Polar Bears in the Campsies

I can always tell how much my pal Grant has had to drink. If he has five pints, then during a hiatus in the conversation the same old pub debate inevitably ensues.

‘Who would win in a fight between a lion and a bear’

‘What kind of bear?’

‘em… I dunno, does it matter?’

‘Course it does, the only chance a Koala Bear would have is if the Lion ate him before the referee had blown his whistle, then he might win on a technicality, but he’d be eaten, so its not like he’d be bothered about the adulation of the crowd’

‘hmmm… OK. Polar bear’

‘Which is the home side?’

‘eh?’

‘Whose playing at home? Is it at the Polar Bears gaff or the Lions…?’

Cycling can be a beautiful sport. Professional bike races cover huge areas of their host countries. With the massive viewing figures, the Tour de France doubles as a three week long advert for the French Tourist board.
Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for the participants. Cycling garb is functional… but it's certainly not flattering. Lycra is not a good look for anyone, and cycling helmets make you look like a mushroom. But it’s the shoes that are perhaps the most ridiculous items of clothing.

Modern bikes have pedals that the cyclist clips into, this allows him to pull up as well as push down whilst pedalling. Part of the pedal is effectively built into the front of the shoe, which means cycling shoes look as if they have a Cuban heel attached under the ball of your foot, a kind of inverse high heel. The sole of the shoe is also often made of an exotic material selected for its stiffness. No flex in the sole means that maximum power is transferred to the pedal stroke. When used in their chosen environment only a fool would question the design the cycling shoe, one might even describe it as a thing of beauty.

However, the combination of the inverse high heel and an unbending sole means that if you try and walk in a cycling shoe you mince around like a gay cowboy who has soiled his pants. Traction is also an issue, many a cyclist has shown heroic bravery on an alpine climb, battling through snow and ice only to be brought back to earth with a bump, completing an involuntary arse over tit acrobatic manoeuvre on the tiled floor of a café. Or worse, and I am speaking from experience, the slow ignominy of carrying a coffee and a cake and one shoe deciding to strike out in an easterly direction and the other a westerly. The resulting Bambi on ice splits can seriously damage both fragile egos, hamstrings and cakes.

The Tak me Doon Road and is a favourite for the Glasgow cycling cognoscenti, although I use 'favourite' in the loosest sense of the word.

The Tak rears skywards from Kilsyth and takes you up over the Campsies towards the Carron valley. Tak Me Doon? Get Me Doon, more like. It is a beast of a climb. 15 minutes of lung busting, eye bulging, weight training for your legs. I rate it as the hardest climb in and around Glasgow. It’s not long, but it’s vertiginously steep in places and makes for a real herculean effort. There are, on occasions, great views to be had from the top of the Tak. However, taking them in, is dependent on the oxygen debt blue spots clearing from your eyes at the same time as the grey clouds clear form the sky: An all to rare coincidence.

On a clear day you can see the whole of the Clyde valley and central Scotland stretch out in front of you. If you're lucky you can just make out the Firth of Forth.

Once you have negotiated the Tak and have started your long descent there is a ford in the road. Normally it is nothing more than a puddle with a pulse. Slowly dribbling its way across the road. The water itself does not present any real obstacle. Rather the rough cobble stones that form the floor of the ford need to be negotiated with care as if you hit these hard a puncture can easily result.

Given the rain that we have had over the last few weeks I had expected the puddle to be flowing a little more forcefully than usual. However I had not expected the raging torrent with which I was faced. Since I couldn’t see the paving under this bubbling, frothing maelstrom I decided to dismount and walk the three steps it would take to cross this deluge. 

The puddle with a pulse. In spate.

Alas, as we have already ascertained cycling shoes are not designed for wading/tottering across algae coated cobble stones. When half way across the river (approx 1 and a half normal steps, 5 tottering mincing cycling shoe steps), I half turned to see a Royal Mail van hoving into view. The pressure of not wanting to delay her Majesties mail was too much for me, I lost my footing and all of a sudden I was lying face up in a freezing cold river, soaked to the skin. Whether it was the embarrassment, the cold, or both, I shot to my feet, I am not sure that I was down there long enough to get wet, only to slip once again, this time landing face down in the freezing river, ensuring that my wetness was at least uniform. The pain of the fall had barely registered and paled into insignificance when, retreating from the icy water, my testicles retracted so far and so fast I could feel them under my armpits. The impact of testicle on clavicle would have made a weaker mans upper lip tremble with emotion.

I got to my feet (more slowly this time) and tried to lift my bike up and get out the wet. Unfortunately my pedal had become lodged between two cobblestones and it was proving troublesome to release my steed. 

The Royal Mail van was now upon me and I realised that I was causing an obstruction to the Queens highway.  I pulled harder on my handlebars to try and free my bike. The mail van let out a plaintive peep on his horn... It was then I noticed that my saddle bag had released itself and was bobbing off slowly down the river. I decided that I would get my bike free, and get out of the way of the van before going back to retrieve my saddle bag.

I tugged harder on the bike and it suddenly released sending me sprawling in water for a third time. Much to the amusement of the postie.

I managed to extract myself from the white water and stood there shivering. Debating whether I should chase after my saddle bag. To be honest my mental debate didn’t even get beyond the reading of the motion. I decided that I would give the saddle bag and its contents (a puncture repair kit) up for lost, and head towards somewhere warm and dry. My testicles gave an almost audible cheer of delight and inched closer to where they should have been residing.

I did a mental check to make sure nothing important had been dropped in the river,

Wallet – check

House keys – check

Phone – check

All present and correct.

I swung my leg over my bike and started on my way, without so much as a glance over my shoulder towards my saddle bag. Half a pedal stroke into to my homeward journey it hit me.

Car keys.

My mother trucking car keys were in my mother trucking saddle bag. I leapt off my bike like a gazelle and minced back to the river as fast as an incontinent cowboy with inverse high heels could. I plunged once more into the icy water and chased after my keys. My testicles making plain their displeasure at the situation with every totter. As the river got further from the road it got deeper, first up to my thighs and then over my waist. About 10 meters from the side of the road there is a sheep fence. This fence normally crosses the river at a good distance from the water, but today the river was a matter of millimetres from the wire. I caught sight of the recalcitrant luggage, just as it was about to disappear under the fence, it had got caught on the wire, however it was clear by the way that it was moving that pretty soon the force of the water would push it under the fence. I leapt towards the bag ignoring the plaintive cries from my testicles. Unfortunately I missed and the splash from my leap pushed the bag under the wire. I cursed. It became clear that in order to get my car keys I was going to have to duck under the sheep fence, submersing my head in the icy water. I cursed again.

I took a deep breath and cleared the fence. God it was cold. So was the ride home.

My testicles came down from under my armpits eventually, but we’re still not on the best of terms.

So, you see Grant, its all a matter of context. A Polar Bear would win at a neutral venue. But not if the Lion got a home draw. The polar bear is a mean so and so but he’s not much use on the African savannah. Especially if he’s wearing cycling shoes.

I trust that settles it.

QED.
From the (wet and windy) wild west (end),
n