Contre La Montre

Should Hielin coo be added to the list of banned substances?

Forget Wiggins or Froome or Cavendish. Alberto Contador is probably the most gifted cyclist of his generation. The problem is he failed a dope test and served a suspension. He cheated.

He has served his ban and is now back racing, indeed he won the Vuelta (Tour of Spain) immediately on his return. There will almost certainly be further grand tour victories (he is favourite for this years TdF). But his significant past achievements and his undoubted future ones will forever be tainted by suspicion. Rather than glorying in his future victories we will forever be asking and wondering what he was on when he won this or that race.

There is a culture of omerta in the peleton. Even after you have been caught- bang to rights, there are still denials and stories as why you failed a drugs test and how it’s not your fault. An admission of guilt is rare. Like children caught red handed they trot out excuses, however implausible.

“Honest mister, A big boy done it and ran away” is the refrain.

Fans show what the think of 'El Pistelero'

Oor Alberto? Well if he is to be believed, he ate a particularly large steak sandwich one evening during the 2011 tour. The morning after he failed a drugs test. The steak was specially sourced from his native Spain and delivered by a pal, driving over the Pyrenees. Apparently it was the cow had been taking a performance enhancing drug, which had then been transferred into Contatdors innocent body. Never mind that those drugs are banned for use in cattle. Never mind that despite getting the meat specially sourced, he wasn’t able to name the shop where it came from. Never mind that in order to get that concentration of Clenbuterol from a cow, he would have had to eat just about the whole bloody cow and never mind that his blood also contained high levels of plastic (a sign of blood doping). Presumably the cow had been experimenting with transfusing its own blood too. They breed smart cows in Spain, you see. It's just as well Alberto ate the cow, it was probably so juiced up on various chemicals it’s a surprise that its owner didn’t shove it on a bike and enter it in the tour. On reflection it looks like Contador was doing a service to his fellow cyclists by eating the beast…

This weekend saw the first competition of the season, a two up time trial. For those not familiar with cycling parlance a time trial is the simplest of all the cycling disciplines. It involves finding a relatively flat piece of road, usually a dual carriage way, with a roundabout 5 miles away from the start. Riders set off individually, at 1minute intervals and are timed as to how long it takes them to batter to the roundabout, turn around and batter home again. It's basically you against the course, the wind and father time. And of course against the louts that shout abuse from cars as they scream past you on the dual carriageway.

‘Get off and milk it’ is an oft heard quip, invariably shouted from the passenger seat of a low slung ford fiesta with an exhaust pipe the diameter of a rubbish bin lid.

A 2 up time trial is slightly different in that you have a partner. You and he/she ride together and are able, therefore, to benefit from drafting behind one another. As a result you should be faster in a 2up TT.

You are also allowed to use a fancy bike and a big pointy helmet when you are doing a time trial. So not only do you have to suffer the indignity of the inverse Cuban heels (Polar Bears in the Campsies), you get to wear a helmet that makes you look like a smurf. As you can imagine, this only further endears you to the sooped up fiesta driving fratenity.

The bike is fitted with tri bars. Long protruding extensions that stretch in front of the bike to allow you to ride in an aerodynamic tuck position, rather like a down hill skier. It makes you look like a prat, but it does make you go faster. This has the undoubted advantage of reducing the amount of time that you are subject to the words of ‘encouragement’ shouted from passing cars.

The secret to riding with a partner is to try and stick as close to his back wheel as you dare, within a couple of millimetres, if possible. The advantage of this is that you shelter from the wind whilst you are at the back, the disadvantage being that you cant see where you are going or what is coming. Infact all you can see is the arse of your partner. There is nothing worse than sitting behind a partner who has worn and see vaguely see through lycra. 10 miles seems is long enough without having to be endure that.
Thus, there is great advantage to selecting your partner carefully, it pays if your partner is strong both athletically and sartorially. I partnered up with Phil, who is one of the strongest riders in the club and one who also takes pride in his appearance. Thankfully Phil was wearing his Sunday best racing shorts…

We made good progress during the TT. Until about two miles from home, when - not being able to see the road ahead, I hit a pothole. Hard. The resulting judder that went through the bike knocked me off balance. Unfortunately, the lever arm of the tri bars amplified the collision further and worked loose my bike computer. This was catapulted at quite some velocity, and came rearing off the bars to strike me right square between the eyes, bounce on the tarmac and fly into the long grass by the side of the road. I’m not sure what our Fiesta driving friends would have made of me getting off my bike, mincing across the road and then getting down on my hands and knees, arse up in the air rummaging about in the verge to try and retrieve my computer.

2up TT. Studying Phils arse.

Needless to say we didn’t need to wait for the official results to come in to know that we would not be bothering the podium that day.

Although, to be honest, my ineptitude should not have come as a great surprise. I do not have a great history when it comes to time trials.

