The sad side of life

This is not a happy post, but I want to put it up because as well as a blog about the nice things in life, this is also a journal.

Some events make you realise the cliches are true. You must live every day to the full and if you love someone, let them know it each and every day.

Something really strange happened yesterday, and I haven't been able to stop thinking about it since.

We were woken at 5.30am by my neighbour shouting his wife's name, at the top of his voice, with increasing urgency.

They are a couple much like Lizzie and myself. Happy, devoted, comfortable in each other's company and totally in love. We hear them sometimes cracking jokes, ribbing each other, always good natured.

At the end he was so loud it was as if he was in the room.

Our initial thoughts, in those moments that follow a rude awakening, were that he had been out for the night and she had locked him out.

That was until he made the phone call. Panic was in his voice as he told the person at the other end of the line that "she's not breathing."

I got my clothes on, then sat on the edge of the bed, unsure of what to do. We're not the close to the neighbours, as friends. We exchange pleasantries, but the most we have ever spoken was when the fence was down last year because of some building work they were having done. Other than that, the extent of our contact has been Christmas cards and saying hello in the street.

So I didn't know whether going round was the right thing to do. But I was also scared, that if she was ill my lack of first aid knowledge might make things worse, and that if she was dead, well.

My decision was made for me when the paramedic pulled up. We heard her go into the room. "Her heart's not beating sir, I don't know why."

The ambulance pulled up a short while later. They seemed to be in there a while, and then everything went quiet.

We discovered later that Laura had died that night, in bed. Just passed away in her sleep.

She was 39-years-old.

Paul Smith Principia La Flamme Rouge and Wood Wood road bike: Porn on two wheels

Talking of bike porn, here's a couple of the best examples that have come to my attention of late, and as it happens they both happen to be collaborations with clothing designers.

The first one is a Paul Smith Principia La Flamme Rouge, in PS pink. This isn't too much of a surprise given Mr Smith's fondness for bicycles and his involvement with the Rapha brand.

But the second one did come as a bit of a bolt from the blue for me, seeing as you wouldn't immediately associate the street style brand Wood Wood with two wheels. Turns out they're so into it that they have their own team and have .

The Wood Wood bike might have been around a little while - since 2008 in fact, but it's still worth a mention.

Thanks to Sam for putting me on to the Paul Smith bike. Yes, I do want one.

Visvim Paine Moc Folk: Looks familiar

The first thing I thought when I saw Visvim's Fabro Folk loafers last year, was that I bet they'll put tassels on them next time round.

Well would you believe it, I was right.

I had a pair of tassel loafers in my last year of Hellesdon High in 1988. Light brown they were, with a nice thin sole, from Dolcis more than likely. They looked the part with my navy Farahs.

And in the 22 intervening years I have never once even considered getting a pair even remotely similar.

But then these are Visvim, and they do look a bit special. Sometimes it can be good to regress.

Via Freshness

Essex 100 bike ride: I suffered

The toughest part of the Essex 100 for me was just before the lunch stop, where my computer was telling me to expect the little village hall at Pebmarsh around the next corner and all that I met was a succession of thigh burning climbs.

By the top of the fourth hill, I couldn't even think about the lunch stop. My forward thinking stretched no further than the top of it.

Somewhere between the start and that hill lay the tattered remains of my optimism.

I certainly had it at 7.20am, when I had passed under the inflatable start sign at the Danbury Outdoor Centre with a pair of new wheels (see previous post) and the full length of the 100 mile route laid out before me. We had been released in packs of five but it wasn't long before our little echelon was a good thirty strong.

This was the kind of riding that makes you realise why you get out of bed at 4.40am on a Sunday to go cycling. Beautiful scenery, deserted country lanes, only the birds and the hum of tyres on tarmac to pierce the silence. With the rising sun behind us and the breeze in our favour we rode at a cracking pace.

But as the miles passed, so our pack reduced, and by 40 miles we were down to five. All of them besides me, as it turned out, from the Essex Roads club. We strengthened the crew by one at a set of traffic lights, and by the time we hit the first serious incline, we were six.

And that made those short and severe gradients hurt no less whatsoever. I counted at least five of them, proper leg bashers.

Then, when I could endure not one hill more, the route flattened out and the lunch stop appeared around a corner, complete with a little drinks lady to refill my bottle with squash and a scoop of Zip-Vit and a table piled high with sandwiches and Mr Kipling cakes.

The lunch stop seems to take forever to arrive because it is placed 60 miles around the route, instead of the expected 50. The upside to that is there are only 40 miles remaining, but I wasn't taking any chances. Besides, I was hungry.

I think I managed three sandwiches, two cups of soup, a jam tart and a cup of coffee. If the others hadn't got up to leave I would have managed a lot more.

