My Favourite Cyclists: David Byrne

Bikes and David Byrne are the two things in my life that seem to have been ubiquitous since the late 1970's.

As a musician, his work with Talking Heads and as a solo artist was a favourite of my then step father and the albums were bought on the day of release and then played on heavy repeat, much to the delight of my mother. Much to the delight of my wife and the boy, I have now managed to find the majority of those albums on vinyl and while the rotation is slightly less ferocious, I still rattle the house with them on the rare moments that I am alone, usually whilst cleaning my bike.

As a cyclist, David Byrne is an impassioned, articulate and socially aware ambassador for the cultural necessity of the bicycle in the modern cityscape and, moreover, the simple joy of experiencing the world by bike.

Depending on your view of cycling, the mileage you get from his book Bicycle Diaries may vary. However, as someone with a love of not only the sport/past time but also the cultural history and social impact of the bike, I loved it.

Part anecdote regarding travelling the world with a bike, part essay on how the bike is fundamental in preserving a sense of belonging in the modern urban environment, it was a personable, relatable and thought provoking read. As a cyclist who grew up using my bike to commute around what was then a notoriously dangerous city, it was interesting to note the parallels between Byrne's relationship with New York and mine with London, especially in terms of the very tactile relationship you develop with the architecture around you.

As a middle aged man who finds himself slightly concerned by the social detachment created by modern city planning, it was heartening to hear someone echo my own innate belief that bikes are increasingly vital in a world designed for motorists to get from door to door with the minimum of exposure to the world around them. As the relationship between cyclists and motorists appears to be more volatile and dangerous then ever, it was reassuring to hear someone discuss, in rational terms, how the bike can and should be integrated into the modern world in order to improve not only congestion but also the quality of life.

Sometimes as a cyclist, it is important to be reminded of the joy that brought you to your bike to begin with and David Byrne embodies and communicates that in a way that invites you to reevaluate your relationship with both cycling itself and your physical environment. He is a unique voice and a keen observer of a culture that merits such exploration and a world that increasingly needs people to embrace cycling in all of its forms.

He also looks pretty sharp on a bike, something I think we can all aspire to.

Brad! Don’t Say Foam Rolling Is Sh*t!

'We can try it but I'm not geting invested.' I say to my wife.

She smiles, clearly aware that this is the exact same way in which any conversation relating to reality television begins on the jumbo cord of our couch. Six years into a healthy Made In Chelsea and Drag Race obsession (with some minor detours around various Islands, Pottery Throw Downs, Sewing Bees and Interior Design Challenges), I am beginning to get the impression that she somehow doubts my conviction.

I get invested.

Heavily.

We both know it.

So it is, on one seemingly uneventful Tuesday night, that we came to sample the Australian version of The Seven Year Switch (a 'social experiment' in which awful people in toxic relationships swap partners in order to realise that they hate being married/the thought of getting married/the mere sight of their partner etc.), neither of us realising that getting invested was the least of our worries. This night would change life for our entire family forever.

The people on the program were, as expected, achingly dull with no self awareness and some incredibly vile tendencies. The introspection was the type of self absorbed, naive whittering that is rife amongst heavy users of social media. The array of statement jewellery on display was astonshing. The rum flowed freely as my wife and I watched on.

I was invested.

Then, somewhere into my third drink and forty minutes into the episode, an argument between insipid fad vessel Jackie and festering man child Brad erupted. It was brutal. It was relentless. It was about foam rollers.

I'm going to write that again... Foam rollers.

Please take a moment to drink it in via the video below:

The foam roller argument...

These are the moments in life where a full bottle of rum and the ability to rewind live television collide to create strange offsping that will linger in the dark corners of your mind, leaping out at random moments like some form of pop culture tourettes.

Glorious stuff.

