“I’ve been looking for the best bike oil–sorry, lube,” I say to Nige, figuring he’ll be interested in a technical discussion. I spent half a day on the internet yesterday, reading all the customer reviews on the leading lubes. “I’ve been a Purple Extreme man up to now but I’m finding myself attracted to Finish Line.”
“Well, it can’t be easy getting your purple extreme over the finish line, Tel.”
We’re in the Jolly Farmers, on the edge of Lewisham. It’s Tuesday and not a Quiz or Singalong night, which means there are only a few of us at the bar. Harold, a regular whose hair I’ve watched turn grey and shoulders irreversibly stoop over the years, is nodding slightly on his stool. One day, the barmaid will ask him if he wants another and there’ll be no reply.
I’m planning to use a lube analogy with my writing group. Maybe I’ll tell them that in order to write well these days, you have to take some apparent backwards steps, back to a time when people did all their own decorating, repairs and, well, lubing.
“What’s wrong with 3-IN-ONE?” says Nige. “I use it for everything.”
“Well, I used it too, when I was a kid,” I say. “When we did all our own bike maintenance. But that was before lube technology improved so much.”
“Yeah, right. Improved about as much as paint brush technology.”
“Do you know,” I say, determined to get on with the analogy, “that people take their bikes into the shop these days, just to have a puncture fixed.”
I snort to show that I do at least fix my own punctures.
“I can see the sense in that,” he says. “I mean, how long does it take you to fix a puncture?”
I think about this for a few seconds, remembering the last time I mended one. As usual, I’d forgotten the exact process, so, what with all the remembering, then the struggle with the tyre levers, and the even bigger struggle getting the damn thing back on the wheel — “Oh, about half an hour,” I say.
“And how much does the shop charge to fix a puncture?” he says.
“Eight quid, I think.”
He wags his head from side to side, calculating. “So, if you work in the City and make say £50 quid an hour, half an hour’s going to be £25 of your time, ain’t it? Cheaper to pay someone else to do it.”
“Yes, but no one’s writing is going to improve if we don’t fix our own punctures.”
He laughs, then sips daintily at this lager, in strong contrast to the half-pint gulps he’ll be taking two minutes from closing time in an hour or so. “How are you going to have time to write if you’re fixing your own punctures?” he says. “And doing the gardening, cleaning, decorating and all that other boring crap?”
“Yes, but it’s not just about saving money, is it? It’s about doing something under your own steam, getting fitter and knowing you’re going to arrive at work on time.”
“As long as you don’t get a bleedin’ puncture.”
#
Several years back, when I’d first decided to cycle to work, I’d thought carefully about the kind of bike I would need. Taking into account the weather, the need to carry stuff, the short winter days, and the largely flat journey, I’d concluded that the ideal commuting bike was a solid job with a basket at the front, three hub gears and a dynamo lighting system, probably no more than a hundred and fifty pounds the lot.
So I went into Action Bikes, Victoria branch, clear in mind about what machine I needed and therefore sure I’d be in there for no more than a few minutes.
However, the last time I’d been in a bike shop was 1969 when there were only two types on offer: the practical kind I now had in mind and the ‘racing’ model with drop handlebars and five gears (ten for the seriously sporty).
Things had changed since I was seventeen. I was prepared to ignore ‘racing’ bikes, no matter how attractive, since I knew their wheels were too delicate for pot-holes. And I was clued in enough to realise that the ‘mountain’ bikes one now saw everywhere were energy-inefficient in that their wide tires provided too much friction with the road surface.
What I wasn’t prepared for was a new category of bike – the ‘hybrid’ – apparently the perfect combination of the style and speed of the racer and the rugged strength of the mountain bike.
In the modern manner, there were several dozen variations of hybrid to choose from and after an hour or so my mind had become curiously numb towards pure practicality. So it was that I found myself shelling out five hundred pounds on a Trek with twenty-one gears and suspension. Well, there is a bit of a hill up to Brockley Cemetery so the eighteen extra gears should come in handy.
My model did not come with mudguards, lights or anything to carry stuff in. So I spent another hour choosing accessories with the knowledgeable and bike-mad Kiwi assistant. We could have spent a lot longer on lights alone, since I learnt about several different dynamo arrangements I could choose from; then there were all the battery systems, ranging from around ten pounds a set to over five hundred for the twin headlight nickel cadmium rechargeable halogen trail search beam specials. But I think we both realised I wasn’t seriously bike-aware after our cycle shorts conversation.
“These are lycra shorts?” I said.
“Yes, mate; they prevent chafing, around your bollocks mainly.”
“Are they easy to wash?”
“Well, yeah, I guess.”
I was thinking about the special short style mudguards I’d just purchased. I could have got the old-fashioned type which cover most of your wheels but don’t look so good. Kiwi had assured me that the stylish ones would “keep most of the crap off your arse, mate,” but I had the distinct feeling that I would still be sporting a brown skid-mark on the outside of my lycra shorts whenever it rained. And they didn’t seem to make shorts in brown.
“I don’t suppose you sell specially thin underpants to go with the shorts, do you?” I joked.
“You don’t wear ’em with pants, mate.”
We both looked at each other in disbelief.
The vision of skid marks on the inside and outside of my shorts ended my fashion coma, and from that point on we moved swiftly through the rest of the accessories.
Mind you, the carry rack, specially designed waterproof panniers, lights, mudguards, luminous vest, high-pressure pump and tungsten steel lock came to another hundred and fifty pounds, making six hundred and fifty in total.
Well, that was the price of a year’s season ticket at the time, so the bike would be paying its way in about twelve months. Although I should really add on the cost of a yearly service, replacement parts like the brake blocks (Shimano specials at a mere sixteen pounds a set), having to take the train when the weather’s too bad at non-season ticket rates and therefore probably looking at about ten years before I broke even. But at least I’d save the odd eight quid mending my own punctures and lubing my own chain.
#
It’s now eleven-nineteen and Nige has just reached for his last pint. I’m feeling a little light-headed, either from the beer of the realisation I don’t have a clue what to teach my writing group tomorrow.
“3-IN-ONE really lubes everything?” I say.
Nige swallows half the pint, frowns. “Well, I wouldn’t recommend using it for foreplay with your missus, Tel. And in my case, given the continuing hiatus in my sex life, I’d probably do better starting with WD-40 the next time I get lucky.”
I finish my pint and put down the glass so it’s half on and half off the beer mat, something I know really annoys Nige’s inner spirit level. “Most of my writing group finds it hard to actually sit down and just take off,” I say. “So I’m going to tell them that they can’t wear pants and lycra fashion shorts .”
“Which means what exactly?” says Nige, glaring at the barmaid to come take my glass away.
“That whatever way you ride, you can’t afford to worry about your skid marks showing.”
The barmaid still has her back to us so Nige reaches out and moves my glass to the centre of the beer mat. “I know what you should tell your writing group,” he says.
“What?”
“To quit searching for the perfect bleedin’ word and just 3-IN-ONE it.”