Bella Bella

The choice of champions.

‘Is that Jacconellis?’

‘Aye, this is Jack Bonellie’

‘Where's me ice cream?’

‘...Excuse me?’

‘Where’s me Ice cream?’

‘I am terribly sorry. I think you might have the wrong number’

‘Is that Jacconellis?’

‘Aye, this is Jack Bonellie’

‘Then wheres me ice cream?’

‘...Im terribly sorry but...’

My Grampa was Jack Bonellie and he was a fantastic Grandfather. A number of years after his death tales of deep mirth are still told at family gatherings (see above). Some apocryphal, some exaggerated, all still hilariously funny.

After the war he worked for the Glasgow Corporation as an electrical engineer on the trams and latterly the underground. When someone put a spade through an electrical cable, and after the fried cadaver had been removed, my Gramps would get a call instructing him to come sort out the power supply and get the city moving again. As a result he had a telephone, which was unusual in those straighten times. The Coroporation only paid half the line rental, mind you. Which was pretty tight of the city fathers, considering no one else my Grampa knew had a telephone.  Outgoing calls from the Bonellie household were rarer that hens teeth. Incoming calls were mainly from the Corporation... and occasionally from irate customers looking for their ice cream.

Cafe de Jacconelli is an institution. It opened in the 1930s and is still going strong. Although Italian, it is not exactly a classical Italian restaurant. Indeed, I fear it is some distance from achieving a Michelin star.  However it was rated as the 14th best Cafe in the UK by readers of Time Out magazine in 2007, and you don’t get many bigger accolades than that. If ever I want to impress a young lady I will always take her to Jacconellis. The all day breakfast is a steal at less than 3 quid, after all, and the square sausage, beans and chips are simply to die for. If I have particular amorous desires towards the young lady she might even be allowed a penny cone, of I am feeling particularly generous, a knickerbocker glory. The Ice Creams are legend and I can well understand the ire that might be raised if a delivery was to be misplaced. 

Jacconellis is hardly the most salubrious of establishments. At a shade over 6 feet my head hits the roof if I don’t hunch up whilst walking through the cafe and if you require to ‘freshen up’ during your meal, then you will be taken through the galley style kitchen and have to squeeze past the chef in order to gain access to the toilet – not before the customers umbrellas have been removed from the sink, you understand.

The staff are salt of the earth and hugely friendly.

‘You don’t happen to have a decaff coffee?’ Asked my dad on a recent visit.

‘A whit?’

‘A decaffeinated coffee?’ My dad is from Perth and he has been known to make the occasional cultural faux pas.

‘Ahm no sure... If you tell me whits in it, ahll make it fir ye. Is it like a latte? Ahm a dab hand at a latte, so ah am.’

‘Och no. Don’t worry. How about a sparkling water?’

‘A whit?’

‘Do you have a bottle of sparkling water?’

‘A sparkly watter? Naw, ah dinnae think so, hen... Do you mean a can of fizzy juice?  A wee can o fanta, mibbies?’

I like Italy. I have never been. But I like it, or at least I like the idea of it. The scenery, the history, the culture, the cars, the bikes, the style, the football, the food.

Mama mia, the food.

There are about 100,000 Scots Italians, which is about 2% of the population. The first wave of prospective Italian immigration came with the Romans. Their dalliance with the Scots was fairly short lived, however. They made a half hearted attempt to civilize us, but deterred by our obdurate nature, the poor fare on offer and the weather, they promptly threw up a wall, left us in splendid isolation. Putting an end to cross cultural collaboration for a couple of millennia.

There was a second wave of immigration in the late 1800’s. I read somewhere, that the influx of Italian immigration to Scotland came largely from only a couple of villages. Yeah... Some Italians emigrated to Scotland. To think that they had all the world to pick from, New York, Sydney, Los Angeles and a number of them chose Whitburn or West Calder. What were they thinking? Things in those wee villages must have been pretty rough.

At one time before the inexorable march of McDonalds and KFC, it seemed that every town in Scotland had an Italian owned Ice Cream Parlour, Cafe or Chippy. To think that the Italians have one of the great cuisines of the world but it seems they forgot to bring it to Scotland. I wonder how the health of the Scottish nation might have been improved had the Italians introduced the Mediterranean diet. It seems that perhaps they had learned from the Romans that the Scots were not to be changed. Or maybe they decided to exact their revenge for internment, imprisonment and some pretty shoddy treatment, by being willing accomplices to our predilection for any food with a negative health benefit. In the same way that drug barons don’t dabble in heroin themselves, they were sitting at home cooking up pasta whilst pushing saturated fat and sugar on us jocks.

