City Slicks(ters)

Just heard about this new British brand, Slicks.  They've launched what looks like a neat little backpack for cycle commuters.  Not cheap, even by Rapha standards, but might be worth a look for hardcore commuting types. 

Apparently the design includes separate suit and shirt holders, plus shoe pockets etc.  Everything except hot and cold running power-shower, basically.  Clearly designed for long-distance commuters with proper jobs, rather than spoilt PR types who can commute in their scruffy work clothes. 

Early reviews seem pretty positive - not sure it will ever displace my beloved Patagonia - but a brand worth watching. 

More info here: http://www.slicks.cc/

Junk Miles

A couple of years ago, back when I was dabbling in the murky world of triathlons (I know, I know...), I used to hear a lot about the concept of 'junk miles'.  For the uninitiated, this term relates to mileage that might feel like training, but in reality is not of sufficient intensity to help you actually improve.  A waste of time and energy, in other words - time that would be much better spent doing something more fashionable/painful like interval sprints or hill reps. 

Let me provide an example.  Yesterday, I went on my now-customary 'long' weekend ride, down to the cycling mecca of Box Hill near Dorking.  Around 20 miles of pretty charmless A-Road to get down there, couple of laps of the hill itself, quick stop for some (brilliant) cake at the National Trust's summit cafe, then 20 slogtastic miles back up to town, almost all of it into a relentless headwind.  Totalled just over 50 miles (80-ish km) in around 3.5 hours.

Nothing to be particularly ashamed about, then - indeed, probably further than the vast majority of humans will ever cycle in one go, if we're honest.  And I was actually quite pleased to do two circuits of Box Hill this time - not a very difficult hill, but iconic in its own way, and that consistent sort of gradient reminiscent of a very miniature Alpine col.

Thing is, though, was what felt at the time like a half-decent effort actually little more than the dreaded junk miles?  I can feel a definite improvement in my fitness and physique since I started this whole cycling journey - my jeans are literally falling off me, which is a nice feeling.  A positive gut feeling, in fact.  But without hiring a professional trainer and going for those hideous VO2 max tests, how can this improvement be quantified?  I know, for instance, that I did the whole of yesterday's ride pretty much within my abilities.  At no stage, save that last slog home, did I feel anywhere near exhaustion.  Which shows how far I've come in one sense, yet also raises issues.  Surely, to maintain improvement, we should regularly push ourselves beyond what our bodies find comfortable, rather than sticking to the same old training routes? 

There are two schools of thought here, I think.  One which says you need to apply scientific training principles, regularly ride with people faster than you, actively hurt yourself quite often, in order to see real improvement.  The other, more zen-like approach just tells you to relax, be patient, enjoy your riding - improvement will creep up without you noticing at first.  I call this second view the Field of Dreams philosophy - if you build it, they will come.  AKA: I'm sure Fausto Coppi didn't worry about junk miles - he just rode as far as he could, as quickly as he could. 

The simple fact is that, whilst I can feel slow improvement, too often I still default to  pace that feels comfortable, rather than a pace that challenges me.  And I know I'd be dropped off the back mercilessly if I tried riding with any of the faster guys in my club.  And I definitely don't want to be that person who bimbles around sportive courses at touring pace for their whole lives.  I have ambitions - not to race per se, but at least to do the Etape one day without the broomwagon catching me. 

What I guess I'm trying to say is that I need some tips to break through my current plateau.  Answers on a postcard to the usual address...

London Calling

So, it probably hasn't escaped your attention that today marked something of a quantum leap in London's evolution towards becoming a more two-wheeled city.  Finally, after years of political wrangling, first under Red Ken and latterly Blue Boris, the UK capital's municipal bike hire scheme finally went live.

Barclays Cycle Hire, as it is rather clunkily branded, aims to do for London what the iconic Velib scheme has done for Paris - basically, providing an automated fleet of hire bikes that enable people to get around the centre of town on two wheels, without resorting to polluting taxi journeys or increasingly-overstretched rail services. Eventually, the bikes will be available for hire by the hour, simply in exchange for your credit/debit card details at the docking station - in the meantime, customers must register online via the Transport for London website (tfl.org), to receive an Oyster-style 'smart key' that enables bikes to be released from their docks and deposited at the other end of the journey.  I won't go into the vagaries of the tariff system here as it's quite dull, but suffice to say that once registered, journeys of less than 30 minutes are free of charge, so that's quite nice.  Nor will I list the multitude of dock locations but on today's evidence they are everywhere.  Well, everywhere within Zone 1 at least, but we all know that the known world ends just outside there anyway. 

