mamils, one & all
Back in the day, when some men with a bit of disposable income reached a certain age, or a certain position in life, they did some strange things. The grind of the office and humdrum home life convinced many that the answer to an expanding midriff lay in a pair of expensive designer jeans, a third-hand guards red 911 and brand new Suzuki Gixer thou. At least many of us drew the line at another pony-tail. Nonetheless, teenage daughters ran screaming from the scene and sons were left bereft of convincing role models.
But now these are sooo passe, sooo last year and no mid-life crisis is now complete without a souped-up road bike. Every weekend, across the length and breadth of the nation’s rolling countryside, watch out for the mamils: middle-aged men in lycra! Yes, the silence of the skinny Continental force & attack tyre and carbon fibre frameset have indeed replaced the 200 section Bridgestone and thunderous noise of an Akrapovic hitting the 12,000 red line.
The past three years have seen the stratospheric rise of the uber-techno, super-flashy, full carbon (or titanium dontchaknow) bobby-dazzler road bike. The market for these bling machines has expanded faster than a 45-year-old’s waistline, partly thanks to the success of the British cycling stars at the Beijing Olympics, perhaps partly due to the cult status of the dour Bradley Wiggins and chav-like petulant Mark Cavendish and undoubtedly because of the rise and rise (and fall) of international ‘hard-man’ Lance Armstrong. When we’re not riding them, in the pub discussing them or reading about them c/o Cycling Weekly or 220 Triathlon you’ll find us, like seven year olds, with our noses pressed against the local bike cum toy store.
Consequently, marketing departments intent on separating the beguiled from their hard-earned with alarming speed and regularity, have produced smart advertising messages that speak of rekindling freedom, performance, competition and teenage memories of derring-do. And the success of these messages can be seen every Saturday and Sunday morning as we mamils, we weekend warriors, polish our rear derailleur, realign our sprockets, adjust our brakes, squeeze into the lycra, lower the mirrored shades and pedal into the distance. Or more likely to a local cafe where we can spend four quid on a double-shot-latte and pretend we’ve already been out for three hours and are now on the way back home.
No surprise then that as we hit the first hill, or even the first incline, we’re suddenly reduced to a puffing, panting, heaving mass of sweaty humanity that, if not already well past its sell-by-date is certainly on the cheap discount shelf. Sounds humiliating right? Nah, I and my band of adopted hill-climbing brothers beg to disagree. I’ve never had so much fun in my life as I tacitly avoid sliding towards mediocre oblivion at the bottom of another pint glass. And ladies, watch out, if you have a man at home taking an unusual interest in how you shave your legs, you may have a mamil in the making too!
