Cardigan Crisis
by Geoff Maxted
Sometimes you just want to be on your own. The heady round of work and parties and family begins to take its toll and you seek solace in solitude. You might choose to do this by way of that singularly British tradition of laying supine in a tank full of your own dirty water; having a bath. And just as you relax into that sleepy, steamy state, perhaps allowing dreamy erotic fantasies to slide seductively into your mind, perhaps taking the opportunity for a sly Barclays, there is a hammering on the door as your nearest and dearest has chosen this sacred moment to question you on a selection of unfinished DIY projects -- as if you weren't already in the middle of one -- or urgently needs your opinion on the worsening economic crisis in Uzbekistan.
Or you could try donning boots and striding imperiously over hill and vale, stopping only to berate the occasional mountain biker for being on the same planet, as a means of regenerating your soul. Or you could just get out and ride, which is what I did. Regular avid readers will know that I am up there with Fisher, Purdy and Indurain as a doyen of the two wheeled world -- albeit without the talent or money -- but will also realise that like those other great men, I am no spring chicken. And it was on this solo ride that I had a terrible and, yes, frightening experience. Old Father Time was checking me out.
Brain drained, I was idly pushing my bike and window shopping in the high street when I found myself outside a natty gents' outfitters called 'Dotage Duds' or somesuch, peering at cardigans. Not looking in a cursory or amused way, you understand; I'm talking serious contemplation here. I was transfixed. It's not that I've got anything against cardies you understand, far from it. Very useful and versatile garment, comfy, etc, it's just that, somehow, they signify a 'passing of years' sea-change, both in outlook and demeanour, at least that's how it seems to me.
On the other side of the glass, peering through the window display, a wizened man with oily hair, a nice side parting and a dubious moustache looked at me in a speculative way. He was wearing what appeared to be his WW2 army demob suit and seemed to be sizing me up for a sensible pair of slacks and a grey all season zip-up jacket with nice patch pockets and featuring a useful integral fold-away hood. It was an ominous moment. I averted my eyes and skulked away.
Later, in the pub, I took stock and reviewed my appearance. Hmmm. Padded blue shorts, battered Shimano boots, a pale blue casual shirt....Arggh! It's happening again. I just typed 'casual'. I meant, of course, a funky pale blue shirt. Not a bad picture overall, pretty, er, cool, in fact. What else? Ok, I'm fit, I've got most of my own teeth and hair, I ride a bike as often as possible; I like Sheryl Crow's music. Well, to be honest this probably has more to do with Sheryl than the music. I even like some of that noise, loud enough to make your ears bleed, that purports to be popular beat music blasting from the black hole that is my daughter's bedroom.
My frightening experience got me thinking. Who buys the clothes in these fusty old shops? I have never seen anyone enter the above emporium and, worse still, I've never seen anyone come out. How many people can there be left who consider George Formby to be a style guru? And this made me wonder how people become 'old', not in the sense of decaying bodies but as a concept. When is the moment that I must hand in my XT mechs and get a Sturmey Archer three speed? When does ิer outdoors have to buy her first thin white cotton cardy? When will I hear the siren call of Carole Vorderman as the countdown commences? It's a bugger, isn't it.
I have this terrible vision of the future as jostling groups of ancient bikers tumble out of blue holiday coaches, spaced out on tonic wine and road test tricycles and souped up zimmer frames whilst cursing foully at timid youths in EC issue suits. Actually that doesn't sound too bad, does it? Where will it all end? As we age do we fight on, making a bold statement that mixed metaphorically shouts: 'There's still lead in my pencil!' or 'I can still cut the mustard in the hay!' or are we all doomed to stand grumbling in supermarket queues, calling anyone under the age of fifty 'whippersnapper'? No more dramatic head-turning fashions, hello 'Man at C & A'; goodbye mountain bike, hello red socks.
Sitting at my word processor I was really depressed I don't mind telling you, full of self pity and angst, when my wife came in and said "Fancy a sandwich?"
"NO!" I cried, leaping wildly to my feet, "I want an adventure! I want to freeride on the freeway of life! I want to ride my bike into the Valley of Death and rescue gorgeous pneumatic maidens who will show their gratitude with nights of hot, sticky -- phew -- rampant sex!'
"Yes dear, very nice.
Will that be cheese or tuna?"
© Geoff Maxted
Maximum
Mountain Bike