Being a bike geek, a professional greenie and a London resident, of course, I've been following the progress of this scheme for years.  It was therefore with no little excitement that I witnessed the docking stations being installed across town over the past few weeks, let alone the serried ranks of shiny new bikes greeting me on this morning's commute.

This excitement manifested itself in two test rides on day one alone - a quick jaunt around the block near my Fitzrovia office before work, followed by a full-on commute from the West End back to Vauxhall tonight, via Hyde Park - I think I'm as well-placed as anyone to pass first judgement on the machines themselves and the prospects for the wider scheme.

Firstly, the bikes themselves:  not entirely dissimilar to the aforementioned Velibs, the main first impression is that they are reassuring solid but seriously heavy.  I'm sure part of this is a deliberate anti-theft measure - believe me, would-be thieves will not get far - but after being spoilt rotten by my race bike, they feel like cast iron by comparison.  On the plus side, they have three-speed Shimano twist-grip gears, dynamo-powered lighting for the darker months, kick-stands, quick-release saddle adjustment and a cute little luggage rack on the front, perfect for that baguette.  Or indeed one's briefcase.  Oh, and all the oily bits are very well concealed - I know because I selflessly/stupidly wore chinos for these test rides, without the merest hint of a stain.  No need for cycle clips at all. 

On the move, the 'Boris Bikes', as they will inevitably be known henceforth (bad luck, Ken), betray their obesity problem with pretty cumbersome handling.  Again, perhaps this is a safety measure - there'll be very little danger of losing control in a city centre as flat as London's as speed is not really an option.  The riding position is classic sit-up-and-beg but when one has to be alert to so many urban hazards, this too is no bad thing.  What I did find more troubling is the gearing.  Again, I am spoilt by top-end kit on my regular bike, and it could just take a while for the Shimano hub gears to bed-in on the hire bikes, but I found the gearing a bit strange for London roads.  First gear is almost too low, fine for pulling away from the lights but little else.  Second and third, on the other hand, seem a bit too high for bikes of this character - indeed, I reckon Cav would struggle to use third gear on the flat. Well, not quite, but you get my point.  I might not be Cancellara but I've been cycling semi-seriously for a while and if I found the gearing a bit of a struggle, what will the average punter think? Combined with the fat (flat?) tyres, the whole effect was pretty exhausting it must be said.  Certainly makes you appreciate just how fast and energy-efficient our space age carbon thoroughbreds are.  All those irritating commuters on clunky old Trek hybrids, the same ones I normally take such secret delight in blowing past, were suddenly cruising past me imperiously.  Galling.

What else?  Ah yes, the thorny issue of helmets.  Believe me when I say that you won't meet a more passionate advocate of lids.  The consequences of a bad crash without one are unthinkable, as in you will literally not be thinking any more.  So the prospect of inexperienced cyclists riding busy London streets without lids does worry me, but on the flip side you would have to be seriously unlucky/unobservant or riding really stupidly to get in serious trouble on these bikes.  They're just too slow to be properly dangerous and it's not like your feet are clipped into the pedals or anything.  Of course, this doesn't remove the risk of taxi drivers pulling out without checking mirrors or idiots opening their car doors without warning, but these are risks we all face. So the jury's out on the helmet thing but such is life.  In the meantime, I have to (really hypocritically) admit that the feeling of riding tonight without a lid, probably for the first time in about 25 years, was brilliant.  And obviously the fundamentally unregulated nature of cycling is one of its big appeals to many riders.  Tricky one. 

As for the scheme itself, it is bound to have its detractors, as progressive things always do.  Yes, there will inevitably be technical glitches to start with. Yes, a few bikes probably will be stolen by the usual pond life.  The rest will probably be vandalised by their cretinous mates - I can't see the bungee luggage straps lasting more than a week.  So too, the corporate branding still grates - but experience teaches that Barclays' brand will become invisible before too long, and the powers that be had to finance the bloody things somehow.  Frankly, if you're the sort of person who'd happily go through the massive ball-ache of changing bank accounts just because you've seen the a particular bank's brand on a hire bike or cycle super-highway, good luck to you.  The less impressionable amongst us realise that advertising's days are increasingly numbered, so the branding thing doesn't bother me too much really. 

