Go ahead, call me a Mamil if you want to, for sure I’m a middle-aged man, and I can often be seen riding my bike while wearing lycra. Then again, my deluded inner-self likes to think I’m a little bit different to your average Mamil – if such a mythological beast even exists.

I didn’t take up the bike as a substitute for golf, or to avert a mid-life crisis, or because I was recently inspired by British Olympic cycling success, or the exploits of Wiggo, the Manx Missile, the (ahem, #cough#) “Froome Dog” et al. Neither was I impressed by the seemingly impossible acutely implausible superhuman exploits of a certain sociopathic Texan megalomaniac.

I’ve been following cycling since I was a spry teenager, back in the days when Wonderloaf and Sutherland’s Spread was haute cuisine and Eddy Merckx was achieving god-like status stomping on everything and everyone. And, while I haven’t always been an active cyclist, I’ve always followed the sport and I’m still hugely indebted to those unfathomably old (well, it seemed so at the time) super-hard clubmen, steeped in the traditions of British Cycling who not only kept me hugely entertained but took a callow youth under their wing and helped shape me as a rider and perhaps as a person as well.

My boyhood heroes and idols were Merckx and Roger de Vlaeminck, Francesco Moser and Giovanni Battaglin, José Manuel Fuente and most especially the greatest climber of all time, bar none: Lucien Van Impe.

Leazes Park 1977 4
The only known picture of Sur La Jante actually racing – that’s me (aged 15) at the back and undoubtedly about to get dropped from the lead group of juniors at a local criterium in 1977.

Anyway, I’ve had grown men who should know better confess that they live for the weekend club run and I thought this unique British institution was something that needed celebrating.

So, if you’ll forgive the mixed metaphors, hopefully this blog will do what it says on the tin, lift the lid on the gloriously colourful, arcane practices, unique characters, great camaraderie and bizarre banter that makes a cycling club so entertaining and engaging.

Who knows I may yet inspire a new host of Van Impe fans, or encourage the odd (nothing wrong with odd) casual cyclist to saddle up and join their local club.

Somewhere along the way we may even get to address some of cycling’s greatest conundrums, such as exactly how do you clip into a clipless pedal?

… Oh, the name – Sur La Jante was taken from a lexicon of some of the more obscure cycling terms compiled on the rather wonderful Inner Ring blog.

The full phrase is finir sur la jante, to finish on the rim as if you’ve punctured and have to ride slowly – which seems to adequately sum up my efforts in the weekly club sprint to the café.


4 thoughts on “About

  1. Hi Sur,

    I just wanted to drop you a line to say how much I enjoy reading your blog I discovered your book on amazon paid for it and now have read the full extent of your musings. Keep up the good work.


    1. Thanks Richard, that’s greatly appreciated, glad you’re enjoying the ride. My second annual is already in production and coming to Amazon soon, but of course all the content is already available free of charge here!

      All the best,


  2. Paul, Your Back!!!! I was so pleased to see you have taken up your pen/keyboard again. I had been visiting your blerg page forlornly thinking you had finally given up so to find new material last night really lifted my spirits in these strange times. I have to say you have a gift with words I have shared your Planet X v Rapha with anyone who shows mildly stingy tendencies similar to my own. Planet X for me everytime though I have one Rapha top – a gift from my cycling buddies for my 50th.


    1. Thanks Richard – can’t say I ever thought I’d be missed! Glad your on board for the ride, however long it lasts. Be honest, is the Rapha top good enough so you can understand what the fan boys are on about? I’m always intrigued to try the brand (although I might have to hide the label) just to see if the inflated price is in any way justified.


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