Know Your Place

What does it mean to be English? This was one of many thought drifting through my brain today as we stormed around the levels in the ever-diminishing Axbridge Cycling Group peleton. Why diminishing? Well, we started as a group of ten, all of whom would consider themselves part of the "fast" group. This is relative, oh yes. After today, it's very relative, because by the end, there were only five of us left, and two of those, including Mr MMAM, were very definitely there to make up the numbers-if, big if this, we could stay on the wheel of the three Super-beings from South Africa (originally) who came with us.

Of course there are all kinds of national stereotypes. The Italians? All style no substance. Efficient and methodical Germans? Passionate French? Stoical Russians? The world is full of this sort of nonsense. But what are we English about? Are we more like Cavendish or John Major? Gary Lineaker or Gordon Brown?

(Actually, in the case of the Italians it's true-I had an Alfa Romeo once and it certainly looked good, and had a beautiful engine. But the electrics were shocking, it caught fire in the end from a dodgy fuse box. And my Italian cycling kit is also great to look at, but the zip on my gilet is always getting stuck.)

Know your place, yes, in more ways than one. Fortunately, these cycling gods from the rainbow nation are not used to our ways. Literally, they don't know the roads yet, so they have to slow down at junctions and wait for us. Then of course, had you not noticed, the FIFA World Cup is going on at the moment, in South Africa. I have drawn said nation in the office sweepstake, along with those crazy Dutch boyz, and the Black Stars of Ghana (that is their nickname, not as good as the indomitable Lions of the Cameroon, but still pretty good). West Ham used to have a player from Ghana-John Paintsil- but he's gone to Fulham now.

Anyway, our route was a flat visit to the seaside and I was a bit worried about not really getting any training value from this. Fortunately, everyone else must have been concerned too, for they let me go on the front all the way, pretty much, into the stiff westerly breeze. When we reached the last turn before the cafe, it was just me and the (cycling) Divine family, so they all raced off for family honour for the last mile, and the rest of us rolled in, dribs and drabs.

There was much talk of the Marmotte, sportives and Contador over coffee, and I also had the pleasure of the most thickly spread marmite on toast I had ever had. Gorgeous.

Back on the road, it was down the coast, past the lovely Brean complex, and across to Brent Knoll. We lost Doc, his first trip out for a while after an injury, and J and I (I'll think of some names soon), who also headed back to Axbridge by a direct route. This was tough, because I, (as in the initial for the person to be named rather than my personal pronoun-got it?) had been route-plotter in chief. It didn't matter because we were just trailing in the wake of Superboy and his parents. And Superboy was feeling sick today as well, heaven help us when he is fit.

I'm just going to divert a bit to tell you about my Grandma- she's been dead nearly 20 years, but she was a lovely lady, quite short, and very pleasant to all who met her. Except on the sports field, when she could have been playing for Cameroon, she took no prisoners and showed no mercy. In her latter years, she played bowls. It's not time for me to play that sport yet, but if I do, I shall play it like she did. Fierce, she was. Not above firing all the bowls all over the park if she could gain a slight advantage from it. The competitive streak lurks in me somewhere, and I think it comes from her.

Well today I was wondering if some of her genetic material had been implanted in South Africa, way back, for despite my best efforts I was never going to out sprint them. "Nice try" Skip laughingly told me as Superwoman breezed past me on the road into Cheddar. "I used to race" she told me. Earlier, Skip and I had realised that we are now unquestionably the domestiques of the ACG, we know our place.

The English bit? Well, my Gran was always criticised for being too competitive, but she didn't care. And Superwoman and Superboy proudly display their South African flags on their bikes. The England football team lived down to expectations again last night, and somehow i think our culture could do with a bit more of the spirit of Elsie May and the Super family.

In Cheddar there was just time for me to give some driving advice to a man with a trailer who tried to overtake us as we approached a junction. Skip asked me about my blood pressure for some reason. I wasn't polite but nor did I swear, and to be frank, it's our duty to educate people who drive like numpties. Maybe not the best attitude, but better that than dead!

By the time we got back to Axbridge, Skip and I remained, RPM and Boots being the last to disappear off the back. It was a great ride, and I hope they stick with us, because I can learn a thing or two from them, and if nothing else, fetch bottles of water from the team car on the Cheddar Sportive in September. A fast ride, a sunny ride (as my rapidly developing cycling tan will testify), but most of all, a ride where I knew my place.

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