onionbagblog

And so two weeks ago the Giro d’Italia rolled out of Naples around the same time that I was rolling out of the skateboard ramps at Colchester Leisure World. The elite pro riders have been in the saddle for fourteen days, climbing, sprinting and time trialing. I’ve mowed the lawn, had a bit of a hoover around the house and then collapsed on the settee watching the cricket.

With the Col du Galibie the next challenge for the Giro, I decided to get back in the saddle on Sunday morning and ride with the lovely folk of Colchester CTC out towards Maldon. It may have been a more sedate ride compared with the Dauphiné Alps, but then unlike the elite pro riders, I’ve not had the benefit of two weeks in the saddle to prepare.

Climb every mountain, ford every stream, etc. Plus don’t forget to stop off for mid-morning coffee at Perrywood Nurseries in Tiptree, a pleasure that the supposed glamour of the Col du Galibie is lacking.

Chapeau!

We got off to a watery sun sort of start as the small but perfectly formed pelaton rolled out along the edges of the Colchester Roman Wall. The Vicar of St James the Great gave us some encouragement climbing up East Hill. Backsides left the bicycle seats. The good Vicar wasn’t quite your crazed Col du Galibie cycling super fan chasing you up the hill whilst wearing a mankini. No sign of El Diablo either.

Once again my knowledge of route and destination was on par with my understanding of The Bible. Maldon was mentioned as the turnaround point, but this could have been Mount Sinai for all I knew.

A bicycle un-friendly cycle path around the back of the old Barracks was bloody awful. Gravel littered with broken glass and dog shit greeted us at regular intervals. A nervy touching of the front brake and you were looking at a bloodied face mixed in with faeces. Which wasn’t a million miles away from my Saturday night out to be honest.

We made hay whilst the sun wasn’t shining at Layer de la Haye. A buzzard hovering over Berechurch was a reminder as to how the ‘comfortable’ pace of a CTC ride allows you to take in your surroundings and actually experience the changing scenery.

It strayed dangerously into Graun reading territory as a crowd of Sunday morning lane cyclists engaged with nature whilst looking forward to the first Danish pastry of the day. And then the Mod squad of West Ham scooter boys sailed past at Layer Marney, slightly off route for The Boleyn, but looking cool as fuck all the same. Betcha they don’t dish up Danish down at Upton Park.

The mid-May arid air around the lanes was a reminder that North Essex is one of the driest locations in the land. I tried to counter-balance this in a hedgerow with my own contribution to raising the water table. All that I succeeded in achieving was cycling in a saturated pair of lycra shorts.

Whoops.

Now was no time for Nursery rhymes, but I know an old (ish) lycra lad that swallowed a fly. I don’t know why he swallowed a fly, but he did it again, again and again as a swarm of the little buggers did their best to upset my natural breathing rhythm.

A sign saying: Guinea Fowl Crossing just outside of Tiptree offered more hope than actual comedy moments. I was half expecting a lollipop lady with a featherless head to step out and allow a safe passage for the plumed pedestrians. Instead my back wheel skidded on some guinea fowl shit left in the middle of the road.

The CTC tradition of endorsing EVERY garden nursery cafe en route continued at Tiptree. A green canopy then greeted us as we left the Land of Jam and freewheeled down a lane laden with lush leafs growing from either side. A ray of sun illuminated the empty road as the branches tailored off towards the end. It was like a science fiction scene as the darkness emerges with a symbolic light at the end of the tunnel.

For the riders of Colchester CTC however all that we were greeted with as we rode into Little Braxsted was a homemade sign saying: Hardcore Wanted.

There’s a time and place for everything, Comrade. Lycra shorts and hardcore aren’t a good combination. But good effort, fella.

Purleigh was the perfect luncheon feeding station. My salmon and chips bap (classy) was enjoyed with a view overlooking the Blackwater - I think? The ramblers in the country pub looked as confused with the lycra set as I was with the three quarter pants preferred by the bobble hat boys.

Refueled and ready to roll out again somewhere close to Cocks Clark.

“Don’t worry dear, it’s only a deer“

…was a rather joyous turn of expression as a beautiful Bambi narrowly missed my front wheel as it darted across the backstreet lane. An estuary echelon was required as the wind started to blow up around the Blackwater. A slight turn of direction and soon it was blowing up our backsides, all the way back to the Leisure World skateboard ramps.

