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gaudeixcc · 6 years ago

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Peloton news - The fishy protest

Well, it’s 5 months to the Grande Tour that is G19, the Pyrenees. Training has slowly rumbled into life with many a peloton rider poking their beak from the comfort of their winter lair.

Surfacing over the last few weeks have been Damo, a few commutes and even the odd MTB ride. I’ve managed to get off the turbo and have swapped the virtual for reality. We even had the first group ride of the year with RTA & Dripping. An historic event as Dripping tested the new carbon fibre hip in the April sunshine.

A mere 9 weeks ago Macca and I visited Dripping in his private room at the private Gatwick Park hospital. When we arrived, he was in the middle of making a massive fuss about the fact that one of the wall power points wasn’t working and that he couldn’t plug his smart phone (well…. Samsung) in within convenient reach. The nurses, clearly tired from a punishing schedule of looking after the weak and infirm had to drop everything to wheel the half-robot across the corridor to a new room with a better selection of power facilities, Drip grumbling quietly en-route.

Macca and I looked at each other nervously as we felt a chill descend upon the room. It transpires that Drip’s irksome mood was somewhat provoked by a polite refusal from the nursing staff to his 8th request of the day for a bed-bath.

‘But nurse, ever since my new hip has gone in, my winky feels dirty’, protested a nearly tearful Drip.

Macca, ever the empathetic and caring friend, pulled on the surgical gloves and reached for a damp cloth when Dripping’s tone changed and he suddenly got all shirty about power sockets and room adequacy.

Anyhow, 9 weeks later and the stooping drugged-up post-Op Dripster is sprightly, twinkly-eyed and ready for a 50-mile jaunt in the sunshine. Astonishing all things considered.

The ride out was sensational. We took in Denbigh’s followed by the box hill Olympic route before cutting back up past Dorking and onto the coffee stop.

RTA had shouted a campsite/fishing ground as the place to go for snacks and warm drinks. We had a coffee. We had cake. Then, as it was a particularly sunny bank holiday Friday, we had a pint. RTA and I also learned a little bit about fishing during our 30-minute break.

Dripping, a keen angler, gave us a good 20-minute running commentary on all the mistakes being made by the small cast of fishermen who were assembled within eye-line. Not only was he highlighting their errors, he was also giving RTA and I coaching on what do should we find ourselves Rod in hand and hunting for sprats.

I tried to pay attention to the pearls of wisdom Drip was releasing. It’s a subject I don’t fully understand, but here goes my attempt at remembering the salient points. RTA, please feel free to fill in the gaps;

• Catching fish is like giving children quality street…. One at a time, to keep their interest.

• Don’t spook the fish

• Don’t show them the line

• Don’t touch the fish which are covered in jelly

• Sit still

• Read a book

• Don’t cross swords with another angler (I am praying he was referring to fishing rods)

Whilst Drip was observing the carnage unfolding, he’d occasionally berate all the JR Hartley’s by muttering ‘rookie’ under his breath.

To conclude, I’m not sure why Drip is trying to keep children’s interest with the bait of quality street or how fish get to purchase and wear jelly. I’ve made an executive decision to stick to cycling. I understand it. It understands me. My sword won’t get crossed. The children are safe. All in all, everyone’s happy.

The ride eventually concluded with a bit of a faster-paced sprint back to the bower for Drip and I. 50 miles in the bag and I could see exactly what Dripping was thinking.

‘Moley… I’m a coming for ya’…. He didn’t say it…. He didn’t need to. And so, we move seamlessly into a few words on tour preparation.

Now, this year, I ain’t gonna do what I did last year which is turn up ill-prepared, fat and in need of regular snoozes just to keep me functioning. So, I’ve hit training early. Drip is on a mission. He will not only want to be there, he will want to take somebody down. I am grimly determined that it ain’t gonna be me.

Damo, currently wrestling a knackered back, has been off the booze for ages and is in reach of his usual cyclists’ condition.

JT doesn’t look to have turned a wheel…not that it matters with the amount of winter sports he’s done, but I am determined to see him pushed by this year’s tour virgin, HRH.

Macca and Col Mac have been quiet and finally Moley, well, Moley needs to use the equipment he’s blessed with. Turbo? Check. Hills nearby? Check. Is he his own boss and can therefore engineer his time? Check. Time to get those massive engines which drive your ankles up and at ‘em Moley. You know who’s looking at you with grim determination and a plastic hip don’t you.

