I’ve been talked into a cycling trip – nobody warned me about the wardrobe
Illustration of Andrew Tuck looking perplexed in cycle gear, as his dog Macy enjoys the scene.
I have been persuaded by my friend Chiara to go on a bike ride in the Mallorcan countryside. Not my usual pootle beside the ocean on the trusty electric but rather a jaunt that involves wearing, well, cycling gear.
I like Chiara. But on this occasion, I really don’t trust her. She owns an extravagant quantity of racing bicycles, comes from a family of professional cyclists and seems rather unpleasantly giddy about having persuaded me to commit to riding with her. “I am going to take lots of photos,” she said to me the other day in a tone of voice that did not make me feel relaxed.
Chiara claims to have much of the apparel that I need – this might end up being more drag race than cycle race – but she did instruct me to purchase a “bib”. This, for the uninitiated, is essentially a pair of Lycra shorts with braces and an excessive quantity of padding around one’s buttocks. Imagine, if you can face the image before your full English, a family-sized tortilla placed in the back of your knickers and you will at least have the scale of the upholstery fixed in your mind, if not the consistency.
Not wanting to invest too much in an outfit that might never be worn a second time, I headed to an out-of-town sports megastore where, among the paddle boards and padel racquets, I located the bib section. I immediately realised that I needed support – and not just in the crotch.
A young man approached me, offering his assistance, and I explained my needs in sort of Spanish – even if this did involve some additional miming and pointing to bits of the body that could have you fired if enacted in an office. But rather than call a lawyer, he mentally scanned my physique and, without guffawing, dispatched me to the changing rooms holding several outfits that brought to mind Dick Van Dyke singing “Me Ol’ Bamboo” in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang (think the pinging of braces).
I tried on the small-sized bib and my thoughts drifted to a plate of spatchcock chicken served with boiled eggs. The medium seemed less likely to induce the voice of a castrato but I was unsure about the level of snugness needed. From inside the changing room I phoned Chiara, who seemed highly delighted with my purchasing challenges. She might have cackled. “What else should I purchase?” I enquired. We agreed that I would locate a cycle shirt, which I did. But on the way out I also picked up swimming goggles and some funny net shoes that you can wear in the sea if you feel that there’s a danger of sea urchins underfoot. At the till the cashier looked at my eclectic selection of gear and seemed poised to ask what sport I was intending to participate in – but then, mercifully, she let the moment pass.
So let’s see what happens. I have knees that at times move with the ease of rusted Victorian steam-engine pistons but I have some hope. I also have a tortilla-padded gusset. And if all else fails, there might be a passing bus.
