How To… celebrate Christmas like a cyclist
Around this time of year cycling magazines and websites invariably run a feature about how to celebrate Christmas if you’re a bike rider concerned with form and fitness. These tend to rely on the idea of fitting in with your family and friends. But why bother?
First, then, food. A classic Christmas dinner is not bad from a nutrition point of view. What’s much more dangerous is alcohol, crisps, and that tin of Quality Street. To avoid temptation do not let such things into the house. If anyone tries to sneak such objects in, confiscate and destroy them.
Second, people. The main function of people at Christmas is to spread infection. Avoid mistletoe. Avoid parties. Avoid having your children bring infection into the house by preventing them going to any parties either. Under no circumstances take them to see Santa unless Santa agrees to being disinfected first.
Third, presents. These are just a diversion of funds that might be spent on bicycles. Giving gifts is clearly pointless, since the closest you’ll get to a bicycle in return is a mug with ‘world’s best cyclist’ written on it. People will be surprised you’re not more pleased with this sort of tat, but don’t go soft on them and pretend. If you get such a thing, you should either return it, or destroy it in front of the donor.
And don’t worry. Chris Froome’s family call him ‘Scrooge’ as well.
and rattles, and a higher proportion of bikes are assembled by professional mechanics, rather than garage bodgers working with nothing more than a Swiss Army knife and a rock.
Which brings us back to Bernard. “OK,” he admitted. “It creaks a little. But it was like that when I bought it from you.”
This was interesting. This is the classic ‘dead cat on the dining table’ political manoeuvre. The metaphor is that if you don’t like a conversation, you throw a dead cat on the table and immediately everyone will start talking about that instead. Bernard’s been using it since we were at college.
Of course he didn’t ever buy the bike
— he borrowed it one Thursday in 2013 when the headset on his winter bike seized, and he’s never given it back. His very sophisticated rhetorical device meant I had to choose between arguing about the noise or arguing about who owned the bike.
What’s odd about his denial of the noise is he knows that noises are more often than not a warning. We both had a mate whose bike started creaking a few years ago. We all pointed it out. He denied it was a problem, right up till the moment his seatpin snapped and his backside dropped onto the rear wheel. The tyre slotted neatly into his bum cleavage, rip-sawed through his shorts, and produced a howl of anguish. He was the first rider I’ve ever seen whose situation was improved by crashing to a halt in a thorny hedge.
I decided to argue about who owned the bike, though I knew I’d never win. Anyway, it’s in less than perfect condition now, and I know that the noise is now a permanent feature. At least until whatever is causing it breaks properly.
So, we have Bernard, in evasive denial of the obvious, and heading for a disaster that he knows is coming but is determined to ignore. It’s probably a metaphor for something.