A Close Shave

Big Merv. Angry after a sea gull shat on his nose.

I remember it distinctly. Seared in my mind. It was 1989 and the Australians were touring England, trying to recapture the Ashes that they had given up in 1985. They didn’t stand a chance, so was the collective wisdom. They hadn’t won an away test series in donkeys and even then that was only one test against Sri Lanka; and they were barely recognised as a test playing nation. Terry Alderman was their strike bowler and he was made of glass, constantly injured and past his best, although he had seldom stayed fit enough for long enough to establish a ‘best’. He was a ‘has been’ that had never been.

The Aussies won the test series 5-0. Batting for day after day and bowling with metronomic and ruthless consistency. Alderman, in the form of his life was chief tormentor. And they were mean. By god they were mean. A motley crew of snarling, foul mouthed delinquents. As one wag put it ‘they didn’t just go for the jugular, they ripped it out and made balloon animals with it’.

But it wasn’t the cricketing excellence or the unflinching will to win that so impressed me. It was the laissez fair attitude they had to personal grooming. I had never seen such a bunch of hirsute and unkempt individuals. They looked like a band of swarthy, sweaty South American brigands fresh from raiding cattle on the high plain.

I had never seen anything like it. Border, Boon, Hohns, but most of all Merv Hughes.  Big ‘Merv the Swerve’. It was like a particularly hairy marsupial had stretched out and gone to sleep under big Merv nose. A huge hairy boomerang that covered fast expanses of his face.

The Victorian era was surely the zenith for facial hair.The moustache, the beard, the beard and moustache, the sideburns that were so luxuriant that they had their own hair style. It is perhaps fitting that Merv was (and is), in fact, a Victorian.

It was as if this Australian team had stepped on a plane in 1889 and arrived in London 100 years later. It really was super stuff.

I travelled to Australia a few years ago and there still seems to be a fascination with facial hair. Alas, the bouffant styles prevalent amongst 80s cricketers has been replaced with something a little more stylised and all together less masculine. Like the moustache under the bottom lip, or the beard that only covers the bottom of the chin which makes the wearer look like he’s put his head on upside down. They don’t look mean any more, just stupid. They have somehow managed to make the wearing of facial hair somewhat effeminate. Quite how they have managed that is beyond me.

I journeyed home last weekend to take part in an Audax. Audax’s are long distance cycling events (the classical scholars will know that Audax was the greek god of cycling). To the outsider, they seem rather pointless. You spend all day on a bike and end up back where you started. 120 miles and 8 hours of pedalling and you get precisely nowhere.

They are organised events but in the loosest sense of the word. The only objective is to finish the course within a time limit, however, there is also a maximum average speed limit. Which presumably means you are disqualified if you ride too quickly. There are no marshals or judges, you are just left to get on with it.

The Audax cycler is a completely different breed to any other type of cyclist that I have yet encountered. They have their own language and terms. For instance if you complete a 200km Audax you are a Randonneur. Which I imagine is kind of like a musketeer, except without the lethal weaponry. These guys are much more old school. Given the long distances that they have to travel and the fact that they can’t do it too quickly, they are much more tortoise than hare. Sure there were some carbon fibre and other space age materials on view at the start line, but you got the impression that they were slightly looked down upon, in an ever so gently patronising way. Steel frames and waxed cotton saddle bags were definitely de riguer. And beards. To be proper a Randoneur seemingly one must have a full face of hair, if not a full head. You are supposed to ride these Audaxes self supported, I guess to save on weight a good few of the competitors (although its NOT a race) have eschewed their Gillette Sensor. As I got my kit together in the Forfar Asda carpark I was transported back to 1989 and that Australian rabble. I had never seen so much facial hair concentrated in such a small area, since Lords in ‘89. I full expected big Merv to be swinging his leg over a cross bar.

A fella (bearded and bespectacled) signed us in at some ungodly hour in the morning, issued me with a Brevet card and sent you on my way with a cheery ‘Good luck’ and a ‘Bon Courage’.

The Brevet (French for Brevet) is a card that to which you attach proof that you have been to certain parts of the route within the allotted time and not before. Proof can be a stamp given to you by another bespectacled and bearded man or a dated receipt from a particular shop on the route. Its kind of like a treasure hunt for middle aged men who have lost their razor and been told to get out the house for at least 12 hours.

The Audax itself was great. A jaunt round Deeside taking in Banchory, Braemar, up over the Cairn o’ Mount and Glenshee through the Angus Glens and back to Forfar. It was a tough day in the saddle, however. Initially driech, a strong wind got up and scudded the clouds away by mid morning, unfortunately that strong wind morphed into a brutal headwind from Banchory all the way to Glen Isla. I managed to get into a wee group of (clean shaven) riders and we made good time making it back to Forfar first (although its not a race). I am guessing that the surfeit of facial hair amongst the competitors (although it’s not a race) hampered them in the strong winds.

