The rules

The Rules

You’ll come to realise the more you read this site that we are very much anti-clique – if you have any ambition to sit on a saddle (or recumbent seat I guess) and shove some pedals you’re fine by us. Even if you don’t actually get around to doing it. You see, cycling is anarchy; it has no rules, you need no permission from a fucker with a form to whizz down a hill upon two wheels (or three on a recumbent, sheesh!).  Get on your bike and ride, or don’t.  We’re not arsed either way. BUT…

The rules

If you DO get into road cycling, and if you have any interest in being a dickhead at all you’ll need to know THE RULES.  Now you may read ‘dickhead’ like it’s a bad thing, but you’d be discounting all the joy to be had of gently goading your dear friends over the sort of dickery that players of far more brutal sports engage in.  This is ironic humour, so it’s okay.  Or is it…. I’m not asking if it’s ‘okay’, because quite franking I’m terribly sorry but my ‘feel good feelings’ don’t rely on your opinion as fuel.

But just how ironic are ‘The Rules’?  The very best humour is that which we’re not sure about, not sure whether it’s serious or a very clever nod to obsession, or whether it’s real. That’s what makes ‘The Rules’ so perfect; they’re a perfect example of life imitating art, but they’re also quite savvy and will amuse any cyclist who has spent a lot of time bimbling through sportives (THEY’RE NOT A RACE, wink fucken wink), but they also reassure anyone new to cycling that they shouldn’t feel left out, because yes, it really is all a bit silly.

The cycling scale of balls.

If cycling was spectrum, then at one end of the scale we’d have folk in Sky replica kit riding precious metal / carbon bikes with price tags that would make a banker’s tamed eunuch blush, and at the other end of the scale would be the hipsters who ride bikes that cost -£600 to build because they were fetched from a canal and the rider had to expend precious effort (normally reserved for pre-anti-helmet-protest-hair-styling) prying the still twitching corpse of a blind Bolivian merkin-trader from the genuine 1930’s Brook’s saddle (left unfound for forty fucking boring years).  If I had to place ‘The Rules’ by The ‘Velominati’ in the middle of that frankly ‘bizarre’ range I’d firstly get rid of all the quote marks, then I’d shoo away The Velominai because they’d be curling one out on a glass coffee table while their mates giggled and tried to leg it with my nicely chromed tablewear.  You know what though?  I’d still look upon them with the affection of a 1950’s sitcom dad and shake my fist in a camp fashion, smile a crooked smile (due to the Woodbine staining my eyeballs) and say ‘oh you kids’.  But I’m not some old fucker, I’m a medium old fucker, and I love The Rules.

So why do I love the rules?  Well mostly because they remind me that I don’t push the pedals to aspire to anything, I love it all, all the daft bollocks, but ultimately I just want to whazz down hills going WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!??!?!?!±!!!?!?

If you want to gain the adoration of your friends and family click the advert below to buy the book, otherwise you can get the THE RULES for free…