At the end of the day, I was able to enjoy a really relaxing journey home from work, with minimal technical issues, picking up a bike yards from my office and depositing it a short walk from my front door.  I followed well-marked cycle routes virtually door-to-door, particularly in Hyde Park with its billiard-smooth cycle lanes.  The banter with Brompton riders at traffic lights and curious questions from commuters really made Londoners come out of their famously introspective shells.

For this idealist at least, there was a real feeling of civic progress in the air today - a feeling that all is not lost, that London is maybe - just maybe - starting to wean itself off its fossil-fuelled traffic jam habit at last. The Boris Bikes won't be perfect immediately, and London certainly isn't going to turn into Amsterdam or Copenhagen or Portland overnight, but make no mistake - this is an important step in getting more people onto two wheels and making this a better place to live in general.  Hopefully, it will make a few more cities sit up and think, too.  As one out-of-town cycling friend put it earlier: 'Chapeau, London!'

Bike Porn du Jour

Introducing the 'Oltre', the latest high-end Hors Category machine from some little Italian firm you might have heard of called Bianchi?

Monocoque aero-frame, carbon nano-tube technology, yadda-yadda, etc, etc.

More importantly, it looks beautiful and goes like the proverbial excrement off a shovel if this Road.cc preview ride is anything to go by: http://road.cc/content/news/18218-bianchi-launch-new-top-end-bike-2011

Apparently, Oltre means 'beyond limits' in Italian, which is nice. Not going to make the dream bike fantasy league any easier, though.

Droolissimo!

What if it's all a big hoax?

I was reminded today of this brilliant cartoon, which did the rounds during COP15 last December but is still entirely relevant.

Still one of the best ripostes to the climate change deniers that I have yet to come across.

Yikes!

Bealach na Ba (Gaelic: Pass of the Cattle) near Applecross - reputed to be Britain's toughest hill climb. Definitely on the to-do list. Enough said, really.

Old McDonald's has a farm...

When I started this blog, I didn't really intend for every single post to be about cycling. I meant to focus on all sorts of subjects that interest me - it just so happens that I'm in a bit of a cycling phase right now, as you may have noticed.

My day job has little to do with cycling, alas, barring occasional involvement with our client BSkyB's cycling programme as part of its CSR campaign, 'The Bigger Picture'.

To clarify, I work for a big PR agency but as a sustainability consultant. I do still work with the media, like any good PR person, but increasingly I also advise big business on its environmental and social commitments - what should they be doing, when do they need to do it by, and what might happen if they don't? I'm a lucky chap - it's a fascinating job that treads the line between marketing, comms and, as sustainability climbs the corporate agenda, genuine management consultancy at times.

What has this got to do with my blog? Only that I hope to write on sustainability issues occasionally, which will hopefully provide some respite from all the cycling issues for both of us.

One story that has caught my eye this week concerns McDonald's plans to leverage (hate that word) its sponsorship of the London 2012 Olympic and Paralympic Games. The Golden Arches plans to use its involvement with London 2012 to promote the role of British suppliers and its commitment to responsible business. McDonald's British suppliers will provide meals for athletes and event staff, whilst certain farms will even throw their doors open to the public in an explicit display of eco-credentials.

The market niche McDonald's has carved for itself is a sticky one from a sustainability perspective but by drawing parallels between corporate responsibility, transparency of supply chain and nutrition on this most high-profile of sporting stages, the Golden Arches could be onto a winner. Critics argue that the link with sport is tenuous and I can see their point, but if McDonald's reckons it can make a credible link, all power to its elbow I say.

More info here, courtest of Marketing Week:

http://www.marketingweek.co.uk/news/mcdonalds-farm-tie-up-should-shift-brand-perception/3013600.article

Highland Fling

Today is officially A Good Day. I'm delighted to report the successful culmination of this year's Macmillan Cancer Support Etape Caledonia - my first attempt at what is fast-becoming an iconic challenge in the UK cycling calendar.

After months of training and a few last-minute nerves on Saturday, Sunday dawned cool and bright - perfect cycling conditions. Extremely lucky given it had snowed a week before and we all know what Scotland can be like.

