Yes, it's official - it's hip to bike.
Those nice folks at Rapha know what they're doing on the bike front - this lovely bit of film shows just that:
And it might not be the most up-to-date, but while we're on a Rapha tip, might as well have a quick gander at this - one of my dream older men, dapper PS himself, lover of all things two-wheeled (I had a moment with him once, about 20 years ago, as he walked past a Notting Hill restaurant I was having dinner in - lifetime crush ensued):
I'd let him win too.
A few years ago, when I was in-house stylist for the lovely James Day, we were asked to photograph PS's bike. I almost did a mess in my pants, because I foolishly thought that Sir Paul Smith would ride up, glistening in a nice single-breasted worsted, and I'd get to spend the day with him. Numbskull. The bike came by courier, lovingly covered in bubblewrap and brown paper (PS knows it's the ONLY paper to wrap in, daaahling). It sure was a pretty bike, though - I'd expect nothing less from Mr Style:
When I showed the bit of Team Rapha footage to our Mr Rogers, he suggested I ferret out what he called "the Daddy of all cycling films". It shows a long-distance road race in Quebec from 1965, 2400km covered in 12 days, a phenomenal feat - watch all of it - nice bit of swampy surf rock too:
He's a cycling fiend, Mr Rogers. Despite having suffered the most terrible injuries in a cycling accident himself last year, as soon as he was up on his feet, he worked on the short film that follows. I only found out about this the other day - it features a great character actor, Timothy Spall, who can easily reduce me to tears with his performance. Watching Mr Spall in this was no exception - had a right blub - and it only grows my admiration for a photographer who hasn't let his injuries hold him back:
Right, that's enough of the soppy stuff.
The chaps at Blunt have been busy snapping anyone who's anyone on a bike. Turns out Mark Cavendish is a sweetheart (bravo on today's Giro, sir), Sir Chris Hoy is enormous and Victoria Pendleton has buns of steel (official):
Top wheel shots by Satoshi
The Boss has a new bike. It's a lovely old Jack Taylor:
Next year, she's buying some wheels.
Of all the films I've posted here, this film about Jack Taylor and his brothers is the sweetest. A lovely 1970s period piece, the film follows this tiny family firm round their shabby Stockton-On-Tees workshop, with comparisons to a hi-tech Italian handbuild, or the mass production of the Raleigh factory. I know what I'd rather own:
6m 41s: "Norman Taylor checks frame alignment by eye and string."
Brilliant.
And me? Me + bikes = trouble. A late adopter, never having cycled as a kid, it was my late teens before my then flame Mr C encouraged me in the pedal arts. He bought me an old bike, and suggested I give it a go. Ever open to suggestion, I did. Total shambles that turned out to be. It lasted one week. I managed the following:
Day 1: clipped curb with wheel, fell in heap on path.
Day 3: tried to turn right at junction, panicked at sight of oncoming car, swerved off road, crashed into welcoming tree.
Day 7 (my pièce de résistance): following an evening at a friend's house, Mr C and I set off, about 2am, to cycle home. I'd like to point out right now - I was most certainly NOT drunk. I didn't, however, have any lights on my bike. Mr C ventured that we try and get off the main road as soon as possible. Just as we were approaching the safety of our chosen diversion, I spotted a police car heading straight for us down the main road. "Quick, follow me!" called Mr C, as he whizzed off down the side road. I made a valiant attempt to follow as bid, but was shitting myself so much, fear of a night in the cells for being in possession of a light-less Raleigh Shopper, that I looked behind me to see if Plod was chasing me...and rode really bloody fast straight into the back of a parked car. Smashed my face on the back windscreen, bust my lip, crumpled into a snivelling mess in the middle of the road. Police car pulls up, them absolutely pissing themselves, "Well, what happened there?" they guffawed. I could only blub that I thought I might get into trouble, sobbing, blood running down my cheek. "Only trouble of your own making, love. Now, keep off that thing before you do yourself a serious mischief." Wise words, officer. And I've stuck with that advice ever since.
(Postscript: as my oldest friend is hurtling towards London on his bike, he'll be celebrating his birthday. A couple more birthdays deserve a mention - two other wonderful Taureans I've known and loved, sadly no longer here. My dear friend Tabby - we should be getting smashed with you, 40 today, having a ball. And, for tomorrow, my Dad - I miss you every single day.)