I almost rolled out of that hall, and I'm sure my bike gave off a little yelp as I sat back on it.

With the tea lady's chirpy "it's all downhill from here!" still ringing in my ears, we were climbing again.

As it turned out I needed all that fuel, and quite a few Power Beans for the last five miles - a will sapping five-mile slog up a piece of neolithic geography that is the hill to Danbury, and the finish.

The policeman didn't help: "You're doing 13mph in case you're interested," he said as his colleague arrested a BMW driver.

That hill hadn't seemed half as steep on the way down.

I don't think I've ever been more thankful to see an inflatable sausage with "Finish" written on it.

Around 450 riders took part. Our group completed the ride took me 5 hours and 27 minutes. We set off at about 7.20am and I don't think many arrived back before us.

I just want to say thanks to the organisers for the free massage to get my legs working again, to Fletch for the use of his van - I felt like the A-Team rolling up in that - and to Lizzie for the steak dinner she cooked for me when I got home.

Thanks also to all my friends and colleagues for the well wishes and incredible generosity. We raised £230. Unlucky for you I'll be tapping you up again soon.

This time I've got the London to Paris in mind.

It's all about the wheels

Seeing as I've got a pretty hefty bike ride in the morning, I felt it was time to treat my trusty steed to a couple of new wheels.

They might not actually make me go any faster, but they look like they will,
and surely that's the point. The rest is going to be down to me and my legs.

I went for a pair of American Classic 420s. It was going to be the sprint 350s but had a last minute change of heart, and I reckon I made the right decision.

Even Martin at the bike shop agrees, which is a good enough endorsement for me, especially as he'd already fitted the 350s by the time I'd called and had to take start all over again.

Other preparation has included a good few training miles, a stock of energy bars, water tablets (to stop the cramp I'm told), some Power Beans, a spare inner tube, a new little pouch for under the seat, and a caring rub down for the bike.

So man and machine are ready as they will ever be.

I think a quick shout should go out to the chaps who had been training for this with me, and sadly due to some mechanical failures in the knee department will be sitting this one out. Get well soon Sam and Mark, best get yourselves mended for the next rides. They're going to be big.

Checked shirts: The finish line is in sight

Well that's that then. If you still haven't jumped on the lumberjack shirt bandwagon, it's too late now, because the wheels are about to come off.

What started a few years ago now as quite a niche nerd cool revival of a periodical old favourite has gathered pace and snowballed to such an extent that the Home News section of The Times has found it fit to devote a page lead story to the checked, or lumberjack shirt.

In doing so it has shot what remained of any element of cool in the lumberjack, check, madras, tartan, call-it-what-you-like fabric straight in the face.

From now on the checked shirt will become so ubiquitous that your own dad will be dusting off the one he's been using for gardening all these years and reworking it into his wardrobe.

And when a garment such as this enters the mainstream once more, and you walk into that pub to a scene resembling a patchwork quilt, you know it is time to move on.

To be honest the check shirt could never be called a classic. It will always carry with it that whiff of redneck that will have you ruing the day you ever got one. Usually around the time that you stumble on some old photos of yourself years later. A bit like twisted Levi's. What were they all about?

With that in mind I can smugly admit to investing only limited capital on my checked wardrobe. The most expensive item of the table cloth variety was a Visvim madras shirt which I offloaded a while ago but which would still probably pass as acceptable due in the most part to its superior manufacture.

Other than that it has been Uniqlo - my first stop when fad shopping. Cheap but well fitting, the stuff looks good while it has to and doesn't break your heart when the moment has passed.

That said, I reckon I've still got another winter in my lumberjack shirt. It's quite reserved in shades of grey and while it won't embue me with a knowing swagger any more, the sheer number of similar garments around will mean I will at least fit in with the crowd.

Come spring it will be all over for me I reckon. That lumberjack shirt will be somewhere near the woodpile.

I hear it's going to be the turn of chambray for a fashion revival next.

I won't be devoting vast sums to that either.

The tattoo issue: Know when to say no

Now I'm the first person to appreciate a decent tattoo. In fact If I could think of what to have I might consdider going under the pen again myself - something to complement the Norwich England effort on my right shoulder.

But there comes a point when you've really got to say to yourself "enough is enough." I wonder if this pair will ever wish they'd said that.

Mind you they won't be alone. It seems like the only way to be truly individual these days is to not have a tattoo.

Unlike the pretty girl I saw walking down my street the other day. Lovely she was. Had the slogan 'death is death' etched right across her breast bone. Like she'll never regret that one.

Keep scrolling for a little film.

Black & White: Jun Cha from hypebeast.tv on Vimeo.

Via Fatkids