Come Sunday morning, the epic drive north was but a memory as we nervously made our way to the start line, exchanging awkward jokes with fellow riders like troops about to do battle. Pitlochry's rather twee main street resembled the start of the London Marathon, every colour of the lycra rainbow and all manner of steeds, from sturdy old MTBs to the latest titanium uberbikes. I was part of wave V, setting off on the 82-mile loop at 07:30.

The first mile was somewhat fraught - I narrowly avoided causing a minor pile-up when my cleat slipped in the early melee - but the field quickly found its rhythm as we turned along the shore of Loch Tummel. Strange how people habitually stick to the left-hand side of the road, even though the Etape is one of Britain's only closed-road events. It took a good few miles before riders started to risk blind bends on the 'wrong' side of the road.

The first proper climb, up to Queen's View, legs not yet fully awake, clearly caught a few people out - I witnessed one poor soul on their knees by the roadside, perhaps regretting that last wee dram the night before - but we were soon back in the big ring and breezing west, passing Cath and our caravan park at Tummel Bridge, before making it to the first feed stop at Kinloch Rannoch without further incident. Bumping into my mate Sankey, who had started in the wave behind, was an added bonus at this stage.

Bidons replenished and carbs loaded, we set off along the shores of Loch Rannoch, into an unexpectedly feisty headwind. At this point, the view suddenly and dramatically opens up, the vast lake framing a distant view across Rannoch Moor and into the snowy eastern ramparts of Glencoe. After the rather Snowdonian surroundings of Loch Tummel, at last it felt like we were amongst the properly big hills. The long trawl up Loch Rannoch was mitigated by chatting to a local lady who had been encouraged to enter the Etape after watching the peloton pass her lakeside home the previous year. What a lucky person to live amongst such splendour.

Turning around the top of Loch Rannoch was a blessing, that uncooperative headwind suddenly feeling like an extra pair of legs and speeding us towards the second feed station around the 45 mile mark. The iconic pyramidal peak of Schiehallion had been looming ahead of us for miles but only now did its psychological presence start to exert an explicit influence. "Been up Schiehallion before?" asked a nervous-chatty bloke from Kent. "Don't care how long it takes - my only target this year is not to put my feet down at any point. Or throw up." These kind of comments were not helping my own mental state, although we were fortified by the previous day's reconnaissance drive, which suggested the monster was perhaps not as formidable as the organisers had tried to suggest with their (well-meaning but perhaps slightly disingenuous) 'King of the Mountains' billing. Certainly not Ventoux, in any case.

Not that one would have realised this from the mood at that feed station, people nervously checking their granny rings and taking that extra slug of energy gel. "Great deeds are done when men and mountains meet," William Blake said. I say that this kind of rhetoric is all very well from the comfort of an armchair, but with no time to lose, Sanks and I set off. Gentle spin for the first mile, across the 'King of the Mountains' timing mat, good luck pep talk from the steward in his fluorescent tabard, and off we went. The first section, a series of steep ramps up through woodland punctuated by a vindictive little hairpin, was a definite grit-your-teeth job. Already, cyclings were peeling right and left off the road, beaten either mentally or physically. Or possibly both.

"Don't worry mate," I chimed up, to a man on a Specialized Cirrus who looked like he was about to crack. "It's a doddle after the treeline, honest - we checked yesterday." His response is not suitable for a blog post that may be read by children, but my heart was in the right place and I spoke the truth. Once clear of the forest, the road takes on a rolling character, not entirely dissimilar to parts of the Alps I would think. Pop out of the saddle, few turns of the big ring until the calves start to protest, but always the prospect of these brief downhill stretches to spin out the lactate. "That wasn't too bad, was it?" I enquired as Sanks pulled alongside. He agreed. We were not yet at the top by any means but eventually the summit hove into view, precipitating a final noisy "Huzzah!" sprint from our two relieved protagonists, much to the mirth of those recovering at the feed station. The climb may not have been as savage as the gradient profile suggested, but the sense of relief and achievement was palpable as we were serenaded by pipers of the Black Watch army cadets.