And so it came to pass that bellowing 'Don't say foam rolling is sh*t!' in a shrill Australian accent became the norm around our household, a stock response to any opinion that may differ from your own and a source of seemingly endless hilarity for myself, my wife and the boy. So, thank you Jackie, not only for your retina stinging selection of neck accoutrements but also for bringing such a well spring of hilarity into my home and a go to solution for any minor disagreement.

She will never know how she touched our lives.

However, the story of Jackie and Brad does not end there...

Being a cyclist of a certain ability, with some awareness of the suggested stretches and excercises that one might consider when not on the bike, I am well aware of foam rollers. As someone who lives in a seaside town overrun with a certain type of mother of a certain type of a age, I have seen many a foam roller strapped to bretton clad backs or poking out of canvas gym bags. Being a chap of a certain level of cycnacism, I have to confess that I have lived firmly in camp Brad on this one for many years. However, being a chap of a certain level of poverty, I also can't afford to have a sports massage any time my middle aged body makes its disdain for excercise known in an increasingly inventive array of cramps, aches, pulls and, most recently, violent back sprains.

'My back is a mess...' I will say suggestively to my wife, clearly angling for a massage.

'Mine too.' She will answer matter of factly, swiftly ending the conversation whilst simultaneously demolishing another level of Candy Crush.

Enter Blackroll and their somewhat intimidating and mildly suggestive DuoBall.

I have seen this particular model reviewed on other, far more professional cycling blogs and it has been given a very positive response. For reasons known only to themselves (although I suspect my involvement with a major cycling brand may be at the root of their philanthropy), Blackroll concluded that I should also have the chance to sample the delights of Jackie's world and decide for myself if foam rolling is a miracle cure in the form of two avocados glued together or if it is, indeed, just plain old sh*t.

Firstly, bear in mind that I have never used a foam roller of any type before this, so my opinion is wholly limited to this one model and brand. Secondly, bear in mind that all of my other exercise off of the bike involves core work on an slanted abdominal bench and lugging about some fairly heavy free weights under the rough umbrella of core work (although vanity and my wife's disdain for baguette arms feature prominently in my regime too). Thirdly, there will be no pictures of me actually using this item as I tend to work out in criminally old underpants in our cluttered loft (usually sweating profusely and keenly observed by at least one spider), hardly the type of aspirational lifestyle that I think Blackroll would like to promote.

The rollers themselves are, at first glance, incredibly small (even though this was the larger, 12cm model) and amazingly light to the point that I was worried that they would not be able to take my weight. They actually feel hollow but given the frankly eye watering selection of positions the instructions expected me to wrangle myself into, the lack of weight is actually a major bonus once you trust that they're not going to buckle and leave you in a knot of wrecked limbs for your wife to stumble upon several hours later, her suspicions roused by your absence from dinner and a strong smell coming from the loft.

Time on the bike has left me with permanently knotted calf muscles and some fascinating aches in my back, so I decided to work on those first. The instructions included with the rollers are fairly simple and there are any number of aggressively European videos online should you find their German minimalism to be a little oblique:

Something that is not mentioned in these instructions is that no foam rolling should be attempted in a room that dogs have any kind of access to. You will need a fair bit of space and a distinct absence of wet noses being thrust into your various cavities. I also would not recommend wearing a vest as this object likes to run free given half a chance and will use fabric as an excuse to shoot out from under you and get snatched up by the aforementioned dogs who have, quite rightly, mistaken it for one of their toys. Something else that is not mentioned is that foam rolling hurts. A lot. Do not go into this expecting to feel respected or receive the kind of gentle massage that someone who has any kind of love for you might give. This object hates you. It has waited patiently and quietly in its bag to take this hatred out on you, presumably seething because you sided with Brad. 

I tried the calves first, simply by virtue of it looking the easiest. I also did my shins, lower back and upper back, experimented with the neck and had a go at my upper arms. Aside from having some unexpected but very effective exfoliating properties, the Duoball did exactly what other reviews have said it would. It bites into soft tissue and gives a rough approximation of a solid sports massage, it is a workout unto itself trying to use it and it left my back and neck in a much better condition that it found them in, although I can't say that I noticed any real effect on my legs. Perhaps they just need more work.

