Dear Assos,

I subscribe to Velonews magazine, and have noticed that your ad (shown below for your convenience) has appeared in the premium inside-front cover spread for the past…oh, I dunno… maybe five thousand issues.

Assos, please believe that I have your best interests at heart when I beg you to pull this ad and replace it with something less ridiculous, such as a photo of a chimpanzee wearing a tutu.

Oh, you’d like justification for why I think this ad needs to be pulled? Well, if you insist.

Meet Derek Zoolander

Let’s start with the model. I have no problem with companies using models in their ads. But the model you have selected for your ad—and used throughout your website—clearly does not ride a bike. At all. He does not have the cycling jersey tanlines. He has a chiseled upper body. Most tellingly, however, is he has silly little stick-like girly legs.

It’s possible, Assos, that I’m actually complaining about a conscious decision you made in picking a non-cyclist to show off your cycling garb. After all, your website seems to indicate that you’re really focusing on the non-cyclist part of the cyclist demographic. I quote:

"The less you ride, the more your body is fragile. The more you need garments that sustain and protect your body when riding your bicycle."

So, if I understand correctly, your point is that people who ride a lot don’t need good bike clothes. People who rarely ride, however—or better yet, never ride at all—should buy your off-the-charts-expensive biking clothes. That’s a very original point of view, and you should be commended for it. Sadly, the originality of this point is offset by being one of the stupidest things I’ve ever read.

Luxury Body?

Assos, I admit: the heading in your ad, "Luxury body," drew me in.

I think I can safely say, though, that it drew me in for reasons other than what you would like. Essentially, it perplexed me. Here are some of the questions—questions I have no answer to—storming in my mind regarding your heading:

• What is a "Luxury body?"
• Why is "Luxury" capitalized, but "body" is not?
• Will your clothes make my body luxurious?
• Do I want a luxurious body? After all, I tend to look for luxury in my furniture. Having a "Luxury body" makes me think that I might be a good ottoman.

In search of these answers, I went to your website. Your explanation—if I can call it that—of Luxury body is:

"Assos is designed to give you the look, the style, the elegance & exclusivity. Assos enhances and makes you a luxury body!"

Assos, your explanation just leaves me with more questions. What look? What style? Who do I want to exclude? And that final sentence, ironically, gives new meaning to the word "meaningless." Assos enhances what? And, I repeat, what is a luxury body? Please tell me, Assos. I must know.

Lorem Ipsum

Assos, I wouldn’t have taken the time to write to you if your ad problems were limited to a silly model and a ridiculous headline.

It was your ad body copy that sent me over the edge.

One quick read-through convinced me that up until five minutes before this went to press, this was "lorem ipsum" text, used as placeholder whenever an ad designer doesn’t know what the body copy ought to be. Then, at the last moment, you realized your error, and hired the first non-English-speaker you could find to write "real" ad copy. Let’s take a look at that text, sentence by sentence.

• It’s now! What’s now? I’m not asking just because this is vague, because if you actually described what is now later, I’d be OK with it. Or maybe you’re just pointing out a fundamental truth: no matter when you read this ad copy, you are reading it now. In which case I apologize.
• You’ve finally made time to get on your bike and do something for your body and soul. Assos, do you realize what magazine this is in? It’s Velonews. Most people who read this magazine don’t "finally make time" to go ride. We go riding all the time, often at the expense of our careers and family life.
• These days it’s a luxury to have time for yourself. Fair enough. I don’t see where you’re headed with this, though.
• This time is your own, it’s about you and it’s your choice! Assos, this copy might work better in Cosmopolitan magazine. They’re really into the psychology of making a personal statement, or of having stuff be "about you." Most people I ride with, on the other hand, go riding because it’s fun.
• These moments are precious and should be treated as such. Here’s a tip, Assos: the next time you want to do an ad, get a writer with experience outside the Geriatric Birthday Greeting Card business.
• Don’t spoil it by using ordinary equipment, which limits you and the entire experience. First off, Assos, I’m going to let you off the hook on your usage of "it" in this sentence, even though it’s a pretty jarring switch from plural (moments) to singular (it). And the reason I’m going to let you off the hook is because you clearly outsourced your ad copy writing to whoever writes those wacky quasi-English phrases for T-shirts in Japan. But are you really suggesting that ordinary equipment limits me, and my entire experience? Isn’t it at least possible that what’s limiting me—as the non-cycling cyclist you’ve identified as your prime demographic—is the fact that I only ride my bike when I can find one of those precious, luxurious moments, when I’ve finally made time to get on my bike?