Sixty plus miles with the lovely CTC folk and still time to collapse on the settee in front of the cricket highlights back at base.

See you next Sunday.

Chapeau!

Surrey 229 for 1 (Davies 127*, Smith 74) beat Hampshire 228 (Ansari 4-46) by nine wickets

If it’s a Monday then it must mean that it’s The Oval. And so after living it up at Lord’s on Saturday, the call came out on Bank Holiday Monday of:

To South London!

…for the ‘rrey at home to Hampshire to start off the YB40 season at The Oval.

Fitting for any Bank Holiday, Monday was christened by the corporate types at The Oval as Family Fun Day.

Fuck that.

Bank holidays are all about booze and bat ‘n’ ball. The conversation in the queue to collect tickets turned towards carrot cake. Since when did Family Fun Day mean that cricket became the preserve of poncification of South London? I bagged a bag of chips from the Claylands Fish Bar, before offering up my excess saveloy sausage to a Yummy Mummy in The Oval queue.

Surrey were 9-0 as I took my seat in the Peter May alongside the sun drenched South London boys. These were Golden Days in South London. The combination of cricket and Carlsberg suggested a lively Bank Holiday ahead.

A pre-season fixture away at Hampshire had seen both sides batting in balaclavas (TRUE!) and temperatures of minus three degrees. When Will I See You Again, etc? Preferably in the more tropical South London conditions. Don’t forget the factor 50.

Hampshire won the toss and put the ‘rrey into bat for the first YB40 fixture of the season in South London. Dernbach’s line and length took the early wicket of Carberry.

Five overs in and Surrey were spinning it to win it. The introduction of Keedy into the attack coincided with the first appearance of the Family Fun Day balloon donkey.

Twists, turns and a lot of hot air.

And that was just the spin bowling of Keedy, etc.

A superb catch from Solanki saw off Vince for a useful 21, leaving Hampshire on 52-2. Cambridge undergraduate Ansari gave Hampshire a lesson in turning the ball, whilst a Captain’s catch from Smith in front of the OCS saw Surrey looking strong on 89-4.

A boundary from Ervine brought up the 100 for Hampshire at the halfway stage. A par score of 220 looked half decent. A parallel par score of eight cans of Carlsberg being demolished within the required run rate was also making steady progress.

The Ervine / Dawson partnership was finally broken when Ansari had Dawson caught on 36. Wheater fell for five in the 28th over, upsetting the natural balance in the Bank Holiday booze per over alternative scorecard.

Wood was run out for a 21, leaving the visitors on 188-7. Ervine slogged to 63, finally bowled by Ansari, now set up with a career bowling best of 4-37 in the limited overs game.

“They call him Domingo,”

…remarked a boozed up wag in the Peter May.

“He’s very placid.”

Boom boom.

It’s the way he tells / drinks them.

Hampshire were skittled out for 228 in an innings that neither threatened nor embarrassed the visitors. It was as non descript as the smuggled in alcohol. Part pleasing, part piss poor. But half decent, all the same.

A Captain’s knock from Smith settled the Surrey response. A fantastic 50 from only 36 balls - a shame that Davies at the other end just beat the South African skipper to the half-century.

Both batsmen reached 73 as Mr Duckworth and Lewis also showed the exact same score on The Oval scoreboard. If this was a boxing match then white towels would be thrown into every corner of the old ground, long before I had time to welcome the opening of can number eight of Carlsberg.

Smudger Smith finally came a cropper, caught on a fantastic 74 with the ‘rrey on 162-1. The Davies century soon followed off only 81 balls and with Surrey on 195-1.

Booze kinda clouded the remainder of the play, but no surprises that Surrey bagged their first YB40 win of the season, just as the sun was setting over the splendour of the OCS.

It’s beer festival cricket at The Oval next weekend, Comrades.

Same as it ever was.

C’mon the rrey!

And so with the 2013 Spring Classic season now completed on the cycling calendar, what next for a bored blogger who likes to live out his lycra dreams whenever the day job doesn’t interfere?

Ahh, a cursory glance at the cycling schedule and it seems that the Grand Tour season has already started with the Giro d’Italia.

Chapeau!