I was at Hampden park a few years ago when Scotland were playing Italy. Scotland had to get a draw  in order to make the playoffs for the World cup. On a filthy Glasgow afternoon Scotland were making a decent fist of it and at times looked almost like a football team. The Tartan Army was, as usual, well lubricated. During a lull in play, to the tune of Guantanamera a refrain rang out from the stands...

‘Deep fry your pizza! Wer'e gonna deep fry your pizza!

Deep fry your piiiiizzzzaaaa, wer'e gonna deep fry your piiiiiizzaaaaaa!’

Presumably, after we had deep fried their pizza, we were then going to eat it. I could just imagine the Italians looking at each other quizzically, then shrugging their shoulders and saying, ‘we wouldn’t recommend it, there are far better ways of consuming pizza, but go right ahead, if you feel you must, we shan't stand in your way’. We may not be a force on the football field any more, but if there is one thing that we are seemingly world class at its taking an naturally unhealthy foodstuff and ‘improving’ it so much that it becomes lethal.

This weekend was my last chance to put some big miles in before the Tour. Next weekend will be spent cleaning the bike, packing my kit and probably running around like blue arsed fly. I planned a couple of back to back rides on the Saturday and the Sunday. 600km (350ish miles) was the rough target. So it was up at some ungodly hour on the Saturday morning and a train to Perth, then a route taking in Pitlochry, Blair Atholl, Kinloch Rannoch, up over Schehallion, through Glen Lyon, up over Lawers, round Loch Tay, down through Callander, up over the Dukes to Aberfoyle and 170 miles later back home.

I had planned to go tag on a wee jaunt round Loch Katrine, however that would have seen me finish past midnight and with no lights on my bike I decided that discretion was the better part of valour.

Inspite of the curtailed route I arrived at Aberfolyle busted and starving. I had planned on a pork pie purchased in the local Co-op. But then I saw it; an oasis in the desert. A proper, living and breathing Chipper. A proper Italian chipper. With a proper slightly-grumpy-but-at-the-same-time-very-friendly-proprietor in a white jacket, stiff with chip grease. Signalling, of course, that these chips were not fried in healthy vegetable oil.  But instead with proper shortening that would furr up your arteries and had your heart screaming for mercy before you’d even taken a bite. It had seats inside where I could rest my weary legs and, oh the luxury, help-yourself-condiments on the table. None of this tiny wee sachet nonsense. A proper salt cellar, a proper squeezy bottle of malt vinegar and proper glass bottles of Heinz Tommy K. This place was the real deal. In Scotland Haute Cuisine loosely translates into 'hot food'. Fresh out the friar, this food was as haute as it comes.

After my dinner had been drowned in vinegar, as all fish suppers should be, and inhaled. I felt like a new man with renewed strength in my legs. A fricassee, or pasta salad might have been the real athletes choice, EPO or testosterone the choice of the pro, but right there and then, despite what my heart was telling me a fish supper and a can of coke was just the ticket.

Sunday was another scorcher. So I decided a wee trip to Largs for an Ice cream was in order. Largs is only a 30 mile ride away, but if you go via Lochs Lomond, Long and Fyne and get the ferry across from Dunoon to Gourouck  and then go up over the braes at the back of Greenock you add on another 100 miles or so. Sure, it’s a long way for a short cut. But on a day like Sunday, I don’t think there is a more beautiful ride in the world. For those in the know, Largs is a wee town with a big ice cream shop. Infact it has at least two Ice Cream shops. Both selling Italian Ice cream and on a hot day like sunday there is nothing more welcome than a big ‘Tally’ Ice Cream.

Italy, you have given us Tom Conti, Rocco Forte, Charlene Spiteri,  Peter Capaldi, Richard DiMarco, Dario Franchitti, Paolo Nutini, Armando Iannuci and Jack Vettriano. All of whom have contributed immeasurably to the cultural wellbeing of Scotland. You’ve led the way in gastronomic innovations like deep fried pizza and 'Mars bar tempura', you have refined fish suppers into an art form and in doing  so have contributed immeasurably to the (poor) state of the health of the Scottish nation. But, see when you are starving hungry or a wee bit hot? A fish supper and an ice cream. You canny whack it. So, sincerely, thank you Italy, from bottom of my disease ridden and cholesterol soaked heart.

Bella bella, indeed.