Now here’s a question for you. What has the Peloton got in common with lobsters? An unusual comparison you may be thinking.

Now lobsters have been rocking round the seas for several hundred million years. In this time their brains have, like many, developed to recognise and react to status. In short, the higher up the pecking order (clawing order?) they are, the more balanced and happy they feel. They show this by their body language. Apparently, the controlling mechanism for all of this is the proportionate balance of 2 hormones produced by the lobsters grey matter… bit more of one (serotonin) and the lobster is a confident little fucker and as such, rises in the social standing of the group…. Bit less and the crusty fella gets a bit withdrawn, hunches his shoulders a little and doesn’t get the pick of the little chickadee lobsters. Now the female lobster is attuned to status. They see a confident sprightly lobster as a good proposition, all things considered, so he who hath his claws held high and bit of a swagger about his gait can expect to be a hit with the ladies and a roughie toughie with gents.

However, all is not quite that simple. Should our alpha male lose status, in a fight with another male for example, then he moves down the chain. This has a dramatic impact. The hormones rebalance to such an extent that the brain has to physically re-grow to cope with the change in circumstance. The old brain just can’t cope with the impact that loss of status has on the tiny aquatic creature.

Worryingly, one of the wider peloton is going through just such a transformation.

Back in the day Amesy used to live on the Bower in creepy Crawley along with the rest of the herberts (me included, natch). Then he moved up in the world. He moved out to the leafy suburbs of Ashington village and into a nice extended 5-bed with a double garage. He could be seen prancing around the place, coaching the privileged kids football and generally being an upstanding pillar of the community.

Over the period of time I suspect voting changed from labour left to mild conservative right.

Social status grew steadily and then he hit the big time. He moved to Royal Tunbridge Wells.

Saturday mornings and he could be seen cruising round the charity shops with his yellow lambs-wool jumper draped causally over his shoulders, whilst he browsed the nick-nackery on offer.

He even joined the local theatre and became something of a minor celebrity for his portrayal of Widow Twanky in the AmDram Christmas production that year.

A few months ago he was sitting in the garden in one of his very many comfortable outdoor chairs, sipping a glass of chilled Riesling. He turned to Lou, tireless loving bride of our social high-flyer, and said ‘you know what love, life aint half good’.

Ominously, unbeknownst to Amesy, dark clouds had started to gather. His beloved second home, the luvvies theatre, has now been served an eviction notice and a brand-spanking new facility has been approved by the council. £90 million quids worth of theatre and a smattering of town centre parking is heading his way. And the new lot have made it quite clear that there is no space for his level of Widow Twanky.

Bang… no more Widow Twanky… no more luvvies… no more kudos and gentle ripples of applause from the blue rinse mob.

He’s a shattered man.

I spoke with him earlier this evening and it dawned on me just how bad this situation has got. The following words are about as accurate as Peloton news has ever been…

Amesy has been out, placard in hand, and has joined the Tunbridge Wells Alliance in protest against the new theatre. He is literally incandescent with rage. How very dare they!

Who do they think they are? These faceless councillors who just rock up, let money talk, and spoil the whole damned shooting match with this new high-brow monstrosity.

I didn’t ask if he protested in his Widow Twanky garb, but what he did tell me was that he joined in with the chanting.

‘WHAT DO WE WANT?’

‘Not this level of wasteful investment right in our lovely town centre and in particular not the new toilet block pencilled in for Calverley grounds’

‘WHEN DO WE WANT IT?’

‘Now please’.

Not particularly catchy and a far cry from Derick Hatton and the 80’s militant movement, but still, he’s fucking furious.

Anyway, I’ve bought him a box of quality street and Drip is lending him his fishing rod. He needs a calm space to heal, be himself and to regrow his status-shattered brain.

First step fishing…. Who knows, we may see him on a bicycle yet.

Right my lil fuckerinos, get yourselves outdoors and get the wheels moving. 5 months will spin by. The last thing you want to see is Dripping and his spectacularly clean winky making off ahead of you and into the sunset.

On second thoughts, perhaps having dripping behind you and hunting you down with his spectacularly clean winky may be even more frightening.

Ah well, roll the metaphorical dice and let’s see what happens!

Lobsters away..!

Hoppo

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