The Grand Tours are the pinnacle of the pedaling world. You work your arse off during the Spring Classics to ride yourself into fitness, and then spend 2-3 weeks at a time racing around Europe in search of Grand Tour glory.

But bugger that.

I still had a booze hangover from the cricket come early Sunday morning. A grueling 17.2km team time trial might have been occupying Allez Wiggo et al, but I was all set for a bit of a leisurely bicycle ride to Braintree and back.

And whaddya know - those incredibly friendly folk at Colchester CTC had just the ride, rolling out of the glamour that is the skateboard ramp at Leisure World, just as the Grand Tour boys were descending from a similar style ramp on the Italian island of Ischia.

Ride yourself into fitness wasn’t far from my mind. If you can lose the eight cans of cheapo lager hangover by the time you reach Lexden, then the job’s a good ‘un.

Have roadie, will travel, has been the motto for my introduction to CTC riding. I’m clueless when it comes to route planning and preparation. I’ve taken to the approach of not even checking to see where the fine CTC-ers are actually riding to each weekend.

Which made Sunday morning something of a mystery ride.

How exciting.

Would it be Braintree? Boxsted? Or maybe even Brightlingsea, the North Essex rival to the Italian city of Turin.

Stanway is always a good starting point when you are exiting Sunny Colch. A dozen or so CTC-ers cruised out of the town, riding a combination of roadies, tourers, hybrids and even a Colne Valley Mini Wheeler, complete with the essential cycling accessory of sandals.

I didn’t read too much into the mystery tour destination as we took a turning into Turkey Cock Lane. Like I said - these CTC-ers are incredibly friendly folk.

All the gobble, gobble action led to a few mechanicals in the lycra shorts department. Less than ten miles out of town and I was caught short. It is every male cyclist’s etiquette challenging conundrum: do you pull over and lose the pelaton, or discreetly let the lycra soak up the ‘excess water,’ hopeful that it can be mistaken for sweat and effort?

I may be a lycra fantasist but I’m no dirty dog. A curbside stop in the great outdoors, and then I was pulled back into the pack with a domestique donkeywork ride from Wifey.

The toilet stop was badly timed - I had forgotten the CTC tradition of endorsing the tearooms at EVERY garden nursery en route. A sharp right hand bend and soon we were de-cleating at Coggeshall Garden Centre.

I pulled off the unlikely feat of puncturing whilst stationary - not in tyres, but the palm of my hand that took on board a particularly painful splinter. An aborted puncture repair kit effort to remove the splinter soon became a Coggeshall Garden Centre mini-medical operation. I challenge you to find any other coffee shop at a nursery garden centre that employs the skills of a splinter assistant.

Much appreciated, Madam.

Vanity got the better of me as the midday sun rose above the BIG Essex skies. The long sleeve lycra soon became shortened, all set for a cyclist’s suntan. Cometh the Pro look, cometh the semi-Pro big boys of Colchester Rovers, out on the club run and probably racing into Coggeshall for splinter assistance.

The passing of other Sunday morning cyclists has been an increasing theme of late. There was a time not so long ago when if you mentioned on Monday morning at work that you had spent your Sunday cycling, you probably would have been spat in the face.

Cycling was a WEIRDO pastime, the preserve of social inadequates who didn’t see the attraction of staying in bed all Sunday morning. Now it seems that half of Essex has taken to two wheels along the lanes each week. A critical mass has reached - not just by the sheer numbers out each weekend, but also in the attitudes of most motorists, observant and understanding of any weekend club run rolling out.

Not that we clogged up the roads for any other users. A speed of 25mph was clocked on the descent down towards White Notley. I’m not sure what I was more impressed by - the speed itself, or the fact that White Notely has a digital speed calming measure.

I still didn’t know where the chuffers we were, or where we were going.

Live to Ride, Ride to Live, etc.

Luncheon was taken at the charming old Rayne railway station. We sat in the shade dining upon our continental brie paninis (toasted cheese sarnies,) and then marveled at the steady stream of young families cycling along the old railway line.

Braintree and Bocking beckoned, via the back route of a fairly bleak industrial estate. Bluebells greeted us in Stisted, and then soon we were racing back through Wakes Colne, aka barn conversion country. A rotting pile of wood had a knobber estate agent sign hanging from it, boasting optimistically of a ‘barn lifestyle escape.’