Any residual leg pain was banished almost instantly by the joyous descent down the back of Schiehallion - seven miles of pure, endorphinated bliss. I've never been the most enthusiastic downhiller, but on a smooth, dry road and with the incentive of no oncoming traffic, it was a different story. The glee on the face of a local spectator as we laid our bikes over at what felt like impossible angles (probably less than 10 degrees in reality), round a sharp bend over a bridge, felt more like the Manx TT. I must have been going pretty fast as Sankey, normally the bolder descender of the two by some distance, only caught me in the lower section - a good result by my usual, rather snail-like standards.

All too soon, the serotonin rush was over and we turned up a torrid little glen, the sudden abundance of unpleasant little insects bearing testimony to the surrounding fields of Aberdeen Angus. The rest of the penultimate section passed without major incident, although two highlights stand out: first, flashing past a group by the roadside and hearing one of them exclaim at how "the fast guys are really pushing it still, aren't they?" to his mates. All I can say is that looks can be deceptive, mate. Secondly, pulling alongside a chap on a beautiful Look, who had spent the past hour sitting by the roadside waiting for the solitary (kamikaze) Mavic support bike to arrive, having somehow slashed the sidewall of his doubtless expensive tyre. Cycling can be a cruel mistress.

Final feed station, and by now the wheat was being forcibly separated from the chaff. Not that I would ever consider myself part of the cycling wheat, but at least I'd done some training. Those poor souls who had never cycled anything like 80 miles were by now looking rather shell-shocked.

Feed station dispatched, onward to Pitlochry, passing the village of Aberfeldy where the previous day we'd witnessed a twee little cycling festival opened by the legendary Graeme Obree. Now there, right there, is proper cycling inspiration. As we banked onto the A9, we assumed the worst was over. We'd heard rumours of a sting in the course's tail, but mistakenly interpreted this as meaning the gentle hill up into Pitlochry from the main road.

Big mistake. HUGE mistake. Out of nowhere loomed what appeared to be a barrier across the entire road. Well, to be fair it was literally a barrier across the entire road. Without even the courtesy of a warning sign, suddenly the crowd was exhorting us to "Kick down! Go on - go for it!". To my evident distaste, a minor road led sharp left, up what appeared to be an improbable incline. "F***cking hell!", I just about had time to exclaim to the excitable spectators as I grasped desperately for the small ring.

But I was not to be beaten at this late stage. Miracle of miracles, somewhere deep down, some of that training must have actually worked. I kicked for home like the proverbial mule, up a series of really quite unpleasant ramps. I surprised myself with instinctive, staccato shouts of "On your right, coming through, thanks mate!" as disconsolate riders tacked across the road in front of me, desperate to maintain their rapidly-ebbing momentum. By now, I had lost Sanks but to stop and wait on a hill of this nature would have been suicide. He'd be fine, of course he would. In the meantime, I was stuck inside my own private little Cancellara moment. Only when I glanced down at my chainset near the summit, did I notice that I was still in the big ring. Brilliant.

Finally, joyously, the rooftops of Pitlochry hoved into view. It was clear from the hill that we could go no higher, that we had drawn the sting in the Etape Cally tail. The last mile was beautiful, crowds thronging the street as we approached the finish line. The tannoy announcing our names as our race chips chirped the good news. It was done.

My finishing time will not give Bradley Wiggins any sleepless nights. Discounting the four rather leisurely feed stations, we completed the course in around 5.5 hours. A stately 3,311th place out of around 4,000 entrants, though a *relatively* impressive 2,542nd on the Schiehallion climb was some consolation, I must concede. There's always time for lap records next year - 2010 was all about simply finishing, hopefully with a modicum of style, which is exactly what we achieved, I reckon. Oh, and £510 for the St Thomas' Lupus Trust in my case. Every little helps.

Medals collected, bikes back on the roof rack, we beat a hasty retreat back to the caravan park for some hard-earned refreshment. Cruelly, the bar only served Carling - my personal bete noire of beers - but it tasted like angel tears I can tell you.

So, now the dust has settled, what are my parting thoughts on the Etape Caledonia?

Firstly, this is an absolute peach of an event, which every cyclist in the UK should try soon. The organisation, courtest of IMG under the auspices of Macmillan Cancer Support, was absolutely first-class. The route was just stunning - every time morale started to flag a quick glance to the hills restored the faith instantly. Scotland is just so beautiful, I really don't understand why so many Brits splurge vast amounts of cash and CO2 on flights to New Zealand when all that splendour is just up the road.