So, would I say that foam rolling is sh*t? Well, I'm not sure that I would want a Jackie bellowing passive aggressive instructions at me as I attempted to work at my wracked anatomy but after one, fairly inept session of thrashing around in privacy, I could already feel a vast improvement in a couple of real problem areas and suspect that this would only get better as I got more capable. Would I recommend it over a core workout or time on the bike? No. Would I recommend it as an excellent way to work at aches and pains on a rest day? Yes, most definitely. Given that these retail for somewhere in the region of £20, they represent a very modest one time investment of money for what appears to be tangible results and I really can't fault it as a product, even if I am little less convinced about it as a lifestyle.

Apparently there is little bit of both Brad and Jackie lurking in the recesses of us all.

'How was the rolling?' My wife asks from the jumbo cord as I wander into the front room. 'Is it sh*t?'

I poke at a shoulder and consider my answer for a moment whilst she demolishes another level of Candy Crush.

'I'm glad I tried it but I'm not getting invested.' I say absently.

She smiles faintly, giving me the impression that she somehow doubts my conviction as I sit down and begin scrolling through the television to find the latest episode of Drag Race.

Burning Love

'You, your mum and then I'd see where the dogs were. In that order.'

The boy stares at me for a moment, probably waiting to see if I'm joking.

'What if the dogs had already run out?' He asks finally.

'Then I'd get the box with all of our wedding stuff in it.'

'Hmm...' He scratches his small, triangular chin for a moment. 'I thought you'd definitely rescue your bike.'

I would, I think to myself. But only if there was time.

'So you'd just let it burn?'

It is dinner time and, as always, we are fielding one of the boy's 'what if' questions. Tonight is the classic what three things would you rescue from the house in a fire. I sneak a glance at my bike, sitting as it does in the dining room (much to the constant but unspoken annoyance of my wife) and ponder my strange, emotive realtionship with it.

'It would make me sad,' I concede. 'But there are other bikes. There's only one of you guys.'

I love my bike. I like looking at it and frequently enjoy riding it. It is, in its current form, a labour of love, a composite of carefully tailored upgrades and the end result of my obsession (and some very tight budgeting). It is very nearly art and I am quite certain that it will find itself mounted on a wall somewhere in my future when my legs or back finally give out.

The truth is that there are other bikes. But there is only one of this bike. I would lose more than an object if I lost it, I would lose something that is now fundamentally a part of me.

I ride a Bianchi frame, an Intenso in the traditional celeste livery. It sports a nice pair of Reynolds Assault SL carbon wheels with a solid but not over the top 41mm depth (a concession to the perpetual winds that hammer anyone foolish enough to cycle on the coast). It has some lovely aero bars and surprisingly comfortable Fizik saddle. One day, it will have a high end group set but the house currently requires the kind of work that makes that a pipe dream. It is not top of the line. It is a long way from entry level. It is a mish mash of what suits my riding style and needs rather than a slavish assemblege of the newest products and I love it. I love it aesthetically and I love the feel of it when I ride.

Through various iterations, this bike and I have covered thousands of miles, claimed more finishers medals that I can currently remember, won and lost KOM's and made countless late night dashes to the shop to buy rum before it closes. We have liked each other, hated each other and, sometimes, stoically ignored one another.

Having this sort of a relationship with an inanimate object may seem peculiar to anyone who doesn't ride. Anyone who does ride knows that a bike is far from inanimate. It is alive and in constant flux. It is an object designed to move, preferably at high speeds. It has to to stay upright. It needs you to keep up. It needs to be looked after, worked on and respected.

