If you believe that TV has no influence on kids, then I would invite you to look out your window and see what kids are up to. I think the first thing you’ll notice is the number of kids on bikes, wearing Lycra and travelling in packs, like a junior peloton. Those not on bikes will be finding empty spaces across which they can sling a rope and engage in some back yard tennis. And the reason for this? The Tour De France is on telly and Wimbledon has just finished.
Kids are not the only ones influenced by the Tour De France. I saw my first Astana cycling top on the way to work this morning. I guess its owner, a portly Gentleman in his forties who was taking the term ‘figure-hugging’ to a new level, was wearing it as a tribute to Lance Armstrong. Or perhaps he realised that Astana is the capital of Kazakhstan and he was making a Borat/Bruno fashion statement.
In any event, it made him fit in with the other Lycra wearing fanatics who gathered at the traffic lights at the top of St Kilda road. They had the wrap around glasses, clip on shoes and shaved legs of true professionals. Except these were office workers on the way into the City. I ambled up beside them in my ill-fitting fleece and baggy shorts and drew the occasional sneer in the way Michael Schumacher would if somebody pulled up beside him on a Honda 50.
There is a caste system in play and I was down with the street sweepers while the Lycra boys were Brahmin. I soothed my social inferiority by silently mocking the advertising that adorned their shirts. Why do people pay good money to advertise Saxo Bank, Bbox Bouygues Telecom and other European brands that they’ve never heard of? I refuse to be a mobile advertisement even if I could fit into the clothes.
The lights changed and we were off, speeding towards the City while trying to avoid speeding motorists and badly timed door openings.
A howling Northerly was in our face and everybody wanted to tuck in behind someone else, just as we had watched the riders do in France. Unfortunately, the cycle lane on St Kilda road is narrower than a duck’s backside, so we weren’t able to do the fanned formation as seen in the team time trial. Instead we quickly formed a long line and thanked our lucky stars that we weren’t the guy at the front.
By the third traffic light, the guy at the front had realised that he was dragging 20others up the road and he was pretty bitter about it. We had neglected our team duties and failed to take our turn at the front. I felt a pang of Catholic guilt and decided it was time I discovered my inner domestique. I wasn’t going to be a hero however and I let the Lycra boys take off first. I then stepped on the pedals and presented myself as the leader of the baggy shorts and baggy jumper’s brigade.
Cycling into the wind was like clambering through soup. And not a nice clear soup either but a thick and creamy one. I glanced behind to see how many of my colleagues had joined the train. It wasn’t a pretty sight. My baggy friends were scattered down the road like sprinters trying to make it to the top of Alp d’Huez. Only one guy had managed to stay with my manic pace and was desperately hugging my back wheel as though we were connected by an umbilical cord.
Half way along the road I started to fade. The wind was sapping my energy and the small bowl of cornflakes I had consumed before leaving had long since worked their way through my metabolism. I looked behind and my passenger was still clinging on. I’d seen this on stage 14 of the tour. George Hincapie had done all the work in a break away and was anxious that someone else should take their turn at the front. George flicked his elbow furiously at them which I took to be the international symbol for “get your arse up here and do some work”. I tried it with my passenger but had little luck. He knew he could get a free trip if he ignored me.
I tried going slower and weaving in and out like a drunken sailor but to no affect. He stubbornly stayed on my back wheel until we crossed St Kilda Road Bridge and came into the City Centre. Then like a Tour de France stage winner he clicked into a higher gear and passed me in a sickening blur. I tried desperately to take his wheel but the exertion of giving him a free ride was too much for me.
My honour had been slighted and I felt the bitter taste of defeat. The finishing line was close at hand but ahead one wobbly cyclist seemed to be struggling even more than me. I set my sights on overtaking her before the finish and summoned up one last push. I caught her just before the line, straining my neck and raising a pumped fist in triumph. I looked across and noticed that she had a basket on the front of her bike, was wearing jeans and high heeled shoes and was riding one of those small wheeled machines that could best be described as the bike for people who hate bikes.
In a sliding scale of cyclists with skinny Lycra fanatics at the top, girls in high heels with baskets on the front of their bikes would be at the other end. But no matter, like Alberto Contador in this year’s tour, I’ll take my victories wherever I find them. And as for that guy who stole a ride from me this morning, I hope you get a flat tyre on the way home tonight.
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