Secondly, pride. Which may sound pompous given the finishing time and relative brevity of the course, but for someone who has spent most of their sporting life being rubbish at everything, it felt absolutely fantastic to have one perfect day when the legs felt strong and everything just clicked, physically and mentally. Training for this event has really inspired me to push myself further, get out on those rides more often, lose those extra pounds and maybe even have a crack at one of the classic Continental sportives eventually.

My overriding sentiment, though, is one of gratitude to the large number of spectators who turned out to cheer us cyclists. Considering this event was infamously sabotaged last year, by a small minority of NIMBY morons angry at five hours of local road closures in return for around £1m of local tourism investment (surely a fair swap?), it was really quite moving to see how obviously proud the majority of local people were to be hosting such a worthwhile event. Many of the houses, hotels and farms we passed were thronged with cheering bystanders, banners and good luck messages, plus the occasional piper of course. Just awesome and I hope the few narrow-minded idiots who would have this event banned outright or at least replaced with a half-baked time-trial on open roads were there to see this powerful demonstration of public support for what must surely rank as one of Britain's best cycling events. Highly recommended - enough said. Until 2011, at least.

And on the seventh day...

News reaches me that Evans has become an official distributor for Sabbath, the Cheshire-based maker of really rather tasty (and surprisingly affordable) titanium road bikes.


Always good to see a big chain supporting one of our many, excellent home-grown bike brands. Looking forward to seeing them in the flesh/metal - apparently they'll be available from the new flagship store in Mortimer Street (London W1), Waterloo/The Cut (London SE1), Deansgate (Manchester) and Xscape (Castleford) to start with.


Jury still seems to be out on the virtues of titanium as a frame material. A beautiful element, no doubt, but the promises of combining steel's comfort with carbon's stiffness is a difficult message. One man's perfect compromise being another man's, well, compromise. The old grumblies have a point - if titanium is so perfect, how come the pro teams are still riding carbon? - but the positive messaging seems to be winning through, if the number of Litespeeds, Moots and Sevens spotted on recent sportives is anything to go by.


Be that as it may, all the best to both Evans and Sabbath on what I hope will be a successful experiment.


More details @SabbathBicycles and http://www.sabbathbicycles.co.uk/

Pop goes the Rapha

Pop-up shops are all the rage right now, aren't they? Not only are they flavour of the month in brand marketing circles, but what better way to take advantage of all the prime retail space available in these troubled economic times? Win-win situation, right there.

Given the relentless nature of Rapha's marketing machine, I guess it was inevitable they'd jump on the pop-up bandwagon (broomwagon?) eventually. So it was with no great surprise that I stumbled on this earlier - the 'Rapha Cycle Club', coming soon to a vacant retail unit near you, or Clerkenwell Road at least: http://www.rapha.cc/cycle-club/

How gorgeous is that Citroen van graphic? Just beautiful.

The proximity to Condor can't be a coincidence but I particularly like the fact this pop-up will include a cafe - I've always thought that London has lacked a real social mecca for its cycling community, an Ace Cafe eqivalent, somewhere to congregate for that essential pre-training espresso and a bit of bike porn (not to be confused with Vicky Pendleton).

Rapha has a tendency to polarise the grass-roots cycling community - they bring on themselves many of those accusations of elitism, to be fair - but I wish them well with this venture, which will surely be a success.

Will be interesting to see whether any rivals now, erm, pop up. Condor making bespoke frames on Savile Row? Colnago pop-up inside the Ferrari dealership? Dolan track bikes at Herne Hill velodrome? I could go on...

Has John Lewis just saved TV advertising?

Quick question to all those self-important PR types (guilty as charged) who have long forecasted the demise of advertising: when's the last time a press release made your spine tingle?

Unless you've been living in a cave for the past few days, the media coverage around John Lewis' much-heralded new TV ad campaign can't have passed you by. With a reputed budget of £6m, it represents arguably the most high-profile marcomms effort to date from the darling of Middle England.

Kudos to the ad agency, Adam & Eve - it's a classy piece of work. Unreservedly sentimental, unashamedly restrained, unabashedly middle-class - bang in line with JL's brand values, in other words. Perhaps featuring on that recent (and also very good) behind-the-scenes BBC documentary helped them secure the brief?