From Aberfoyle,
n

The Colour of Money

The fruits of my labour

I read with interest the other week of the travails of Phil Bardsley, the erstwhile Sunderland and Scotland full back. Incase you missed the brouhaha, I shall recount. The Daily Mail, and by extension, the rest of middle England* got its collective knickers in a twist over Mr Bardsley picturing himself lying, covered in £50 notes. He was promptly fined a huge amount of cash by his club and was accorded pariah of the day status in the eyes of the Daily Mail and its readership.  The faux outrage was such that the resulting earth tremors were reported on the Radio 4 Today programme - hence the reason I heard about it. Just incase you thought that I had read the Daily Mail. Good god no. I rely on John Humphries reading it and reporting on the outrage. I see that as effective delegation.

Now, Bardsleys act was crass, deeply unclassy and insensitive especially in austerity Britain etc, etc. However, this was a private photograph that had been purloined by the paper and to me it seemed like just another way of someone who is far richer than I could ever hope to be, showing off their wealth. After all, a deeply impractical sports car, or environmentally damaging 4x4, or a particularly flashy watch, or, I suppose, a particular accent, are all just ways that we seek to differentiate ourselves from others. To show how rich and successful we are, that we are a different class than others. Is ‘wearing’ money as Bardsley did, more distasteful than driving around in excess money, or using money to tell the time, or alter the way we speak? It all seems all much the same to me.

Anyhow, last weekend saw me taking the short trip down to Eaglesham for the VC Glasgow South Road Race. The second in the WoSCA series of Cat 3/ Cat 4 races. Although this is a step up in the racing that I had been competing in, I had finished 15^th in the previous race in the series and was therefore hopeful that I could put on a good showing and get into the top 20 or so. The race was run on a pretty flat, narrow course with an uphill drag to the finish. There were 80 odd riders in the race, and alas no impediment to whittle the race down before the end. Unfortunately this led to a pretty horrible race. The roads were too narrow for the number of riders, there was plenty of bumping and boring in the group and riders were continually on the wrong side of the road. The commissaries had to stop the race at one point and warn us all about the standard of racing and threaten to abandon the race if we all didn’t buck up our ideas. For the first time in my racing career, there were a couple of guys who were disqualified for dodgy riding, however, if truth be told, there could have been many more.

Comfortable in the bunch

I decided fairly early on that no one was going to get a break from the group and that the safest course of action was to position myself at the back of the peleton and just wait out the race until the last lap. As we entered the final lap I started to move my way through the grupetto towards the front. With about 5 miles to go a group of four or five riders opened up a hundred yard or so gap. I successfully managed to bridge the gap and was in the ideal position with 1 mile to go. I perhaps started my sprint a little too early and was hanging on towards the end, however I managed an 8^th place finish over all and second place 4^th category rider.

The second best finishing 4^th Category rider, is kind of a booby prize. The second best of the worst riders in the race. Not even the best of the worst. The points and the resulting progression towards third cat are far more valuable.  However prizes are not to be sniffed at. Having won the princely sum of £35 this season and therefore being a full member of the brethren of professional athletes, I feel it does bring me a perhaps unique insight into the behaviour of Mr Bardsley. After all, what do you do with all this cash? Sure, I could buy a flash car, but how would I fit my bike in the boot? A chunky watch would be an option, but they don’t tend to come in carbon fibre. The only thing left is to take a picture of me covered in my winnings, much as Bardsley has done. £35 won’t cover much more than my nipples though.

I’d like to see the Daily Mail publish that picture.  Now that would cause some knicker twistery.

The finish. 8th.
6th place and 3rd Cat promotion was only a wheel width away.

From Glasgow,
n

* Although it pains me to admit this, there is a Scottish edition of the Daily Mail. It pains me further to admit that this paper does have a readership north of the border. Alas we cannot claim moral authority and a lack of knicker twisting north of the border. Therefore, in this instance when I say middle England I actually include middle Scotland in that too. This is the only time that this should be permitted. 

Shakedown Trials

'What the hell happened to you?' I asked him.

'Whaddya mean?' My dad asked puzzled

'Your face!'

'What's wrong with my face?'

'Where do you want me to start...' Interjected my mum. I turned to face her, to chastise her for

interrupting a potentially important diagnosis.

'And what the hell happened to you?' I asked her

'Whaddya mean?' My mum replied puzzled

'Your face!'

'What's wrong with my face?'

'Where do you want me to start' interjected my dad

I could sense a circular discussion coming on.

'You've got what looks like a bruise on the side of your jaw, mum. And your

face is... well... massive, Dad. You look like a melon on a toothpick'

They had just spent their first night in the Kempervan. 'Shake down' trials

my dad called them. I had met them in the back arse of nowhere before an

annual family picnic.

'You must have hit me when we were asleep' my mum said rubbing her face.

'I was probably trying to stop you from snoring'

'I'm surprised you could hear me snore over your snoring'

etc.

