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gaudeixcc · 3 years

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Peloton News – ‘Suitable applicants only’

Here’s a thought. Theoretically speaking, which one of the peloton would be best suited to doing the job I do?

Now I know as the current jobholder, you may well think that I’d be in with a pretty good shout, but just because I happening to be holding the ball, doesn’t mean that other riders may actually be temperamentally better suited to the role of chief administration monkey.

JT for example, with his brutal efficiency, lack of human compassion, swift and confident decision-making might indeed argue that he could do what I do, not only better and quicker, but likely with one hand tied behind his back, blindfold and probably whilst still doing his own job of firing subservient German media underlings without missing a single heartbeat (assuming a heart exists of course).

And he probably could.

In a similar vein I’ve often thought that flying a plane (non-carpenter version) is not all it’s cracked up to be.

We all had a go at landing a jumbo in a simulator and managed to pull that off with only limited constant coaching and interfering from Macca. Clemo and I even had a go at landing the space shuttle whilst holidaying in Florida one year. Again, shelling peas.

And as for chief health and safety guru on the nation’s railways, a job which on the surface Dripping seems least-well suited to with his near constant calamitous brushes with death, his very keen eye for leaves and ability to carry a clipboard and wield a pencil may ironically mean suitability is in the ‘duck to water’ realm of comparison.

I was left pondering much of this on the ride last Sunday. And I had time to ponder. Being flung off the back of the excitable peloton freight-train gives one space to consider one’s navel, as well as time to dwell on the questionable moral fabric of one’s fellow riders.

Still, I did manage to hold a couple of wheels on the 55-mile jaunt into the Surrey hills.

For the first group ride of the season, there was much to prove by many.

My own goal was not to be left too far behind too often. Macca on the other hand was clear in his intent. Even though he was on his gravel bike with balloon tyres, a bike made of metal, his clearly stated goal was not to let anyone overtake him unchallenged…..anywhere….at anytime.

My youngest has a new kitten. He teases the kitten with a toy foxtail. The kitten goes absolutely scatty for this thing. Even when sitting placidly on the bottom step of the stairs, a quickly waggle of the foxtail in her line of sight and she jerks into a barely controlled ‘hunt-it-down’ frenzy.

Similarly, whilst chatting at the back of the pack with Macca (who had felt a level of pity for those at the rear of the bus), I was revealing my inner-soul about my childhood trauma. A moment which I was bravely recounting for the first time without crying (my voice was wobbling like a schoolgirl mind) when Dripping overtook us both, a little too closely for a health and safety expert if you ask me.

All empathy disappeared from Macca’s face and the ancient part of the brain responsible for chasing, hunting and killing foxes, shut down all rational thought and he was off leaving me in a wash of angry competitive spittle, balloon tyre disappearing up the road in front of me.

Dripping knew what he was doing. He may as well have gone past and yelling ‘fuck you Macca’, the result would have been the same.

He didn’t yell that. But I also was equally certain that ‘Fuck you Macca’ is exactly what Macca heard.

Anyway, I pulled my emotional self back together and pedalled on.

The Surrey hills were fabulous on Sunday morning. It was cold but bright and there were Pelotons everywhere. Most of which significantly better dressed than ours.

What had prompted my thoughts on job-suitability was the Arrival of Mark on the scene with his yellow safety bib. I expect he was trying to un-nerve Dripping who was on his new S-Works by subconsciously suggesting that he had the moral high-ground when it came to health and safety. It was an interesting look made all the more appealing by his wearing of double-trousers. Clear thought had been given to the temperature and appropriate clothing selected. Impressive caution.

The overarching theme of the day however remained competitive aggression.

The normal course of a professional peloton is to build speed slowly with all team-mates attached. What you rarely see with Team Ineos is the rear-rider overtaking the rest of his own team and gaining a 50-yard lead. What you also rarely see in a coordinated peloton is one of the more senior members then breaking from his own team so as not to let the rear rider (now at the front) take all the glory.

If the rear-rider (now at the front) pulls onto a roundabout with only just enough space to miss the oncoming Nissan Nivaro, then the chasing competitor should do the sensible thing. He should weigh up the options. He should think ‘should I risk near-certain death and follow his wheel so not to concede the lead’ or alternatively he might think ‘should I just let the car go as we will be stopping at traffic lights in exactly 50 yards time’.

After long consideration, Macca flew onto the roundabout chasing Dripping’s foxtail whilst a man in a car literally sat on the horn, his frightened children praying that Daddy didn’t lose his temper with that ‘you-fucking-wanker!!!’ cyclist their father was waving his middle finger at.

RTA had already peeled off gracefully to Reigate so didn’t have to witness any of this buffoonery and so back to chez Hoppo we returned for bacon and sausage butties.

I had finally reached a conclusion.

So which of our cyclists did I think was best qualified to fly passengers across the Atlantic safely?

Dripping was out of the question as he would choose the wrong plane… he’d likely insist on a Blackbird SR71 as the logical steed for the job assuming the same bike-buying logic of the ‘S-works for the hill works’.

Macca would also be completely out of the question. Seeing one of the other planes take off first would see him have him pulling the throttles back whilst still connected to the passenger onboarding jetty, spilling people and trolleys asunder as he dragged the stairs down the runway so as not let the EasyJet Malaga shuttle be the first one with its wheels up.

Mark, whilst on the surface may be qualified to fly planes, would need to up his game to be more qualified on the visually superficial level. As a passenger if you saw the man with the safety vest welcoming you aboard you would think that the guy who guides the planes in with the old ‘stick-with-a-light-on’ had got ideas above his station.

I was out of the question on account of emotional fragility. The stinging sense of abandonment on Blanks lane implied that if I so much as got a funny look from a passenger I may well get the hump and sit in the cockpit refusing to come out unless the passenger in 7A apologised in person and promised to be nice to me.

This just leave RTA. He rode the perfect ride. The most capable rider who didn’t get involved in any of the competitive nonsense. He rode at the front and back with equal pleasure and humility. A man who in his spare time is coaxing the Mole back out of his nest and into the hills without leaving him wheezing for dead in the gutter.

So there we have it. Macca shouldn’t fly planes and I should man the fuck up. A reasonable conclusion to the first ride of the year.

Go steadily into the Spring my little fuckerinos.

Hoppo

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