Wednesday Chain Gang - Baker's Dozen

Now that we have properly-dark chain gangs, we are starting to have 'proper' chain gang weather, although the rain that persisted all day had stopped as we assembled for our ride across the marshes, and it was pretty warm without the nagging easterly or northerly winds of late. The worst of the puddles had drained away, so there was little spray to obscure our sight, mess up our bikes and splatter our freshly-laundered Castelli kit. A smattering of regulars rolled up - Michael M, Stuart H, Slawek G, Stewart B, Steve, John V, Alex S, Nigel T and others my memory is too feeble to recall. Peter Buss looked stood out a little more than usual in a designer-concept one-piece cycling costume inspired by the ultra-close fit of a condom and the feathers of the pink flamingo. I'll leave that one to your imagination, rather than share the photographs.

"I'm wearing it for Pierre" he said. "R-r-r-ight..." I stuttered, a little shocked. "No, it's not like that - we met in Paris (he pronounced it 'Paree'), he's a fashion designer I met on my latest shoot. Pierre's a genius - he can work miracles with a length of silk and some scissors." I backed away, smiling nervously. "You look great Peter" - Lord Buckland was sniggering into his Merino wool neck warmer, his valet holding a silver-salver with a half-full glass of champers, and a heavily-muscled masseur warming up his thigh muscles. Cyclists are a truly diverse bunch. I like that about the sport.

With a good number of chain gang regulars lounging around in Majorca and others perhaps deterred by the prospect of more rain, we were a relatively small group of 13 riders, so we set off as one group. I was reassured by the stupendously superb Stuart Hodd that he was going to take it easy as he was saving himself for a race on Friday at the Cyclopark (fingers crossed that you get the points you need for your Cat 2 classification Stuart). I led out the group with Stuart alongside, and two neat lines of riders following behind.

I soon realised I was having a bad night; there was not much go in the legs. Oh dear. I got dropped early but managed to get back into the group, taking a turn at the front, but that was me pretty much 'cooked'. I fell back, legs feeling feeble and my my spirits low. One of those nights. I dropped well back and eventually I was caught by Peter B. I was pleased to have some company and together we rotated our way across the dark and damp marsh. It was apparent that Peter was struggling for breath, not helped I think by his new 'costume'. In full race mode, the wearer is required to pull a thin rubber sheath down over the head. The purpose is to provide superior aerodynamics and it does look very effective in this regard. It does, however, limit breathing. I have found breathing to be a very useful skill when cycling.

I ventured that this was a significant design flaw. Peter mumbled something back and I realised that speech was also impeded by the prototype gear. No matter - we matched each other's pace and were not that far behind the lead group, waiting at the lay-by to start the return leg.

I fancied that with a bit of wind assistance I could make a better effort on the way back. It went well as far as Spooky Hill, when I was again reminded that my legs were on holiday. I swore into the dark night, but I had neither the heart nor the energy to up my effort. I settled back into a pace I could maintain, riding solo back to town, following the distant red lights of faster and fresher riders.

Peter rolled up not long after me, with the experimental kit torn and ripped. "Did you crash Peter?" I asked, genuinely concerned. "No, I've just made some adjustments, that's all. It's good kit, just needs some ventilation" he proclaimed, hair slick with sweat and eyes bulging. "It looks a bit tight chum - can you breath ok..?" I left it there.

Having bidden farewell to our erstwhile riding pals, Peter and I set off back to the marshes, with Lord B and an Eastbourne rider in front. They soon cleared off, leaving just the two of us to wend our way back to the Peoples' Republic of Normans Bay. We paused at the border to watch the bats circling the lights on the watchtowers, investigating the irritating clicking noise coming from Peter's back wheel. Problem fixed, I rode on but cut short my usual double-ration of chain gang, turning for home and rest that bit sooner, wondering what it was that had led to such a flat night for me. No answers were forthcoming, but there is next week - a fresh chain gang to be ridden again, on fresher legs.  See you there.

Postscript. Peter sent me a photo of him wearing the second prototype cycling kit, with Vicki slung over his shoulder. I think the ventilation problem has been addressed, but I am not so sure about the ears.


Post-postscript. "Are you ok chum, you don't seem yourself." Mr Buss has an uncanny knack of spotting when I am below par. I told him the problem, felt better for it, and remembered that it was cycling that had introduced us. All the nonsense above is my way of saying 'thank you' for being a good friend Peter. A strange way, I know, but nonetheless a thank you. Just don't wear that costume again.


Regards, Neil