From the ensuing discussion, I gathered that the first night in the van was

a little uncomfortable. When my Mum described is a 'bijou' she wasn't

kidding. There is barely room in the back for two people to sit side by

side never mind sleep. The pop up roof is supposed to be used as a sleeping

berth. However Dad won't get up there on account of his vertigo and Mum wont

get up there on account of her claustrophobia.

They were camping at a local campsite and only after they had turned in for the night had they realised that they were parked on a very slight incline. The result being that their feet were above their heads. Understandably Dad wasn’t keen on getting up, unhooking the van and parking it the other way round. Somewhat less understandably my Mum wasn’t keen on lying the other way round in the camper. You see, she insists on sleeping with her head pointing towards the back door of the van. If her head is pointing towards the front seats, it affects her claustrophobia, and sleep is not possible for her, and by extension not possible for my dad, given that she supplies a minute by minute commentary on her lack of sleep. I did point out to her that you generally sleep with you eyes closed, so why would it matter. This thought was met with scorn.

I don’t know if you have ever slept with your feet above your head - its not he most comfortable of positions. They awoke next morning in a crumpled heap, jammed up against the back door. Once they had untangled their limbs, it became apparent the previous nights sleeping arrangements had been injurious to both. Mum with her bruised face and my Dad with his massive heid. Apparently 8 hours effectively suspended upside down had caused the blood to flow into his bonce. He now sported a face that looked like a football and a head so large it had its own weather system. His forehead had been stolen and replaced with a fivehead. I won't lie to you, he didn’t look great.

I asked him how he felt.

‘Well know you come to mention it I do feel a little light headed. I thought it was just the bottle wine we had last night’

‘Light headed?! Light headed? Are you kidding? It’s HUGE! Your head looks more massive than a medicine ball’

When I enquired how they had slept the response wasn’t overly encouraging. The van was pretty cramped, their sleeping bags were overly restrictive, leading them to believe, in their half conscious state, that they had been mummified and entombed – not a feeling conducive to a restful and refreshing nights sleep, I'll venture.

Although whilst my Father plainly wore the signs of an imperfect night rest, my Mother seemed quite sprightly.

‘It does look quite small in there’ I had observed.

‘Aye, we did “touch knees” a couple of times during the night’ Had been my mothers response, much to the mirth of my Aunts and Uncles who were also at our picnic.

Judging by the spring in my mothers step and the hang dog expression worn by my father, it looked like they had ‘touched knees’ a few times during the night.

‘If the caravan is a rocking – don’t come a knocking’ as I understand they say in the campervan fraternity. Never a truer maxim was uttered. If the caravan is a rocking, my mother is most likely chiding my father for his choice of parking place or trying to escape from her mummified tomb. My advice would be to leave them to it, you wouldn’t want to be interrupting that.

From Glasgow,
n

Etape of the World… and Back with a Bump

The Tiffosi after the Etape

‘Some days you’re the hammer… other days you’re the nail’

You may have seen reports in the press, back in September. Announcing my retirement from Triathlons.  No? Well you’re not alone. I had expected a little more fanfare, but this fact seems to have gone pretty much un-mentioned in the national media. I suspect they were too busy, caught up in the post Olympic fanfare and all that.

If truth be told, I wasn’t really a fan of triathlon. I don’t really like running and I’m a rubbish swimmer, so god alone knows what I was thinking when I decided that I was going to take on a Half Ironman. It was the swimming that I really hated. My coach commented that I had the wrong type of physique- a back end like an elephant and a top half like a sparrow. Which isn’t a good combination in life, never mind swimming. My body tended to the vertical when in the water – which more conducive to drowning than swimming. My natural focus on survival did not help with achieving a fast time. The other thing I hated was putting my head under the water. Not in the swimming pool, god no. That was fine. I quite liked immersing the old bonce in the warm chlorinated, clean water. But the problem with Triathlons is that they insist that they are done outside, and the problem with Triathlons on Scotland is that they insist they are done in Scotland. If anyone here has tried to swim in a Scottish Loch will know that they are absolutely Baltic. The deep water, the snow melt from the hills and the fact that the Scottish summer occurs one day in June, means the water is permanently just above zero.

Getting into the water is always miserable. Firstly there are all the jaggy rocks that you cant see on the floor of the Loch. I used to call it the ‘monkey walk’.

‘oooh, ahhh, oooh, oooh, oooooh, ahhh’

At the start of a triahlon if you close your eyes and listen its almost as if you are transported into a troupe of particular vociferous monkeys, as people gingerly wade into the loch and step on all the painful stones.