Have you ever seen big Merv or David Boon on a bike? Exactly. Wiggo take note.

From Arbroath,
n

 

The Kempervan has landed

The Kempervan during its maiden voyage, with roof tent fully deployed...

Mum – Should you really be reading this? Surely you havesomething better to do with your time?

'I don't like your jacket'
Was the rather abrupt welcome I received when I visited my parents recently.
'Right. Thanks Mum. Just as well I do. May I enquire as to why you have an issue with my new and, may I add, very expensive jacket?
'It doesn't cover your bum'
'Right. I'm pretty sure it's not supposed to'
'You'll get piles. Mind you, the size of your bum, I'm not sure you could have afforded the excess material anyhow'

That. From my own Mother. Some cheek (as it were). It's her fault - a fulsome posterior runs in the family after all. Her family. Unlike most ladies of her age, she doesn't shop at M&S for her underware. She prefers Blacks of Greenock. For my sins I have been blessed with a Bonellie Bum, so massive it comes with its own weather system and gravitational field.

Two things my Mother swears by. A silk vest regardless of the weather and a jacket that covers your arse. The cumulative effect will ward off piles, that and never sitting directly on concrete, apparently. I'm not even sure what piles are. I sure know how to avoid getting them though. A silk vest and long jacket and you'll never get the dreaded Emma Freuds, and you will be able to tackle the vicissitudes of life. Its all about being warm. In her eyes if you're warm you're happy... And you won't get piles.

As I have written before, my father is not a guy who is quick to temper. Infact, he’s not exactly quick to anything these days. He is, by nature, a very calm man. Indeed, he had an operation on his back a few years ago and, on occasion, he has to take treatment for the pain. We are not talking acouple of paracetamol and a radox bath here. No, Faither has been prescribedsome pretty hard core pain killers. Hard core, in the sense that they would tranquilize the angriest of bull elephants. As a result he is even more laid back than he ever was. Panic is not a response I have ever seen in my Dad. Whilst most peoples reaction to danger might be a typical ‘fight or flight’ response, his is more likely to consist of a ‘wee-sit-down-with-a-cup-of-coffee-and-a-kit-kat-whilst-I-find-a-scrap-of-paper-to-work-this-out,-now-where-did-I-put-my-glasses…?’And that was when he was a thrusting young buck with a spring in his step and a twinkle in his eye.   Even during those halcyon days his speed of reaction would more likely to be described as lethargic rather than electric.  In his dotage, if he were to witness any incident requiring swift action, his reaction time would probably be equal that of someone reading about it in the paper the next morning, and that is only assuming that he could find his specs so he could actually see what he was witnessing.

Many years ago, not long after I had passed my driving test, I was driving my Dad home whilst he was dosing in the front seat. I might have been driving a little fast, but still within the speed limit. Turning a corner I lost control of the car and we started to spin, performing a perfect pirouette. We bounced off the far side kerb with the car facing the way we hadjust come, then bounced across to the other side of the road, hitting the other kerb - the car coming to rest facing the correct way with the front wheels up on the grass verge. I shat myself (not literally, although it was a close run thing), not from the near death experience, but from the imminent hiding that I was about to receive from my Dad. I turned to look at him and asked, in a tremulous voice - that was a couple of octaves higher than it should have been, whether he was OK. His eyes were only half open, as if he had just been gently woken from a slumber rather than just having had a near death experience. The only sign that his equilibrium had been disturbed was that his glasses were perched on the end of his nose, making him look slightly more disheveled that normal. He snorted, rubbed his nose with the back of his hand, sorted his glasses and said simply.

‘Probably best not to tell your Mother about this’

He then went back to sleep. Leaving me to drive home, a mental wreck. He has never spoken of it since, I sometimes wonder if he thinks he dreamt it. I owe my Dad a lot, almost 15 years on, my Mother still doesn’t know. He has never once cracked, even under the most intense of 'how was your day today, love?' type interrogations.

I guess I’ll find out soon enough if Ma reads this blog…

Regular readers of this blog will already know that my parents have blown my inheritance on a whimsy (Hail to the Chief). Which is just as well as after this blog I might be dis-inherited anyhow. They have decided that my suffering up the highest Cols of the Alps is too good to miss.They have set their hearts to go on ‘The Trip of a Lifetime’ and follow me round France. My pain seemingly being the main attraction. I can’t say that I am entirely delighted at this prospect, but other than register my disquiet with the management, there is little I can do.

