After some pretty shitty weather recently – not all that wet, just cold and windy – I found myself fed up of freezing my jiggly man-tits off. Despite being from Yorkshire, I’m not good with weather in the “generally crap” range, craving either baking hot sunshine, or Beast from the East-like blizzards.
Having reached Fuck That level when checking the forecast or looking out of the window, and nearly spending last year’s Christmas Rapha vouchers on one, I thought I’d have myself one of them there thermal jackets. A hundred and fifty notes ain’t exactly pocket change, but I’d had a good year, mileage-wise, and I didn’t want to spaff it up the wall just because it was a little unpleasant out. Besides, I liked the stripy Brevet jacket design.
The fuckers were out of stock. Out of fucking stock. In late autumn. Rapha, you let me down. You let yourselves down. You let the nation down. I took to Twitter.
As he so often does, my good mate Angus came to the rescue. He may favour the eTap SRAM but, other than that, he can usually be relied upon to give those that ask an informed opinion on cycling kit. He can also talk for not just England, but the entire continent, and it’s fortunate that, during any phone call, he’s too busy nattering to notice if you’re having a wee. He invariably had something to recommend, with anecdotal evidence to support his suggestion.
Once my ears finally stopped bleeding, I put ten pence in the meter, fired up the internet machine, and headed to Sigma Sports, who’ve always done me right and, debit card in hand, chucked £123.20 at the Endura Pro SL Primaloft Jacket II. Then I sat back and waited.
Given there’s some sort of killer virus pandemic thing going on, resulting in bike shops have been busy on unprecedented levels as folk desperately seek ways to legitimately leave the house, I didn’t wait long. A couple of days later (and after a few messages to and from Angus’ son, Joe, who works at Sigma and sorted out my NHS discount retrospectively as I’d forgotten about it), a postal packet arrived.
It weighed nothing. Fuck all. There was no way the contents of this insignificant little bag was going to keep me warm outside on a bicycle. Opening the package did even less to alleviate my fears. The jacket looked piss-thin. However, it didn’t have a single bad review, and even at first glance is clearly well made.
The jacket fit well, and the size guide was accurate which, having just bought a Castelli rain jacket, isn’t something you can always expect in the cycling world. I don’t know what it’s actually made of, as I don’t care. It could be made of jam, twigs, and a bit of grandma’s spit for all I give a monkeys, as long as no cute little puppies are cruelly involved, I’m good. Whatever it’s made of, it’s well-constructed. Not a stitch is out of place, and not a thread hangs tantalisingly close to being snagged on something to unravel behind me as I pedal along, blissfully unaware of an ever increasing nakedness, as you see in cartoons. The material is stretchy enough to allow for normal movement without feeling restricted, yet is close-fitting and not even slightly flappy. Also, unlike puffer jackets as worn by every bugger these days, the thermal bits are in just the right places, with the rest of the jacket consisting of a single layer, which allows heat to dissipate from the areas that would otherwise leave you sweaty and, ultimately, colder. The arms are also a decent length which, given that cycling is mostly an arms-out-in-front type activity, I’m not going to have a problem with cold wrists.
Out on the road, I paired the jacket with nothing more than a long sleeved Rapha Pro Team thermal base-layer, fully expecting to be doing a u-turn faster than Boris Johnson whenever young Rashford speaks. However, I got to the end of the road and was reasonably assured that even if I got no warmer, I wasn’t going to die of exposure, and ploughed on. Then something odd happened. I got warm. Not the sort of warm you get from exertion, only sustainable by being on the gas for the whole ride, but a new warm. A cosy, comfortable warm that stopped at comfortable, just where I wanted it. I actually smiled, for fuck’s sake. Weird.
Anyone who rides bicycles in the Chilterns will wonder what the utter fuck I was thinking buying a pumpkin-coloured jacket. The roads are filthy from October to March and, once out in the lanes, I was regretting my choice. Over a hundred quid on a jacket that’s going to look like a pig did a shit on it after one ride does not constitute value for money. I returned home covered in black road goo and, probably, actual excrement from farmyard animals and chucked the jacket straight in the wash before the shit dried, forever lodged in its orangey fibres. The fucking thing came out spotless. Utterly bastard spotless.
Seriously. Buy one. It’s like some sort of freaky wizardry, and it hurts my brain.
FAT MAN ON A BIKE 