Good luck with that one, fella.

“YOU BIKE WANKER!“

…was the welcome from the passenger seat of a speeding motorist at we entered Eight Ash Green. Still some work to do to reach that mainstream critical mass for cycling.

The sight of a Stars and Stripes flag raised above a front garden pole was a little weird. It would have made for an interesting doorstep conversation had UKIP come knocking the week before.

And then with 60-ish miles appearing on the bicycle computer, we were back at Castle Park and the lovely CTC ride was almost complete. I’m still not entirely sure where we went, or even why. North Essex and a love of garden nursery coffee shops sounds about right.

Chapeau!

County Championship Division One, Middlesex v Surrey at Lord’s, Surrey 338
Middlesex 166 & 283/2

I love getting roaring drunk and I love Lord’s. Combine the two, add in the heady concoction of cricket and I’m cooking.

Chin chin.

And so: To the Home of Cricket!

…on Saturday morning for Day 3 of Surrey Vs the ‘Sex. The last time I saw Surrey at Lord’s resulted in a botched blind man’s buff attempt to find my way back to Stratford after half a shandy too many. Surrey bagged the Pro 40 trophy and I somehow bodged it halfway around the underground.

Whoops.

But it was to be a more sober experience on Saturday morning for the prestige of the London derby.

That was the plan, anyway.

Blue sky and booze is always a brilliant way in which to start your Saturday morning at HQ. The online alcohol advice suggested a strict two pints per entry at the old North Gate. My mathematical calculations got a little confused. Eight cans of Fosters seemed the perfect fit. No bag search, either.

A fashionably later arrival in the Compton Stand meant that we missed the first (and last) wicket of the day. The fag end of the ‘Sex first innings was snuffed out, just as we were climbing the steps of the majestic meeja centre.

And so the ‘Sex were skittled out for 166, falling short of the 338 chase set by Surrey in the first innings. Cloud cover and an ‘optimistic’ weather forecast for the next few hours meant that the follow on was forced by Surrey.

Attack is the best form of defence. Especially so when you are in North London and flying the Transpontine flag that stands for the libertarian equalities of freedom, fair play and eight cans of Fosters.

And so the challenge was set by the boys from South of the river shortly after 11:15am. Which must mean that it was also an acceptable hour in which to crack open the first can.

The introduction of The Viscount Tim Linley into the attack coincided with the ring pull shooting its load. Linley appealed optimistically after his very first delivery, almost replicating the false promise of a can of a Fosters getting a little over-excited before hopefully settling down for the day.

The pattern of Linley appealing after every delivery - and the alcohol overspill - was to continue throughout the day at Lord’s.

The inauguration of some new Members at Middlesex is worth a mention. A guided tour of HQ was in place for the new North London card carriers. The inauguration of the new ‘Sex Members also coincided with the return of Jade Dernbach into the attack for the ‘rrey.

Short, short, long.

And that was just the ‘Sex inauguration.

Rain led to an early luncheon, and a sudden interest in the Lord’s shop. But at 500 notes for a top of the range bat, window shopping was as good as it got.

A trip to the audacious Art Deco toilets followed - or the ‘washroom’ as the P’s and Q’s etiquette of Lord’s dictates. No queues, but the pees were savoured in what is the most delightful of surrounds in which to syphon the python.

A strategic manoeuvre to the Grand Stand followed for the afternoon session. Blue skies beckoned, as did the sound of the first champagne cork popping for the afternoon. You say fizzy French wine, I say Fosters.

Dontcha just LOVE these North / South cultural misunderstandings, Comrades?

The ‘Sex made hay whilst the sun shined. 100 was soon clocked up on the scoreboard. Surrey puffed and panted with some pace bowling. It was fitting that 150 was achieved with four leg byes.

This was an innings in reverse. The ‘Sex went on the attack in the second innings, trying to forget the previous two days of cricket. It was a tactic that served the home team well at HQ.

Remind me - who is the Middlesex Batting Coach once again?

Grrrrr.

Another tactical necessity scene change for the post tea session. We returned to the Compton to catch the GLORIOUS sunrays that were shining down from across the river in South London.

This was the chatty chatty component to the day, aka alcohol comes close to stopping play. The patience being played out from Rogers and Robson at the crease was paying off. Both reached their centuries in the same over - a rare feat.