To this end they have pawned the family silver (ie sold the car), have purchased a second hand van from Japan and have had it converted into a campervan. Now, don’t ask me about why they had to get a van from Japan, it all sounds a little suss to me. I did raise this as a potential issue with my mother and poo-poohed the whole endeavour. However, my poo-poohing was promptly poo-poohed and I was informed, rather patronisingly, that this arrangement is de-riguer when concluding these types of transactions.

I just wont be surprised if its all a front for some Triad drug smuggling ring and the tyres are actually stuffed with some Class A Narcotic.What perfect cover, a couple of pensioners in a campervan on the trip of a lifetime, actually smuggling drugs into mainland Europe. The Cosa Nostra come from Corsica – that’s all I am saying. See if I have to cycle down to some Corsican police station and bail them out? I wont be happy.

However, I digress. It was some months ago that they ordered the Kempervan, as it has cunningly been christened (by me... I thank you, I'm here all week). It took a while for it to be shipped from Japan and it only arrived a couple of weeks ago. The internal fit out has been completed, after intense argument over the addition of a heater. Mother insisting that even in the south of France in the middle of summer a heater will be necessary. After all who knows when life will bowl you a googley, but if you're warm then you can get your foot to the pitch of the ball and drive it through the covers for 4.

I spoke to my Dad just after the van had been handed over and asked him if he was pleased with it.

‘Well it’s a lot bigger on the outside than I had thought…and a lot smaller on the inside’

Hardly the ringing endorsement I was hoping for.

I asked my Mum what she thought of the pop up roof.

‘Oh its smashing, the grand weans love it. There’s no way I’dsleep up there though, way too claustrophobic. And there’s no way your Dad could ever get up there on account of his back. The weans love it though…’

'Excellent. You've blown a few grand on a climbing frame with wheels' I thought. I decided, however to keep my thoughts to myself on this occasion.

They then decided to take it on its maiden voyage. All was going swimmingly until they hit the dual carriage way outside Dundee. My Mum was barrelling along the A90 to Perth (rather too fast, by all accounts), my Father, as always when disaster is about to strike, was snoring in the passenger seat. There was then a sudden roar, the cab was filled with cold airand the van started to lurch across the carriage way. Before she realised what had happened Mum heard my father let loose a stream of invective the like of which she had never heard, the soliloquy ending with:

‘The bloody roof has bloody blown off!’

That’s how it was relayed to me. I’m not convinced the word 'bloody' was used. My Father has an enviable vocabulary and I simply refuse tobelieve he used bloody, twice in one sentence.

Out the corner of her eye Mum noticed my Dad leaping, salmon like, out and over the back of his seat displaying a nimbleness and speed of thought that has been singularly lacking in their previous 40 years of marriage and in one movement grabbing hold of the roof before it had a chance to separate from the body ofthe camper. There he was left dangling, his feet off the ground trying to hold on to my inheritance whilst my mother piloted the van back to a safe harbour.

Thankfully no white powder was released during the internal hurricane. Mind you, that would explain Dads sudden burst of speed…

So the Kempervan has landed. However, I’m not sure the portents are great for their voyage. Thank god they made the decision to get a heater. At least I won’t need to worry about them being cold in the 40 degree heat of Southern France.

I bet she still packs a silk vest though and god help Dad if he doesn't have a method for covering his arse and sits on concrete. You'll be able to hear the 'I telt you' from Mars.

From Glasgow,
n

Woe is me

On reflection, maybe my choice of bike is not helping.

‘The harder I practice – the luckier I get’

Gary Player

Ever wondered how you get a golf grip on a golf club? I suspect not. You use double sided super-sticky tape and wrap it round the shaft. But then getting the grip over the tape poses some challenges*. When I was a kid my dad cut me down a set of old golf clubs for me to use. When I say old I mean old. Not the cutting edge of golfing technology for me. My golf bag contained a Baffing Spoon, a Mashie,  a Niblick, a Mashie Niblick, an Auchterlonies 5 Iron (my pride and joy - since it was not pre loved), an 8 iron and a putter. It was only much later on that I discovered that a Mashie was in fact a 5 iron. I haven’t a clue where my dad got the clubs from, with names like those they must have originally been my Grandfathers. Not only were they old but they were not top of the line in their day either. The shafts were made of steel, but had a plastic coating on them to make them look like they were made of hickory! Cutting them down wasn’t an issue for my Dad, but putting grips on them presented some challenges. He couldn’t figure out the conundrum of getting the grip over the sticky tape. However, never one to let a problem go unsolved he came up with the only solution he could think of. He put a slit along the length of the grip and then bound the grip with electrical insulating tape. Somewhat defeating the purpose of a ‘grip’ in the process. It did a job, just not a very good one.

