Worn Cleats, Humble Pie & Food For Thought

Thundering along memory lane to my mid teens, I arrived at a friend's house to show off my newly built Raleigh conversion. His father, (a salesman by trade) well versed in turning on the charm for those he disliked answered the door. Spotting the fixed transmission he cheerfully quipped “Bloody dangerous, fixed- had one when I was your age, regularly threatened to come out from underneath me.”. He’d made other observations but that has always stuck with me. Forward twenty years and a correspondingly colossal mileage without such an achievement on my cycling CV, I was chasing the blues away aboard my beloved Ilpompino.....

Carving into corners and swooping into the bends, the long and positively deserted lanes had become my personal playground. Alone in my smug little bubble, I found myself sniggering at his misfortune…"What a load of old Botox, I’ve never had a fixed come from underneath me in all these years and all the miles…even with extreme provocation”.

Well, the gods of worn shoe cleats and erratic road surfacing must’ve taken dim views of this self congratulatory behaviour. A long descent, touching 30mph and without warning my right cleat disengages! A spate of panic ensued as I tried to regain control by holding off against the transmission, redistributing my weight and groping in vain for the front brake. Hurtling past a school for the well heeled (or should that be cleated), was probably not the best time to unleash a torrent of expletives!

Mortified mothers in SUVs, proud grandparents and an unimpressed head teacher all gazed in wide wonder at the Lycra clad reprobate hurtling before them. Concluding their lesson in humility, the gods handed me back control of my bike, bodily functions and command of the English Language just in time to avoid a traffic bollard.

Hauling the brake lever fully home, I stopped short of further indignity long enough to re-engage my foot for the final and somewhat cautious two miles to my front door.

Suffice to say the cleats were replaced within five minutes of locking the bike away.

The obvious moral here is routine inspection of shoe cleats but it provides other food for thought. Sometimes the law is just and there to defend us. Here in the UK, bikes with fixed wheels are required to have a single, front brake-the transmission being recognised as a rear (we all know, holding off against the cranks slows with much greater control and road feedback-especially in poor weather).

I’m not turning against anyone who chooses to ride brakeless outside of a velodrome and I’m very aware that in the US, the law varies from state to state. As my encounter demonstrates, worn cleats/riding without respect for the unexpected can result in an accident just as readily as riding sans brakes. However, one fine day when you're filtering through the traffic, that mother about to give birth to twenty-one children could readily step accross your path and into the arms of a merciless lawyer.....

Next: Far From The Madding Crowd....

Romancing The Circuit

So, dispatchin’s cool again just as it was twenty years ago when the first wave of wannabes started riding the city streets on mountain bikes shod with slick tyres and messenger bags slung over their shoulders. Back in the day, it seemed to be a right of passage for post qualified journalists and a fair few arts students to serve on the London circuit. I recall a friendly acquaintance remarking there was nothing remotely glamorous about riding ten hours a day (often soaked to the skin), having coke cans and abuse hurled by youths in tuned Fords, the city grime that permeates every fibre of your clothing and (amongst the ladies) tender, bruised breasts where the radio has repeatedly made contact. Then there’s the unscrupulous firms, no sick or holiday pay, no unions (although things are improving thanks to organised messenger groups), the constant threat of bike theft and the very real risk of becoming a statistic.

Certain sections of the media continue to perpetuate the glamour myth, failing to make the distinction between this “outlaw” romanticism- being paid to ride your bike and the stark reality of riding your bike to earn a living. The lean days when you barely get a job or can’t work due to a tumble with the tarmac/ illness are seldom considered. In the words of my late father (who looked after motorcycle factory riders during the 1960s) “Doesn’t matter how good a rider you/think you are, you always come off”.



The flexibility suits those with other business/interests or folks with a healthy contempt for the nine-to-five. I can fully appreciate how this is so easily romanticised. Perhaps the numbers of civilian riders astride track bikes dressed in retro merino wool jerseys, ¾ knickers complete with messenger bags should be regarded as the sincerest form of flattery (although I regularly encounter hapless fashion victims wind milling around the capital on ridiculously tall gears). The circuit attracts people from all walks of life and it’s nothing like the movies.. I’ve never met a messenger without a story or two. My personal favourite being a courier reunited with his steed, the thief saying he was returning it as he couldn’t ride it(!)-fixers were far less prevalent twenty odd years ago.


Whilst the elite and the seasoned might carve gracefully through the urban sprawl like athletic salmon aboard Bianchi Pistas, Specialized Langsters and a wealth of more exotic mounts; others, dressed in baggy tracksuits and trainers are earning minimum wage on beater mountain bikes with expiring transmissions.

The glory days of £450 a week may be a distant memory, yet the recent postal dispute saw some earning almost double and there’s no shortages of folk seduced by the image and perceived lifestyle. Whether they flatter or frustrate, the wannabes look set to stay….

Next: Worn shoe cleats and the perils of ignoring one's elders