing my
loins like a husband-to-be on a one-man stag night.
    ‘It’s just a fact. Your bollocks will
sweat; infection will set in.’ Richard Hallett was now sounding like a
forthright sergeant major giving his platoon a lecture on the perils of
consorting with the local girls. Then, drifting briefly out of character, he
added in an odd, dreamy voice, ‘So, yeah... really slather it on.’
    A succession of delivery men arrived
at my door over the days ahead, bringing Ortlieb panniers, Parrot waterproof
clothing, wraparound Oakley shades and other equipment intended to make it look
as if I knew what I was doing. To atone for this, I had eschewed a
state-of-the-art Tour jersey for a monochrome Peugeot one of archaic design,
similar to those worn both by the young Eddy Merckx and Tom Simpson. If it
hadn’t been for the aggressively synthetic composition — ‘to wick away the
sweat’, said the website I ordered it from — I could have grown to love it,
certainly more so than the lewdly comic Lycra