It was an imperfect solution, admittedly, but allowed me and my brother to get out on the course and have a thrash around. More importantly, however, I suspect it allowed my Dad to combine child care with a game of golf.

I love golf. However, I am last in a long line of Kemps whose enthusiasm  for the game is matched only by their lack of ability. I am truly awful. A distinct handicap when you are born and brought up in St Andrews.

Not only was I rubbish at golf, but being a younger brother I grew up being by far the most rubbish in the whole family, a status that did not change until I was into my 20s. I am, however, intensely competitive which is not a good combination. Admittedly, I was not helped by my tools. Electrical insulating tape does not offer the best of grip, and, on a wet day it was not uncommon for my club to end up further down the fairway than my ball. Having to shout ‘Fore’ for a flying golf club rather than ball caused a no shortage of consternation amongst the St Andrews golfing cognoscenti.

It wasn’t much better in the dry. The electrical tape was want to peel off leaving a sticky residue and the slit in the rubber grip left the original ultra sticky double sided grip tape exposed. Golf is a frustrating game, particularly for a young tyro. Even the most mild mannered, god fearing of men has been known to throw down his clubs in frustration. However, the combination of insulating tape and exposed grip tape can make putting down a golf club more challenging that it should be. After carving another ball into the jungle and in tearful rage it was not unknown for me to deliberately try and loose my Niblick in the nearest gorse bush. However the adhesive qualities of the grip meant that the clubs would remain stubbornly attached to my person. To not even be capable of throwing your clubs away was the final ignominy.

I often came back from a round of golf having been soundly beaten by dad and my brother in what can charitably be described as an ‘ill humour’. I would sit down at the dinner table in a stew and announce the assembled company that I was retiring from golf forthwith and there was no use trying to persuade me otherwise as my mind had been made up. I expected that my own kin would at least show some compassion for a young sportsman in obvious turmoil and perhaps even acknowledge that it would be a sad loss for the sport in general, but no platitudes were ever forthcoming. They just nodded and seemed to accept this earth shattering news with surprising equanimity.

I was lying on my back in the middle of the road in the pissing rain this morning, looking up at my bike, wondering how I had got into that unfortunate position, when only seconds earlier I had been hurtling along the road at breakneck speed, with my bike firmly below me. It didn’t take me long to realise that I had somehow contrived to crash (again). 12 minutes earlier I had been on the start line of the Straiton Struggle road race, with expectations of a good showing and high hopes of a top 10 finish, given the course was one that suited me. 10 minutes into the race I had hit a pothole (again) and punctured (again). 2 minutes later I was lying in the gutter having pushed a little too hard to try and get back to the bunch. My day effectively over, barely 12 minutes after it had begun. After I had untangled myself from my bike and started back into the race, I was reminded of my numerous retirements from golf. I was sorely tempted follow Chris Hoys example and rule myself out of selection from the Commonwealth games. Indeed had there been a press car following I might well have made the announcement there and then.  However, a solo 50 mile cycle in the pouring rain gives a man much time to cool down and think. By the time I had limped home I had reconsidered my position.

Lady luck has not been with me so far this season. And I’m sorry Gary, with over 200 hours and 5,500km logged this year its not as if there has been a lack of practice.

This year I have competed in the following races.

• SWSCP Season Opener – Incorrect placing (6^th Place finish)
• Lake APR – Crash (22^nd place)
• Amstel Road race – Puncture (2^nd last finish)
• Gifford road race – no incident (8^th Place)
• Jim Daly APR – Buckled wheel (9^th place)
• Ingleston Criterium – Tangled with a back marker (20^th ish finish)
• Straiton Struggle – Puncture and a crash (finish tbc, but I wont be bothering the podium)

There have certainly been no lack of incidents, however I am getting sick of ruing my luck, but there is not much that you can do about getting punctures. I had hoped to get promotion to Cat 3 before I head away to France, however that is looking frustratingly unlikely now, given my calendar between now and then.

I have a Criterium on Tuesday and am heading up to Forfar on Sunday for an Audax ‘race’. No points on offer there, but the chance to catch up with my folks and maybe squeeze in a round of golf. Keep an eye on the press- I may well be announcing another retirement on Monday.

From Glasgow

N

*oh, just incase you ever have to apply an emergency golf grip… Once you have applied the double sided sticky tape, you smear petrol on the exposed side. This is a solvent for the glue, and the grip will slide on easily. You leave in a well-ventilated place for a couple of hours, the petrol will evaporate, allowing the glue to adhere to the grip.

My Dad figured that out 6 months before I had enough money to saved to buy a proper set of golf clubs.  Co-incidence?

Alas it wasn’t the clubs that made me crap.