Wednesday, 1 February 2017

Does roadie masochism go deeper than you thought?

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We all know the best road riders have a significant capacity to hurt themselves. A desire, even. A productive one. As with Antarctic explorers, SAS trainees and Justin Bieber fans, there’s a yearning to push their bodies and minds as far as possible into horror. It’s this determination to suffer that brings them out the other side with stunning results. Apart from in the case of Beliebers, where all they get is a nagging sense that at the heart of things lives a clawing emptiness.

This I understand. This desire to push I understand. I slump on the sofa watching YouTube clips of World Cup racers and I think, “You and me both, pal. I get it.” And then I have another Hob Nob biscuit.

But recently I’ve discovered there’s another layer to the suffering. How? Because after years of mountain bikes, I’ve finally started riding road bikes. Now I’m seeing it from the inside. And there are certain things that really stand out if, like me, you’re new to it. Mainly, it’s that the roadie desire to suffer is as mechanical as it is physical. It’s embodied in the bikes.

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My epiphany took place during a rainswept ride on dirty country lanes. Dropping into a steep Welsh combe, the braking noise from my lovely Mavic wheels was heartrending. The oily roadspray had mixed with grit, mud and rain to form a paste you could polish diamonds with. The brake pads gathered it up and squashed it into the rims and the bike screamed the unbelieving screams of the tortured. It made me want to cry.

I can genuinely steer by moving just one knee and both eyes from left to right. It’s borderline unstable at all times

And then I sped through the hedge at the bottom of the hill because the brakes had made noise instead of slowing me down, and a farmer and nine dogs were glaring at me from a rusty Toyota Hilux. Crying was off the table, instead I waved and made that farmerish greeting noise that’s like ‘ayyuh butt’ and shouldered back through the hedge, trying not to limp.

It’s because roadies don’t call them shorts. They call them knickers

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