Remaining overs and remaining ring pulls dictated when it was time to leave. And so one wicket all day at Lord’s, and whaddya know - we chuffing missed it.

Whoops.

Which must mean that many more Lord’s memories are just waiting to be made / forgotten.

C’mon the ‘rrey!

“The Crystal is a place where anyone can come to explore the future of our cities.”

The Crystal is also an exercise in how a multi-national corporation can attempt to ease its social conscience by setting up a socially sustainable hub [URGH] to try and stimulate a conversation all about caring capitalism.

NEVER trust a hippy.

And so having dangled off the Dangleway around the edges of the Royal Docks, my attention turned to the rather bland glass house structure that has recently appeared as part of the Enterprise District in the London Borough of Newham.

The view from 90 metres up above the water on the Dangleway didn’t give much away - a jagged structure that didn’t look very inviting as the gondola started the descent into the Royal Docks. The view from the ground level didn’t offer up any more enthusiasm.

The Crystal has landed in South East London as an attempt by Siemens to try and explain - and ease - some of the social issues that are thrown up through corporate globalisation. It’s a brave effort in trying to engage [URGH] the conversation, rather than simply go about the business of exploitation with yet further business.

But you have to ask the question: why?

What is there to be gained by trying to convince local folk that you are a multi-national that has a slightly fluffy edge around your approach to global trade? If the sustainable city question mattered so much, why not just change the focus and structure of the organisation to genuinely help to eradicate world poverty?

But that’s not the point of The Crystal. Perhaps the best endorsement is that the cupcakes in the reasonably priced mezzanine cafe looked half-decent.

NEVER trust a cupcake lover, etc.

What exists inside The Crystal is a haphazard approach to pointing out the destruction that capitalism is capable of creating. It’s half an hour spent learning how global trade doesn’t always lead to a better life for everyone.

It’s all about the economy, Stooopid.

And so half an hour to immerse yourself in a false layer of social conscience, or half a week to read Das Kapital? At least yer man Mr M had some solutions to the ills of capitalism.

“How do you build a sustainable city?”

…is the first questioned asked upon entry. Building a glass building in the Royal Docks that has all the social value of a frozen pack of peas certainly can’t help.

Entry is FREE however.

It’s the future, I tell you.

Costing £30m to build, The Crystal also serves as a workspace for Siemens in South East London. But is sustainability [URGH, URGH] ever built upon commercial enterprise?

It’s all about the PEOPLE, isn’t it?

What follows as you wander around The Crystal is a curious hybrid of Clockwork Orange meets New Labour. Dystopian scenarios are played out in front of you with moral panics about the dangers ahead when all moral value is evaporated from a progressive society.

And that’s just the New Labour angle, Comrades.

An intimacy with the brand is encouraged to help you understand how global warming started. You don’t need a degree in Chicken and Egg Economics to understand that the solutions being offered come from the exact same economic model that created the mess.

Environment, Economy and Quality of Life are the three main themes. There is no mention of the means or mode of production, let alone the infrastructure or superstructure.

But yeah - NICE cupcakes.

The space is zone heavy, full of meaningless messages and interactive exhibits with little cohesion. You are invited to enter the Forces of Change Theatre. No indication as to what type of social change Siemens is supporting here.

“Why urbanisation matters”

…is another message.

I was rather hoping that the question posed was: why the mighty @urban75 matters.

But nope.

It all got a little multi-media saturated with endless interactive buttons to press and screens to flicker on and off at your every whim. Here’s hoping that Siemens have taken care of the sustainable energy here.

For an exercise in attempting to stimulate conversations and dialogue, The Crystal simply talks at you. This is a one-way process with no indication that the corporate beast is actually listening.

Ideas and solutions require collaboration. Sitting in a teepee outdoors and having a conversation about social and economic models, may by a better way forward.

But NEVER trust a hippy, etc.

“Welcome to the Keep Moving Zone”

…read another sign.

I did. Nothing to see here.

The lip service to cycling - perhaps the only genuine sustainable energy on show - was but the corporate livery of a single Boris Bike. Is corporate sponsorship really the best answer you’ve got for sustainability?

The Crystal has all the energy of a car showroom for corporate consumption. The lights are on, but the ideas have been left at home.

I’m halfway through Das Kapital, Comrades.