too,â Antonio said, gripping my wrist. âThen this bar is good for you. See the radius of the bend . . . round but a very shallow radius. We call it Varied Radius Concept. It offers more positions but â this is critical â itâs easier to reach the brakes. Ten years ago, all the bars went anatomic â you know with a flat spot in the bend â but this forces you into one position only. Then the racers, they wanted round again.â
Brian Rourke had told me about this too. I certainly wanteda handlebar with a traditional, continuous bend, with a shallow radius. From the side, these bars have a superior aesthetic. Being able to reach the brakes would be a bonus. I hadnât intended to buy a plush and expensive carbon fibre handlebar. Iâd come to Milan because I wanted to meet Antonio and see the home of Cinelli. Iâd imagined going away with a humble aluminium bar; something Cino might have designed himself. With the carbon bar in my hands, I was wavering. It was exquisite to touch. Yes, they had this bar in the right size for my shoulder width â 42 cm. Oh, and look, here was a beautiful stem in 120 mm â again my size.
Of course, Cino Cinelli would have embraced carbon had he still been alive and applying his inquisitive mind to the bicycle today. And at least the shallow drop of the Ram bar was very similar to the Giro DâItalia model he popularized in the mid-1960s, even if he would have fainted at the sight of the drinksâ tray.
3. All Geared Up
Drivetrain
And the bicycle ticked, ticked, ticked.
(Seamus Heaney, âA Constable Callsâ)
The Khunjerab Pass (3 miles) is one of the highest paved road passes in the world. Itâs the bleakest point on the Karakoram Highway, which connects the Indus River valley in Pakistan with the Takla Makhan desert in Xinjiang, China. Iâve cycled over it twice. The second time, it took me a week to reach the Pass from Gilgit, the former Silk Road staging-post at the bottom of the Hunza valley â thatâs seven daysâ cycling uphill. There was plenty of inspiration along the way: kids running into the road shrieking, âGorah! Gorah! Give me one pen!â, the unfettered generosity of the Ismaili Muslims who inhabit Hunza, the egg curries and noodle soups served in the truck stops and the sheer beauty of the mountains. Nonetheless, you need all the physical and mental strength you can muster to cross the Khunjerab Pass on a bicycle.
After the customs and immigration post at Sust, there are 130 miles of no manâs land to reach the Chinese post. Itâs an empty and alienating place. The last 10 miles before the Pass are the steepest. They are hellish. On a cold September day, I wrenched my heavily loaded bike up this road, in bottom gear, standing on the pedals forthree hours, extracting every last drop of strength from my legs.
At midday, I reached the Pass â a short, flat section of tarmac edged by snow. I was exalted. It was a pivotal moment: the highest point of my three-year round-the-world ride. I stood there alone, wrapped in all the clothes I had, eating dried mulberries and taking photographs. Iâd passed a herd of yaks and a Tajik shepherd near the top. Otherwise, I hadnât seen a vehicle or a person all morning.
As I was packing up, I looked over the edge of the Pass, following the coiling road down into a valley that separated rows of the snow-capped Pamir Mountains. There was a bicycle coming up towards me. I was astonished. Half an hour later, a couple on a recumbent tandem arrived on the Pass. The young Scottish woman at the front, Leslie, was a paraplegic: a climbing accident had left her paralysed from the waist down. She was turning the cranks of the bike with her hands. She was cold and almost mute with fatigue. They didnât linger. I took their picture. They were gone. I was alone again among the white peaks. They seemed somehow smaller.
Physically we are
Brian Rourke had told me about this too. I certainly wanteda handlebar with a traditional, continuous bend, with a shallow radius. From the side, these bars have a superior aesthetic. Being able to reach the brakes would be a bonus. I hadnât intended to buy a plush and expensive carbon fibre handlebar. Iâd come to Milan because I wanted to meet Antonio and see the home of Cinelli. Iâd imagined going away with a humble aluminium bar; something Cino might have designed himself. With the carbon bar in my hands, I was wavering. It was exquisite to touch. Yes, they had this bar in the right size for my shoulder width â 42 cm. Oh, and look, here was a beautiful stem in 120 mm â again my size.
Of course, Cino Cinelli would have embraced carbon had he still been alive and applying his inquisitive mind to the bicycle today. And at least the shallow drop of the Ram bar was very similar to the Giro DâItalia model he popularized in the mid-1960s, even if he would have fainted at the sight of the drinksâ tray.
3. All Geared Up
Drivetrain
And the bicycle ticked, ticked, ticked.
(Seamus Heaney, âA Constable Callsâ)
The Khunjerab Pass (3 miles) is one of the highest paved road passes in the world. Itâs the bleakest point on the Karakoram Highway, which connects the Indus River valley in Pakistan with the Takla Makhan desert in Xinjiang, China. Iâve cycled over it twice. The second time, it took me a week to reach the Pass from Gilgit, the former Silk Road staging-post at the bottom of the Hunza valley â thatâs seven daysâ cycling uphill. There was plenty of inspiration along the way: kids running into the road shrieking, âGorah! Gorah! Give me one pen!â, the unfettered generosity of the Ismaili Muslims who inhabit Hunza, the egg curries and noodle soups served in the truck stops and the sheer beauty of the mountains. Nonetheless, you need all the physical and mental strength you can muster to cross the Khunjerab Pass on a bicycle.
After the customs and immigration post at Sust, there are 130 miles of no manâs land to reach the Chinese post. Itâs an empty and alienating place. The last 10 miles before the Pass are the steepest. They are hellish. On a cold September day, I wrenched my heavily loaded bike up this road, in bottom gear, standing on the pedals forthree hours, extracting every last drop of strength from my legs.
At midday, I reached the Pass â a short, flat section of tarmac edged by snow. I was exalted. It was a pivotal moment: the highest point of my three-year round-the-world ride. I stood there alone, wrapped in all the clothes I had, eating dried mulberries and taking photographs. Iâd passed a herd of yaks and a Tajik shepherd near the top. Otherwise, I hadnât seen a vehicle or a person all morning.
As I was packing up, I looked over the edge of the Pass, following the coiling road down into a valley that separated rows of the snow-capped Pamir Mountains. There was a bicycle coming up towards me. I was astonished. Half an hour later, a couple on a recumbent tandem arrived on the Pass. The young Scottish woman at the front, Leslie, was a paraplegic: a climbing accident had left her paralysed from the waist down. She was turning the cranks of the bike with her hands. She was cold and almost mute with fatigue. They didnât linger. I took their picture. They were gone. I was alone again among the white peaks. They seemed somehow smaller.
Physically we are
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