The rewards for this are varied. Some, like pert buttocks, a lack of middle aged spread and a distinct set of tan lines, are obvious. Others are more subtle but quite profound. I have spent some fantastic times with my son on bikes. I have been welcomed across finish lines by my wife holding a bag of Indian food, beers and actual pride in my achievement. I have seen parts of the world (including the town where I live) that I would never have ventured into were it not for my bike. I have seen my stress levels and quick temper vanish as a result of riding. I have come to learn that half of the ride is for me and my bike, half is all about getting home to my family. I have actually become a better father, husband and person thanks to my realtionship with my bike. It has taught me to value my time, my physical well being, my surroundings and those around me who quietly strive to keep me moving, upright, worked on and respected.

So, yes. My bike is more than a bike. It is a part of my life that is irreplaceable to me, ironically because it has lead me to fully understand the other things around me that are even more irreplaceable.

The boy scratches his chin for a moment longer before turning his attention back to his dinner.

'I still can't believe you'd let it burn'. He says absently.

I look for a moment at his small chin as he works at a mouthful of pasta, then at my wife as she studiously avoids becoming embroiled in the discussion but descreetly touches my hand with her little finger in that way that I love.

'It's what it would want'. I tell him.

The truth is that there are other bikes. But there is only one of this bike. I would lose more than an object if I lost it, I would lose something that is now fundamentally a part of me.

This Garmin Man

I love my Garmin, like the majority of modern road cyclists. The range of live information and constant nagging little beeps are excellent comapny on a solo ride (or an insidious little reminder of your lack of form on a day when you just don't have the legs). The legendary rivaly between myself and my little computer generated opponent is the stuff of legend (in my own mind) and our epic battles up Battery Hill would make a fine finale to any cycling movie.

Strava, as we all know, is the gateway drug to a good bike computer but the joy of pouring over your ride data from the comfort of your armchair is secondary to a live array of information flickering around somewhere above your front tire, spurring you on even as your back and legs have decided it's definitely time to call it a day.

With my Garmin 1000 Edge sitting on a very pretty K-Edge mount, I sometimes revert back to the days of my Falcon Pro BMX and find myself making little engine noises, faintly imagining that I'm Street Hawk as I 'hurtle' along the sea front at a very steady 25mph. If the display of the bike computer could be tweaked to resemble those very eighties digital numerics, then the illusion would be complete and I may never actually get off of my bike. If I could somehow turn Strava segments into the heads up display from the trench run of Star Wars, then I might actually die of happiness.

In short, my Garmin makes my rides fun and provides me with a bit of company as I lead my stoically one man CC out on another club run, loyally logging those miles I need to keep my Strava account looking respectable.

But owning a Garmin presents another, often unnoticed joy... Leaving home without it.

Unlike my dogs, the Garmin doesn't sit and stare forlornly out of the window as I leave the house. Nor do I worry that it will relocate the contents of the hallway to the first floor landing while I am out and, touch wood, it has never made its displeasure at being left behind known by copiously soiling the kitchen floor. You needn't feel bad about leaving it or promise solemnly to walk it when you get back, your Garmin doesn't mind.

Now, the usual reason for leaving the Garmin behind is that I am heading to the seafront to ride with the boy. He's not a slouch in the saddle by any means and has a rather fine looking road bike of his own but we are not out to log miles or hunt KOM's. We're out because he wants to ride bikes. He wants to go fast, imagine that he's whatever the modern version of Street Hawk is and stop for ice cream. He wants to just be excited to be on his bike and enjoy that unique autonomy and sense of freedom that a bike creates (as best he can with a middle aged man keeping a careful watch from a few feet behind).

These are some of my favourite rides and have a unique feel of their own. Jeans on, sunglasses on, the K-Edge distinctly lacking a bike computer and no particular point in being out other than to just ride for the sake of riding. These are the rides where cadance doesn't matter, spaghetti arms are a given and your bike becomes fun again. In a lot of ways, these are the rides where you stop being a parent for an hour and just become friends on bikes, talking crap and enjoying each other's company.

