Postby ft_critical » Thu Sep 20, 2012 8:25 am
Clip-in Cup
The ‘Clip-in Cup’ is often a precursor, or even a necessary enabler to a successful Commuter Cup Race. Some of the sounds associated with the Clip-in Cup are:
1. Shhhh, shhhh, shhhh – the trackstand,
2. Click – the sound of a single clip-in,
3. Click, clunk – the sound of a missed clip-in,
4. Click, clunk, grrr – the sound of a cleat striking the road under force as a result of a mis-clip
A dark, spring evening; we are four random cyclists waiting beneath a 400m, 4% grade, light-to-light section of city-fringe dual-carriageway. I roll behind a muscular commuter on a drop-bar racer with an 80’s aluminium loop tri-bar. Click, clunk, he missed the left. Click, sorted that. I am now riding on his three-quarter left. Click, clunk, grrr. Click, clunk; he missed the right clip-in. In a Clip-in Cup variation, we have click, clunk, grrr and the embellishment "oh, for fxxks sake!!” I am now directly beside him. I look over at him in the half-light of the street lamps, “Embarrassing isn’t it,” and smile at him in an understanding way. He kind of nods.
I am riding at the same pace as him, and I am riding very tight to his bars. A tri-fail clip-in saga is probably a bit ego-deflating. I can feel his mind rummaging around for a solution. The solution he extracts is of course ‘overcompensation.’ He now rummages in a different section of the mind, one also requiring the agreement of the body. He extracts from his sporting tool kit, ‘THE HAMMER,’ which he precedes to ‘DROP’ furiously. It turns out that he doesn’t have a very large hammer, not any sort of sledge hammer for sure, more the sort of small hammer you would keep in the kitchen drawer for craftwork. Five to seven vigorous, groan accompanied, pedal stompings later, he resumes his seat. But he is now 5m ahead of his shame.
Well, he would be, but for the fact that I notice he is wearing knicks. Now knicks, as we know, come in two main varieties. Bib and non-bib. These were a type I had not previously seen though – Hipster knicks. They were worn low down, barely covering the buttock, but with some snazzy boxers emblazoned with a shinny, blingy brand on the wide elastic waistband.
‘Nice shorts,’ I ventured. His response seemed to indicate that our friendly chat had ended and that, as he had dropped my weak ass, I should be more politely and quietly vanquished.
