Halfords VS Decathlon? Vive La France.

By contrast with a lot (most?) of British people, I have no problem with good things coming from France. After all, I came from there myself for three and a half years. Lovely people, lovely place. There, an Englishman said good things about France. Anyway, there I was splashing around Stockport on the motorbike, in full rain gear on a typical English summer's day, looking for the Halfords "Superstore". When I finally found it, I was confronted with a run-down, peeling facade, a scrappy pot-holed car park and windows so dirty I couldn't even tell if the place was open or not. This wasn't helped by the "Wickes DIY Superstore" on the same car park, which could also do with a lick of paint. It looks a bit like a second-world-war hangar.

Halfords vs Decathlon - how proud are you?

I went into Halfords with several items in mind, for my latest project, which is getting my road bike running. All I needed was some brake and gear cables and handlebar tape. Exactly the sort of stuff you'd expect to find in Halfords, right? Wrong. I struggled to find the items I needed and ended up "Choosing" Shimano cables (road bike is all Campagnolo) that could be made to fit, and could I find handlebar tape? No I couldn't. Could I even get to talk to an attendant? No I couldn't. It's not tlike the place was busy - I don't think they have many customers, apart from the odd spotty baseball-cap-on-sideways 18 year old, looking for stick-on accessories for his 1100cc Corsa, when in fact he'd be better off spending his money on proper trousers. Anyway, after playing hide-and-seek with the one disinterested attendant on show (a diminutive youth with a ginger ponytail, daft earrings and a gitty goatee), and eventually finding him disiterestedly selling a chid's bike to a woman who obviously wanted him to know more than he did about bikes, I dumped the Shimano kit and flounced out. I was beginning to overheat in my rain gear, and I knew there was "Un magasin Decathlon" two miles away. Here's the French connection, see? I parked in about ten acres of space, waltzed in, found two makes of cables for road bikes (I picked the cheap French brand) and seven different colours and two different compounds of hadlebar tape. In two minutes I had exactly what I needed, and to boot, If I'd looked even slightly bewildered, one of the eight or nine attendants that walked past would have been on hand to help. As it says in the title, vive la France.

I now have a working road bike. All I need now is a working spine. Damned thing is hurting as much as ever, now that I've stopped the pills. Mind you, I slept right through last night for the first time since starting taking Diclofenac. I reckon it gives me bad dreams. One night I dreamed horribly about an angry bear. Wonder who that represents? Oops, I'll get a slap for that. Yes, I do have another appointment with the doctor, and yes, I'll drone on about it here as soon as the next episode unfolds. (Probably quicker than my back, guffaw)

While we're on biking, I hear through the fine-art grapevine that one of our blog followers, my esteemed former colleague and fellow finely-tuned athlete Keith, has lost three front teeth and gained twelve stitches in his top lip (not a good exchange, I'd have thought) in a mountain biking accident. I can only guess at how much that must have hurt. Keith, Keith, could you not get your hands in front of you in time? Get well soon, and post a comment to let us know how you're doing. I once broke my two little fingers on my way over the handlebars of a mountain bike, in my haste to get my hands to the ground before my face. It was December, and so cold I didn't even begin to feel pain until I got home and thawed out. Now I can't hold drumsticks properly - but at least I can still eat corn on the cob, ha!

More later, mes petits pois. Au revoir, chamois letheur, etc etc.