In one my first attempts at a TT, I lost count of the number of roundabouts I had to negotiate. Unfortunately, I caught a marshal looking the other way and powered right past him when I should have been heading in the other direction. A plaintive wail from the marshal alerted me to my error and I was forced to wait for a gap in the traffic, before clambering over the crash barriers on the central reservation and heading back the way I had come – much to the delight of passing motorists. Funnily I didn’t clock a good time in that race either.

However, perhaps my finest time trial trial came at the club championship 25 miler. An hour of pain generally won by the guy who is willing to suffer the most. I had already been passed by two competitors much earlier in the race, which meant I was a good few minutes behind the leader and well out of contention. About 5 miles from home a police car pulled out from the junction ahead and sped off out of sight, sirens wailing and lights flashing. Rounding a corner I was faced with the a police man standing in the middle of the road, the police car parked across the road about 200m ahead and in between them a big hairy highland bull loitering in the middle of the road.  It wasn’t doing much. Just standing, perhaps contemplating the mysteries of the universe. But even just standing, he was an intimidating sight.

I pulled up to the Policeman.

‘What’s happening?’ I asked.

‘Well, sir… there appears to be a coo in the middle of the road’

This man was sharp.

‘Right. So I see. So… what’s happening?’ meaning, you’re a polis man, brave defender of realm. What are you doing about clearing the queens highway of its current bovine obstruction?

However, I didn’t want to seem too direct. He was a policeman after all. His uniform deserved the respect of me not actually articulating what I was meaning.

Without hint of either frustration or sarcasm: ‘Well, sir… the middle of the road seems to be occupied by a coo’

It was reassuring that Glasgows finest had correctly identified the genus if not the sex of the obstruction. I could tell that this city cop was not used to dealing with half tonne obstructions with pointy things coming out of their head. His stab vest, handcuffs and truncheon weren’t going to of much use here.

‘Thing is… I’m in the middle of a bike race.  Can I go round it?’

‘Irunno’ he shrugged before observing expertly ‘its a big coo, like’

Much like my bike, this conversation was going nowhere fast.

‘Yeah’ I said. Meaning: ‘I can see that it’s a cow. Are you going to attempt to move said cow or are you going to stand and hold up traffic and just tell everyone that there is a ‘big coo in the middle of the road’?

‘They horns look pretty big.’ He added. He was certainly proving to be an expert in the anatomy of pedigree highland cattle, but it wasn’t helping me get on my way.

‘I think it might be a bull’ I said a little exasperated.

‘Really, sir? How can you tell?’ Perhaps not the expert I had given him credit for.

I looked at him to see if he was taking the piss. He wasn’t. I decided not to answer.

‘Think I might just try and go round’

‘Right you are. Mind they horns, sir’

The bull was side on to me and was happily munching some grass on the side of the road. I approached slowly trying not to startle it. He seemed quite happy to ignore me as I approached.

Emboldened I started to speed up slightly. Everything was going swimmingly until I drew alongside the bull and slipped down a gear. The noise of the gear shifting must have startled the beast and he suddenly reared up and bolted along the road.

I crapped myself at the same time as the bull and not having a reverse gear I tried to out run the bull. Rather than just letting the thing go on its way. But he was fairly shifting. There was a few seconds when we were both belting along together each trying to out run the other. Before the bull veered off the road and crashed through a hedge into the adjacent field. The adrenaline release had my legs birling faster than the Road Runner, I didn’t look back, but I don’t think I have ridden five miles faster than that, before or since.

So, Alberto… If you think beef is not a performance enhancing substance, then maybe you’ve just been administering it incorrectly. You should perhaps try a placing a heilin coo with big horns beside you as you cycle. They can fairly mak ye shift…

From Irvine,

n

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The Big Stink

Down in the jungle where nobody goes...

I guess that there are a number of ways that you can react if you do something wrong.

There's the George Washington approach of performing a complete mea culpa. Immediately ‘fess up. Admitting that you have done wrong and hope that you are forgiven. Truth, then hopefully reconciliation. And if you feel the need you can always find a handy tree to fell;

There is the classic 'A big boy done it and ran away'. Let someone else take the blame. A favourite of young children and disgraced former energy ministers.

You can adopt the Rupert Murdoch approach. Deny, deny, deny. Then pretend that you have forgotten whatever it was you were denying.

Or, you can just ignore it and hope no one will notice or that someone else will be blamed. The fart in an elevator approach, if you will.

I read with interest the other week about a foul smell that had infected the south of England. A gas leak from Rouen, just north of Paris was blamed. A favourable wind having spreading the stench all the way across the English Channel to the home counties. Apparently, Mercaptan, a nasty smelling additive that is put into natural gas, so you can tell if there is a leak, had been accidently released. An open and shut case, or so it seemed.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-21141351

There was a comedy series that screened on BBC Scotland a number of years ago called Chewing the Fat. I was in exile in London at the time and only caught the series when I was visiting home at christmas. I found it hilarious and decided it was scandalous that this series did not have wider exposure to the rest of the country. I promptly purchased the DVD and felt it was my duty to act as a cultural prophet and export this comedy gold to the philistine south. Amidst great fanfare I insisted that my flat mates sit and watch the programme with me. Whilst I sat, my cheeks wet with tears of hilarity, my sides sore from laughter, my two flat mates sat in stony faced silence. Despite sharing the same language I guess the comedy just didn’t translate.