Then the water gets up to your thighs and your testicles make a beeline for your armpits - always particularly unpleasant. As you go deeper, and the water gets above your chest, its like the air gets slowly squeezed out your body, by a slowly tightening vice and it becomes difficult to breathe. Have you ever felt the need to stick your head in a vice? Thought not. Hence my reticence to stick the phisog into the aqua. My decision to retire did not take a whole lot of consideration.

That’s why I’ve never taken up surfing. I love the idea of it. I love the imagery of it. Except the imagery is always of some tanned be-muscled athlete in a pair of board shorts. I’d like to see him try that off the west coast of Scotland. He wouldn’t last long.

Give me a warm shark invested sea any day.

The fact that I’m luminous white and have muscles like knots in a midges penis has nothing to do with it either.

I imagine surfing to be quite a humbling sport. You are after all, at the mercy of powers that are far in excess of yours. You will have to work with the waves, make the best of whatever fare nature dishes up on any particular day.  No matter how good a surfer, you can’t ride a great wave if its flat calm. You cant do that really cool thing where they zipp along the inside of a breaking wave if you’re not lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time. Sure, you can maximise your chances and make sure you make the best of the opportunities that are presented. But ultimately you are at the mercy of the gods.

Cycle racing is like surfing, in a roundabout kinda way. In that so much of it is chance, so much of it you can’t control. On any given day just about anyone in the peloton could win, if they are in the right place at the right time. If the sun is shining on them and they have the favour of the gods, then they are in with a shout. Sure, the strongest riders will still win the most often but over one race, its anybodies.

There is a golden rule in cycling, an indisputable fact around which all tactics are based: The poor bugger at the front of the bunch is working far harder than anybody else. Not just a little bit harder either. He could be knocking his pan in whilst 7 bikes back, tucked in and out the wind his colleague could have his pipe out and his slippers on, feet up, enjoying a cup of tea and discussing the pressing issues of the day. The vagaries of aerodynamics mean that if the fella on the front wants to double his speed, he will have to cube his effort, meanwhile the chaps in the bunch will barely notice the difference.

Getting away from the bunch is a difficult too. Basically, you will only get away if the bunch lets you go. That means that your pace in dictated by the pace of the bunch. Basically, what I am trying to impress, dear reader, is that there is a lot of chance involved. Someday’s youre the hammer, other days you’re the nail.

One of my goals of this season was a good result in the Etape Caledonia. The Etape is a sportive run over closed roads in highland Perthshire. It attracts a field of over 5000 riders. One of my main targets for this year was a sub 3hr 50 time and I thought that I might be able to get into the top hundred riders.

The race was great. Right from the get go, the sun was out and there was barely a breath of wind. Because of the number of riders in the race, people are set off in bunches at two minute intervals. The fastest guys first. As a result you have no real idea what your relative position in the race is. As a result I was concentrating on my clock rather than position. I was in the second wave off and we made good pace. We made good time to Kinloch Rannoch and caught a bunch of riders just before we made it to Loch Rannoch. I had done a fair bit of pulling for the 20 miles to Kinloch Rannoch, so decided to sit in and hide from the wind for a while. A fair sized bunch had formed round the loch, which was blown apart by the time we got to the top of Schehallion. I lost sight of a group of riders on the ascent but by the time we were making our way through Glen Lyon we had formed into a group small enough that people were willing to work together. As a result we caught another group of riders. When the new group formed it became obvious that it was going to be too big to work together, and the terrain too flat for any breaks form. I sat in, content that my speed was such that I was going to easily get inside my target time. I didn’t know where about I was in the field; too far down to merit any kamikaze efforts, but far enough up to be confident of finishing in the top 100.

As we approached the last five miles, the pace increased and the quality of the riding decreased. Riders, some of whom were on the limit, started to take risks and make mistakes- never a good combination. I had in the back of my mind the tour and didn’t feel that the reward of 50^th as opposed to 51^st place merited taking any undue chances. So I continued to sit in. By the time we were in the finishing straight guys were busting a gut in the sprint, again I couldn’t see the value, so sauntered over the line. My time was 3hrs 36 mins. I had smashed my target time and I was absolutely delighted… Until I got a call from my Uncle to tell me that I had finished in 7^th place only 90seconds off a podium place. I felt fresh as a daisy. I was gutted!

In the interests of fairness, I have to point out that that standard of the field was pretty ordinary, however. Three days later I was competing in a 3^rd / 4^th cat race in East Kilbride with a field of only 50 riders. I finished in 15^th. And I was well and truly busted. That day I was definitely the nail.

From Pitlochry,
n

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.