They are great rides and I suggest that you get them in while you can. The boy has already completed one small sportive and has the bug. It won't be too long before my one man CC gains another member and another Garmin (or probably a Wahoo knowing the boy... He likes to be contentious) and these idle rides slowly become quiet, goal driven runs with eyes fixed on streams of live data. At least, until I'm too old to keep up and then he will have to carry the one man CC alone with only the beeps of his bike computer for company as I get spat out of the back of our two man peleton.

Your Garmin won't mind if you leave it at home once in a while. Your love for your bike will thank you for it. Your partner in cycling crime will have a great time and there's a wealth of quality ice cream out there to sample if you're willing to cycle slowly enough.

Of course, you should leave your Strava running somewhere in your back pocket. You need the miles.

L'Etape London 2017

After a dismal London 100, with inadequate training, dire weather and a finishing time that made me want to cry, I thought I should seek out some sort of redemption for myself before the season winds down for the winter here in the UK.

So, I turned to the L'Etape, a Tour De France affiliated sportive organised by Human Race that departs and finishes from the rather magnificent Olympic Velodrome in Stratford, taking in 115 miles of city and countryside and featuring three sprints: two intermediate (at 40 and 85 miles) and one 1km effort around the road track back in Stratford. I expected the pace to be high with the number of clubs involved and a fairly flat, fast looking course inviting some pretty full on efforts to get around the route as fast as possible. As an added bonus, the weather, for once this year, was forecast to be dry and bright, so everything looked good for a challenging but rewarding day in the saddle.

I stayed overnight in Stratford with my wife and the boy, so it was a relatively luxurious amble to the start line at a surprisingly civilised 7.00am. We had seen several other participants checking into our Travelodge the previous night, so it was clear that this was going to be a well attended event with some serious riders and I took myself to bed for an early night. It didn't take long to arrive at the Velodrome, take in the usual paltry coffee van and spend some time surreptitiously checking out the competition, suddenly wondering if my 41mm carbon rims looked a bit spartan by comparison to some of the 90mm and full TT set ups that were milling around. There were a good number of staff manning the event, even at this early start, although they were unable to use the speaker system at this time of day, so getting information about loading times was a little haphazard.

I decided to hang around the loading area, so as not to miss my start and actually ended up being ushered out with an earlier group, enjoying a nice spin on part of the road track before being lead out onto the roads. This is not a part of London that I feel overly familiar with (Stratford and the surrounding areas were still very much a wasteland back in my days of hurtling around the city on mountain bikes and BMX's), so I had that slow and steady feel that inevitably creeps over you when you're riding unfamiliar roads. However, it was crisp, sunny and I felt good on the bike, so the fairly swift pace off of the line set by the club riders was welcome and I followed the large group out onto the course, letting their familiarty with the route set the tempo.

Of course, I got dropped fairly swiftly and, riding alone, soon found myself in that strange no man's land of being faster than the slower riders but not able to hold the wheel of the faster groups. Which left me alone. In a block head wind. With 100 miles to go.

Suffice to say, my finish time was not what I had hoped for. Despite feeling strong, the head wind really ate into my energy and my back began to ache early on as a result of hunching into the relentless gusts. By the 100 mile mark, I finally got off, made my way into a newsagent and bought a beer to lament my rough outing... Not something I would generally recommend but definitely a marginal gain for my knotted shoulders.

That aside, the route was lovely, with some spectacular roads and literally the greatest feed stations I have ever encountered on an organised ride (salted, baked potatoes anyone?). It is a ride I would recommend, especially if you are lucky enough to have a tail wind or a solid club to go with. As a lone rider, I found that I noticed the lack of road side encouragement that is rife in say London to Brighton or the London 100 but there were moments that made up for it, notably the three sprint sections that forced me to think about how to spend my energy in ways that more endurance based rides do not.

The medal I got at the finish line was great (as long as you don't look at the finish time on the reverse) and there were a number of events and activities going on that had helped to distract my wife and the boy from their nagging worries about my extended ride time. So, overall it was a good experience, if not a great day in the saddle for me on a personal level and, as I said, I would recommend it.