One of the sketches followed the fortunes of a couple of fictional lighthouse keepers marooned on a rock in the middle of a perpetually stormy sea. It chronicled the practical jokes played by one of the keepers on the other. The bottom of bed pans were removed, flies of simmits were sown up, the last page of books were ripped out etc. The scenes always finished with the first lighthouse keeper saying…

‘Gonnae no dae that?’ (‘Would you mind refraining from doing that?’)

‘How?’ (‘Can I enquire as to why?’)

‘Just gonnae no?’ (‘I would just prefer if you didn’t’)

I have already relayed that working out on the turbo trainer is not my most favourite of pass times (Elvis is alive and cycling). But not only is it difficult for me, it is a generally a pretty anti social activity. I don’t live in a large flat and the turbo takes up most of the front room. Even if you could look past that, the noise is similar to that of a jet engine starting up and me stripped to the waist and coursing with sweat is a less than appetising sight; especially first thing in the morning.

Once I get off the hamster wheel my kit as well as a towel used to mop my brow are absolutely saturated. Not wanting to throw this soiled kit in the wash basket I often put it straight in the washing machine until I have enough to put a wash on.

My flat mate, lets call him ‘Mark’ so as not to cause any unnecessary embarrassment, has many attributes and he is a fine fellow. However, stoicism is not high on his list of personality traits. At the first sign of falling leaves Mark will be hit by a ‘flu that will render him all but incapacitated. This state of near death usually lasts a few days and is probably repeated a couple of times before the coming of spring. It means that the heating in the flat will be pumped up to maximum, any available hot water bottles will be purloined and he won’t emerge from under a duvet for a week. Towards the end of January 'Mark' was hit with a particularly virulent strain of 'flu.

Coming back from work to a flat that feels more like a sauna than a house, with condensation streaming down the windows, made spending time on the turbo trainer even more challenging and unpleasant than usual. I was loosing a ton in weight during a turbo session. This weight was transferred directly into my kit as sweat, which, as usual, I threw straight into the washing machine.

Towards the end of the week I came home to be hit, as usual, with a wall of heat as I entered the flat from the cold of outside. Rushing to take off my jacket so as not to spontaneously combust I was right inside the flat before I noticed the stench that had permeated through the building.

This smell was nauseating, like a mixture of diesel fuel and rotten eggs. 'Mark', having been in the flat all day had not noticed the stink. His feet were the chief suspect and I didn't hold back in voicing my displeasure. I accused him of lacking personal hygiene and insisted that all windows were opened and that he take himself off to the shower forthwith. He volubly and vigorously denied his guilt, but was unable to come up with a viable explanation for the olfactory assault. After a lull in our contretemp, hoping to pour oil on troubled water, Mark piped up.

‘I hope you don’t mind, I put your washing into the tumble drier’

‘What washing?’

‘The stuff that was in the washing machine’

‘Ah… that wasn’t washing’

‘But it was dripping wet’

The fart in the elevator technique to facing up to mistakes may not be the most moral approach, however in this instance it worked. I fear that the chemical factory in Rouen may not have been the source of the stench in Maidstone. Kit, soaked in sweat from workouts conducted in stifling heat, had already been fermenting for a few of days in the washing machine had then been cooked nicely in the tumble drier was more likely to have been responsible. 

I'm sure you can imagine the smell and the residents of numerous south coast towns can attest to it. 

To the workers of Rouen, I say, ‘Cétait moi et je suis désolé’ and sorry for besmirching the good name of your town. 

To the good people of the South of England, I can only apologise and hope that no undue stress or harm was caused.

And to ‘Mark’, sorry for all the noise and the unedifying early morning vistas. Thanks for being so considerate and tumble drying my kit. But to borrow from the wonderful lighthouse keepers of Aonoch Mhor, next time, ‘Just gonnae no’?

From a less than fragrant Glasgow,

N

What the pros say...

Apparently a group of 'rank amateurs' cycling the Tour de France has caused quite a bit of chatter amongst the pro peloton. And when I say chatter I mean derision. Its fair to say they are not exactly quaking in their boots...

BTW... Anyone else think that Tommy Voeckler looks like a thin Colin Miller?

Coco Miller donning the Malliot Jaune

Voeckler getting a smacker from a podium girl after another stage win.

Milldog multitasking: Sticking his tongue out and riding his bike.

Tommy larking about and sticking his tongue out

From Glasgow
N

PS With thanks to Peter Addison-Child, a fellow TdF'r. Check out his much more professional blog here...

willBradleyCatchMe?