Back to the ad itself, which follows a woman's life circle from cradle to grave - not literally, of course, as JL currently lacks a Co-op-style undertaker department - and uses a lovely cover of Billy Joel's She's Always a Woman, courtesy of Fyffe Dangerfield, he of Guillemots fame. As the camera pans, so landmarks in the woman's (very SW London) life are played out in a series of corresponding montages.

Significantly, this is a pure brand play - at no point are specific products mentioned. Important, this, as I believe it's the one remaining area of the marketing mix where TV advertising can still deliver real bang for the buck. I don't want to watch tone-deaf morons pitching cheap bank loans (sorry, Halifax), nor (God forbid) more bloody gorillas or meerkats, but have absolutely no complaint about the likes of Guinness, VW, etc.

I also like the unexpected nature of this coup. I don't think anyone ever thought of John Lewis as a cutting-edge player in content creation, so to see a venerable old brand come out with something this effective feels a bit like finding out your grandma can body-pop.

There's a link to the ad and more detailed analysis here, courtesy of The Guardian - even this most trendy-cynical of UK broadsheets can't resist a lump in its throat. Even if the comments page is filled with the customary bile - I blame middle-class guilt: -

http://www.guardian.co.uk/tv-and-radio/tvandradioblog/2010/apr/26/john-lewis-ad

That said, John Lewis is hardly endearing itself to working-class shoppers in these cash-strapped times. Sure Asda and Tesco won't be losing sleep - less sure about M&S. Nor is this one for the hardened feminists - at no point is it implied that this lucky lady has anything approaching a career.

Be that as it may - it remains a lovely ad. I'd like to think Adam & Eve are planning a follow-up ad about a bloke in a tower block in Dudley. Somehow I doubt it, though. Cue the viral spoofs.

Right, enough blathering - I'm off down Harvey Nicks...

An open and Shutt case?

I've been lamentably slow to the party here but wanted to put a shout out for a cool little company called Shutt Velo Rapide (http://www.shuttvr.com/).

They're a small, British start-up that creates stylish, retro-chic cycle clothing for a fraction of the price of certain other brands (yes, those ones).

My mate, erstwhile line manager and all-round cycling nut Pinny mentioned them the other night, hence my curiosity. Apparently the stuff looks as good in the flesh as it does on their website. And as one of the increasingly-ambitious Veloistes Gentils (http://lesveloistesgentils.wordpress.com/) he knows his oignons when it comes to bib shorts and the like.

Particularly impressed by Shutt's efforts to source as much of their clothing as possible from British suppliers - a factor that's important to me for a whole host of reasons, none of them remotely connected with the BNP. Think more about product miles, local skills, support for SMEs etc.

Basically sounds like Shutt is trying to do for cycle gear what my fave clothing label Albam is doing for menswear. Simple, well-crafted classics, with an emphasis on local sourcing, for a really good price. Don't get me wrong - I'm not saying the Rapha boys should be quaking in their boots just yet - but competition improves the species, right?

Cue a few sleepless nights in NW5?

Chapeau, messieurs!

The best-ever book about bikes?

So it will come as no surprise to those who know me that I'm rather keen on bicycles, to put it mildly. Done a few (sprint) triathlons, various sportives; currently training for this year's Etape Caledonia; feel probably a little bit too comfortable in skintight lycra; constantly working out how many bikes one small flat can accommodate - you know the sort of thing.

I can still recall the precise smell of the wrapping paper concealing that first Raleigh Budgie, a particularly lurid shade of 1980s metallic copper (the bike, not the wrapping, alas). Graduating via a blue and yellow Raleigh Burner BMX (yellow/blue) to an even more lurid Emmelle MTB (fluorescent orange and green). Inheriting my first 'proper' drop-handlebar bike from an uncle, a heavy old lump of pig iron by modern standards, way too big in the frame for a teenager, but it made me feel like Greg LeMond. I can't even remember the brand but it was red and had a luggage rack, if that helps?

There's something about cycling that feels forever young, evokes powerful childhood memories of that sense of adventure from setting out alone, back when kids could still do that sort of thing safely. That heady whiff of independence, more so even than the day I passed my driving test. Much as I love cars (disclaimer: guilty secret, yes I work in sustainability), there's something Zen-like about the silence, the efficiency of bicycles, a feeling that all is right with the world, for a few precious minutes at least. However steep the hill, however long the route, every ride contains at least one moment of pure, blissful calm, a state of grace. Something I don't feel that often in this rush of days, making it all the more special.