So, I suppose I will have to wait for 2018 to find my form again and get back to those solid finishing times from two years ago. Then I'll be back to try this course again and nab myself a medal with a time that I can wear with pride, in addition to a few handfuls of those delicious, carb filled potatoes.

Lens Me You Ears

Cycling - as anyone who has stood in front of a mirror and gazed in admiration at their own razor sharp tan lines will tell you - is a strangely emotive thing. There is a huge amount that can influence how you feel on the bike from the basic mechanics of well maintained group set to the smaller, more personal touches you apply to that aggressively tight kit. Feeling good on the bike, however, invariably translates into stronger legs and a renewed urge to put in the miles, although there is no exact scientific research available to back up these bold claims.

What that has to do with me coming into possession of a pair of Oakley Jawbreakers and celebrating my own mediocrity is a slightly convoluted tale but, since you asked, I'm happy to share.

When I first started 'cycling' as opposed to simply 'riding bikes', I was one of those rare beasts you pass on the road with no mitts and no sunglasses. You might experience a moment a self doubt as you rocket past, wondering what marginal gain I have acquired by shedding these few grams, what aerodynamic benefit am I quietly reaping by going out semi nude? What you wouldn't know is that I didn't have any of these things in mind... I just didn't own any sunglasses and still find that going gloveless helps me to disperse heat but thank you for being momentarily intimidated.

What you also wouldn't know is that my face is some sort of powerful magnet for Bees and Sandflies, as I soon discovered when my average speed crept up and I was venturing further and further into the rather lovely countryside that surrounds Hastings. In addition to being constantly heralded as Shoreditch on Sea, this town also has the highest population of suicidal airborne insects known to man, something to bear in mind if you are ever tempted to move your artisan bunting and chutney emporium down to the coast. My eyes were perpetually being pelted by insects, some just casually smashing into them, others becoming lodged to die a horrible death and leaving me to watch my average speed drop as my efforts to get them out intensified.

Clearly, something had to be done to maintain my Strava averages and some sort of sporting eyewear was the answer.

Sports sunglasses are a strange beast, ruined forever by middle aged men who wear them whilst out shopping with their wives, lending them a perpetually pissed off expression and the quiet air of someone who means to abscond with you with you in the back of their van or talk to you about their U2 covers band (perhaps even both). It also does not help that my wife has a very real aversion to these glasses (primarily for the reasons above, although she puts it in slightly less flattering terms), so much so that even now I wait to leave the house and get around the corner before putting mine on, for fear that her love for me may die.

My first tentative foray into sports glasses came with the London 100 in 2015 and a swift visit to Evans at London Bridge. The suddenly very real prospect of dragging myself over 100 miles with a variety of drowning insects in my eyes caused me to make this sudden detour and purchase a £15 pair of very basic clear glasses (my reasoning being that I could always use them for odd jobs or pillar drilling, should I ever decide to take up either in later life).

They were perfectly serviceable, a revelation to wear on the ride and I sported them fairly consistently on the bike after that.

I'd like to say that I bought another pair because I lost these, or needed something more technical to meet my ever increasing prowess on the bike. However, as many of you reading this will understand, it was actually just that little nagging voice inside the cyclists brain that began to suggest, casually, that maybe these glasses weren't cool enough. Maybe they looked too cheap. Perhaps my legs might be stronger and faster if I treated them to a better, more technical slice of eyewear, something more akin to those you'd see in the professional peloton...

All of which sounded more than reasonable to me (after all, my little nagging voice only has my best interests at heart, even if it does have a stark disregard for my bank balance), so I duly went back to Evans and surreptitiously tried on a few pairs of slightly more expensive glasses.

I settled on a pair of Tifosi Dolemite 2.0 with a photochromic lens (the prospect of having to predict what lens I might need to counter the ever shifting seaside light just seemed too much like work and, to be honest, it just seemed like a cool sort of technical detail).

They weren't exactly what I had had in mind and a far cry from the Poc or Oakley shapes dominating the peloton but they suited my budget (around the £60 mark) and didn't make any bold statements about my average speed or sprinting abilities. They were, however, a solid pair of cycling glasses for a competent middle aged cyclist and were neutral enough that I wouldn't need to worry about them not matching my kit. They successfully blocked the shifting light, kept out the insects, were slightly too small for my face, had a thick frame that obscured a fair amount of peripheral vision and fogged like an absolute swine on any kind of climb in even reasonable temperatures.

I loved them.

I proudly sported these glasses on my return to the London 100 in 2016 and sailed through the ride on strong legs to set what still stands as my best time. I felt and performed like a much more informed, dedicated and competent rider (and I also appreciated that they hid my very tired looking eyes after a brutally early start time and a rough nights sleep in an Elephant & Castle hostel). As I said, cycling is a strangely emotive sport and small details can sometimes make a huge difference to how your brain and body get along, regardless of the fact that you're half blinded by misty lenses as you drag your padded backside up Leith Hill.

Sadly, the brain can work both ways and, in the following year, I changed job and traded my usual cycling routine in order to gain some more time with my family. I immediately found it difficult to get motivated when out of my usual rhythm and, as I spent less time on the bike, I noticed that the weights and core exercises I managed to fit in were beginning to alter my body shape and muscle mass. I looked healthy but my power to weight was all out and my nutritional needs on the bike had changed too. I was suddenly set back, slower and less able, suddenly not confident in what I was and wasn't able to do. Hills were hard work, my average speed dropped and we had one of the worst summers for wind and rain that I can remember. Everything conspired to keep me off of the bike in the run up to 2017's London 100, to the point that I seriously considered abandoning.

However, with rain forecast and almost no structured training, I duly set off to London to sign in at the Excel Centre and, up there without my family for the first time, I was free to have a good look around the various stands and displays. It was there that I stumbled upon the Oakley Jawbreakers being sold at a discount (although still enough money to force some serious mathematics and hasty restructuring of my projected rum consumption for the month).

I hovered, I procrastinated, the little nagging voice in my brain suggested that I try them on, hinting that perhaps my under trained legs might be stronger and faster if I treated them to a better, more technical slice of eyewear, something more akin to those you'd see in the professional peloton...

And so, I seem to have crossed the finish line of the London 100 in three successive years in three different pairs of glasses. I don't really need to say anything in terms of a review, the Jawbreakers are a fantastic piece of kit and there are a lot of other, more technically able writers who will guide you through their many fantastic qualities. There was still some minor fogging in the periphery of my vision on those hills and one, very game bug managed to sucked in through the vents in the lenses but they are light, comfortable and the rather natty red mirrored lenses do an incredible job of filtering out UV rays and the general noise that some glasses let through. More importantly, I felt like a better cyclist and the shape made me feel more aero, more aggressive in the saddle again. They are a pleasure to ride in and I would recommend forgoing the low to mid price offerings if you can and go straight for these, they will speak straight to emotive cyclist inside of you and make you feel like a pro, even when your limbs disagree.

I'd like to be able to finish this story by telling you that I powered through the 2017 London 100 and set a new personal record, my legs suddenly rejuvenated by my new glasses and brimming with new found wattage stores. Unfortunately, I slogged it through rain, a strong headwind and had to admit defeat on Leith Hill, eventually staggering my way across the line about 40 minutes slower than my personal best and 30 minutes slower than I managed on a steel framed city bike two years before. Despite that, I managed to hit 57mph drag racing through central London, felt almost no spray as I tucked at the back of the group on the wet roads and enjoyed feeling the compulsion to ride spring back to life inside me as I ticked off agonising miles from behind my red tinted visor.