Like life itself, cycling can be a cruel mistress - quite probably, behind all the marketing slogans and failed drug tests, road racing remains the toughest sport on the planet. Often a headwind, occasionally a blessed tailwind; grinding up hills that never seem to end, always with the faint glimmer of hope for a glorious, freewheeling descent the other side. A kind of raw, elemental beauty in masochism - broad, sunlit uplands the occasional reward for brutal hard graft and gallons of sweat. There are lessons in life to be had in the saddle, which may be scant consolation when you're toiling into work in the rain, playing Russian roulette with bendy-buses on your knackered old Brompton, but there we are.

I'll stop before I disappear up my cod-philosophical tailpipe completely, but it's this Zen-like feeling that for me makes Tim Krabbe's 1978 novel, The Rider, such a beautiful read. Even for those with not the slightest whiff of interest in bikes, there's a magical quality to Krabbe's book, a metronomic fascination akin to that famous Guinness surfing advert. Tick follows tock, follows tick, follows tock. Crank follows crank, mile follows mile, in almost hypnotic fashion. The premise is actually simple - Krabbe puts the reader inside the mind of a serious amateur rouleur competing in a mythically-tough, one-day race somewhere in SW France - but the overall effect is mesmerising.

Krabbe's novel is lionised by the cognoscenti, thanks in no small part to the retro-marketing muscle of brands like Rapha and Condor, but it remains criminally unrecognised outside the narrow confines of the cycling world. I can't recommend the book highly-enough - it's rare that someone with my attention span... sorry, got sidetracked there... it's rare that someone with my attention span reads a book in one sitting.

Here's a particularly celebrated example of Krabbe's purple prose - a quote that will be familiar to Rapha customers, but which captures the magic of the book, and indeed the sport itself: -

"The greater the suffering, the greater the pleasure. That is nature's payback to riders for the homage they pay her by suffering. Velvet pillows, safari parks, sunglasses; people have become wooly mice. They still have bodies that can walk for five days and four nights through a desert of snow, without food, but they accept praise for having taken a one-hour bicycle ride. 'Good for you'. Instead of expressing their gratitude for the rain by getting wet, people walk around with umbrellas. Nature is an old lady with few friends these days, and those who wish to make use of her charms, she rewards passionately."

Krabbe is not a famous writer, not outside his native Holland at least (although he did also write The Vanishing and his brother is the actor Jeroen Krabbe, trivia fans), but like many an aspiring racer, for one fleeting moment at least, he achieved Zen-like perfection.

Apres moi, le deluge?

Welcome. After literally minutes of prevarication, I've decided to relaunch my blogging career. What you will see here are the rather ham-fisted results.

Why would I want to do this? It's a valid point. Let's face it - who has the time to read blogs any more? Surely it's all about Twitter and Posterous and Foursquare and geotagging and augmented reality and semantic web and...

... And that's kind of the problem. If you want my opinion, in this relentless rush of days, it's still nice to have somewhere to store one's thoughts in sentences of more than 140 characters. Hence I've resolved to start blogging properly, years after it was trendy to do so. Better to be late to the party than not at all, right? If other people want to read my ramblings, that's lovely, but I'm not hugely bothered either way. Blogging, after all, is essentially a self-indulgent activity.

Here you'll find musings on all sorts of topics, from my day job as a corporate sustainability consultant for Freud Communications, to a whole host of other subjects that make me tick: food, wine, bicycles, cameras, design, books, philosophy, cinema, music, favourite quotes and, yes, the planet. The blog title is supposed to be a nod to the duality of life as a marketeer and self-styled bon viveur, with a nod to Withnail of course, but like a lot of my thoughts it probably works better as a private joke.

I can't promise I'll write every single day ('apologies for my recent silence' being by far the most common plea in the blogosphere) and some posts may be pithy even by Twitter standards, but I hope what I do say occasionally piques your interest and, you know, maybe we can actually do something really old-fashioned and converse occasionally. Maybe even meet up for a pint in a real life pub. Now that, my friends, is the type of augmented reality we can all buy into.