I will be back for next years 100, hopefully with a body that is more in line with my renewed desire to better my performance, when I can do my bike and kit justice.

As I said, there is a huge amount that can influence how you feel on the bike that will eventually translate into stronger legs and a renewed urge to put in the miles if you let it. It's far from an exact science but, in terms of proven results, I can honestly say that I've never felt better about putting in a mediocre performance than I did in those glasses.

Why Cycle?

To paraphrase Dorothy Parker, I don't so much enjoy riding bikes as having ridden them.

I have cycled for my the majority of my life (who hasn't?), starting out on a trusty Raleigh Budgie at some point in the late seventies before moving on to a much loved and ridden to death Falcon Pro BMX (usually ridden flat out whilst bellowing music from one Star Wares film or another). From there, I graduated into the inevitable mountain bikes of the nineties (including a very 'of it's time' purple Ridgeback that, I assure you, was quite the thing in its day). Cycling became a means for my teenage self to get around London without the crowds or sluggish pace of the bus or tube, feeling some sort of Hot Rod joy at streaking through gridlocked traffic. Somewhere in my early twenties, I became obsessed with BMX's again and reverted back to a beautiful We The People street bike that I thrashed to death over many years of riding around London despite the constant barrage of abuse and amusing comments about my bike being too small for me.

In my late thirties, I finally gave up on London, moved to the seaside, met a beautiful woman who foolishly decided to marry me, bought a very lovely Tokyo CS and was more than happy to roll up with the rest of the Sunday riders at the London to Brighton and parade my way to the finish line. Life was lovely and, as always, a bike was a huge part of my overall well being.

Then I decided to enter the London 100 and everything changed.

Looking back now, there is nothing like the sheer joy of riding a bike for the pure pleasure of it. No Garmin, no quiet appraisal of other people's frames, kit, wheels, glasses and so on... No dagger to the heart when the dreaded email arrives to tell you that you've been robbed of your (one and only) Strava KOM.

Somewhere on that Sunday in 2015, that joy shifted.

Heaving a steel framed city bike with its unusually small wheels through London and Surrey, over Leith Hill, Box Hill and that last agonising push over whatever bastard hill that is in Wimbledon was a challenge. Streaking past people on expensive carbon framed bikes in full kit, however, was thrilling. Realising how much faster I would be on a road bike, properly kitted out and with some focused training was the point at which joy became obsession.

A moment that I'm sure many of you will be familiar with.

As I said, I don't so much enjoy riding bikes as having ridden them. They're a part of my life, I can measure periods of change by what I was riding. I can measure the growth of my family by how many bikes are cluttering hallways, lean to's and lofts. I love being a part of a culture that has shaped the history of the country in sporting and social terms. I love those moments when I sweep down a descent and the child inside me suddenly clamours to make engine noises at the sheer thrill of the speed. I love that I have passed that joy onto my son and that he doesn't care what hunk of junk he rides, he just wants to go as far as he can as fast as he can.

For me, riding bikes has become 'cycling'. An obsession. An uneasy bedfellow with rum consumption, the only other sport I am good at. It's something I make myself do even when my body doesn't want to, something I monitor through statistics and structured training, something hideously compelling.

These days, I ride a very lovely, slavishly maintained Bianchi that tortures my calves, thighs and back. It was recently treated to some very expensive wheels and has a very extravagant bike computer hanging from the front. It is, without exaggeration, better dressed than me and must be the most beautiful torture device ever to set rubber to tarmac (but then everyone says that about their own bike, don't they?).

I ride it because I am compelled to push myself further and go as far and fast as my bike deserves to, regardless of how much it hurts. Somewhere in the recess of my mind, lingering beneath the desire to reclaim that one precious KOM, I must be aware that one day this Bianchi and the things I achieve on it will be added to the long list of bikes I have ridden rather than ride. Then, I will love it as dearly as that first Raleigh and every other bike that has helped to shape and better my life.

However, there is a lot of cycling between here and there.