Your ad copy problems aren’t limited to your ad, Assos. Check out some text right on the home page of your website (if one is willing to wait for all the Flash fireworks to finally die down):

"The Assos Mission is total comfort regardless of price. Definitely not for everybody, but maybe for YOU."

Which is almost immediately followed by:

"Who needs Total Comfort? Everybody!"

So, if I read you right, total comfort isn’t for everybody, but it might be for me. On the other hand, everybody needs Total Comfort. Maybe the difference is in the capitalization?

Additional Questions

Assos, I have a few other brief ad-related questions I hope you can address:

• Could you please change the name of your company? I know you’re Swiss and all, so you may not understand that you named your company something that reads and sounds just like an angry, obscene epithet. My young children are forbidden to pronounce your name.
• What is a "Cycling Body? Is that what a Luxury body aspires to become? Or is it the other way around?

• They can ask anything else? In your website, you say, "When the development phase of a new Assos product begins, the one question our engineers, technicians, and tailors are not allowed to ask is: "How much must this product cost in order for it to sell in volume?". [emphasis, punctuation SIC] Is that really true? Like, it’s OK for them to ask, "What if we used a lot of sequins to make our jerseys really pop?" Or, "How about we make a chamois using nothing but magnesium rivets and barbed wire?" Or—and it looks like someone answered ‘yes’ to this last question—"Should we make a bike outfit that makes the wearer look like he just stepped out of an 80’s vintage Michael Jackson music video?"

Thank you for your time, Assos. I look forward to your resolving this matter in a timely manner.

Kind Regards,

The Fat Cyclist

PS: This doesn’t have anything to do with your ad, but I thought you’d get a kick out of an experience I had with one of your products, Assos. I once purchased a container of Assos Chamois cream, then applied it to my chamois just as I was about to begin a day-long mountain bike ride. Alas, I did not realize that one of the main ingredients in Assos Chamois Cream seems to be menthol, of approximately the same concentration as Ben Gay. My nether regions were simultaneously aflame and freezing, which is nowhere near as nice a feeling as you might expect. Wanting to make sure that I was not having a reaction nobody else would have, I hid my pain (exquisite though it was) and offered the container to everyone in the group, many of which thanked  me for my generosity and applied your Chamois cream to their chamois’s as well. Their subsequent yelps of pain let me know that I was not alone in my reaction. I probably don’t need to tell you that I did not finish the jar.

PPS: Assos, my weight today is 161.6 lbs. Would you say that makes me more of a Luxury body, or a Cycling body?

As I should have expected, less than 20 minutes after I put up yesterday’s tantrum of a post, I got a call from the bike shop. My Bianchi Pista had arrived, had been built, and was ready to ride.

I tell you, it’s not easy to keep working when you know you’ve got a new bike waiting for you.

After work (yeah, I finished the day), I suited up and biked over to Sammamish Valley Cycle. I figured I’d leave the road bike at the shop, and ride the track bike home.

(A quick aside to readers who don’t know what a track bike is: A track bike is a very minimalistic road bike, designed specifically for racing on a velodrome. It doesn’t have gears you can shift, it doesn’t have brakes, and you can’t coast.)

The bike shop had done a bang-up job on getting my bike ready. They had remembered what kind of pedals I wanted and had put them on. They had remembered that I wanted a front brake added so I could ride hills and city roads even before I got good at stopping via backpedaling. They had remembered that I wanted the lever on the left side.

First Rides

Let me be perfectly clear: to this point, I had never ridden a fixed gear bike in my life. So maybe biking home (about 10 miles, the first 3 or so through city traffic) as the first spin on my track bike wasn’t that brilliant of an idea.

That said, here are my initial observations on riding a fixed-gear bike:

• Getting started: One thing I hadn’t thought about at all turned out to be probably the single biggest difference between fixed-gear and freehub riding: starting. You can’t spin the pedal back to your favorite click-in position (unless you lift the rear wheel). And if you click in at the bottom with your first foot, it’s tough to get any momentum off the line because that foot’s in a dead spot. I can see why learning to trackstand is going to stop being a "would like to know" and will become a "need to know."
• No breaks: I had never realized how often I—without thinking—stop pedaling for a few seconds when on a ride. The fixed gear bike reminds you forcibly that you don’t get to do this anymore. If the rear wheel’s turning, so are the cranks.
• No brakes: I thought that learning to use backward force with my legs to slow and stop would be awkward, but it came pretty naturally. Even after just a couple rides, I am using my brake only on steep downhills or when I come to an unexpected stop (a light changing).
• Always in the drops: On a regular road bike, I keep my hands on the hoods about 75% of the time. On a track bike, riding in the drops seems to be the only comfortable position.
• No urge to shift: On a regular road bike, I am shifting almost constantly. I was worried that I’d always be reaching to shift gears that aren’t there on the fixed gear bike. I don’t know why, but the habit hasn’t transferred.
• Quiet: Without the cables, derailleurs, and varying line on the chain, this $500 bike is the quietest bike I’ve ever owned.
• I am not a seat snob. I have gone out of my way to keep this bike inexpensive. I went with the cheapest version of Speedplay pedals you can get, and I didn’t upgrade anything else on the bike. But I nearly bought a different saddle, because I am so used to a certain saddle make and model, I didn’t think I could ride anything else. I resisted, though, and went with the saddle the bike came with. And you know what? It’s just fine. It makes me think I need to reconsider a bunch of my "knowledge" gained from my expensive bike snob days.
• Hard climbs are harder: By the time I got to Inglewood Hill—a 12% grade climb—on my ride home from the bike shop—I was feeling comfortable. I had planned to skip that hill and go up one of the longer-but-less-steep routes, and turned onto Inglewood Hill. I had to stand up for the entire thing, and at one point thought I could no longer turn the cranks—I very nearly stalled. But I made it. It worked my quads, biceps and triceps in a way they haven’t been worked in years. I can tell that this bike is going to be good for me.
• Flats are smoother: On a flat, wide-open road, the fixed gear bike enforces a smooth cadence. I got into the "biker’s rhythm"—and stayed there—more easily than usual.
• Track bikes are good on the track: On the way in to work, I stopped by the Velodrome (I can’t get over how cool it is that I have a public-access velodrome that is literally on the way to work) and did a few laps. I can tell that I’m very slow right now, and felt like I had my heart rate pegged well before I had the cranks spun out. The "I must be going slow" feeling was reinforced by the way I didn’t really feel like I needed all the banking provided in the corners. I think I can look forward to a season of being beaten badly and consistently on the track next year. Still, the bike felt really good on the track.
• My legs are cooked today: I rode the fixed gear bike to work today, too. As part of my commute, I go up a good-sized climb alongside the 520 freeway. Just before it, I ran into Eric, one of the two guys who beat me on the Zoo climb last Saturday. He said "Hi," and then flew on ahead of me. I don’t think I could have matched even on a road bike, but on the fixed gear, I didn’t have a prayer. After my commute today, as I climbed up the stairs that lead to my office, I noticed something I haven’t noticed in a long time: it was not easy to climb stairs. This fixed gear bike is punishing me, in just the way I need punishing.

Bianchi, all is forgiven. Just don’t let it happen again.

Today’s weight: 162.4 lbs.

PS: One last note with regards to yesterday’s post: As I’ve mentioned before, I have no gripe with bike shops. For that matter, I don’t have a problem with small bike and custom bike manufacturers when they take a long time—that’s to be expected, and should probably even be regarded as part of the boutique bike experience: you want a home cooked meal, not fast food. My complaint yesterday was simply directed at large corporate bike manufacturers and their apparent inability to forecast, maintain, track, or deliver inventory.

Interbike—the biggest annual bike business trade show in the U.S.—is in full swing right now. I suspect that while there, the bike manufacturers will proudly display their latest 14-pound road bikes, and their latest 36-inch-travel mountain bikes. I wouldn’t be surprised if both Shimano and Campagnolo announce (coincidentally, natch) that they have innovated a new 11 cog cassette. And I would be astounded if these same two companies did not announce that this year’s cranksets are (at a minimum) 30% stiffer than last year’s models.

If I were in Las Vegas attending Interbike, I would make a special point of walking up to the bike manufacturers, giving them a firm handshake, and saying, "Well done, bike manufacturer."

And then, once I had them comfortable and feeling good about themselves, I would grab them by both shoulders and shake them soundly while I shouted, "But your stupid-light, crazy-expensive bike innovations don’t mean a thing if you haven’t mastered the very simple task of actually shipping that bike to your customers." I would be very careful to become red-faced while I said this, and I would foam at the mouth a little, too.

I Am a Patient Man

About a month ago, I got really excited about buying a track bike. I looked at what I could afford, and decided on a Bianchi Pista. I then went to my local bike shop and pulled the trigger. They said I would have the bike in a week. That was August 29.  A couple days later, the bike shop guy called and said that Bianchi didn’t have the bike in the warehouse they thought they had it; it would be a couple weeks before I got the bike, instead of one.

And then nobody called ever again.

So after three (not the promised two) weeks elapsed, I called the bike shop again. He apologized, and said that Bianchi didn’t have its act together, that it turns out they didn’t have any 2005 Pistas anywhere. They’d be getting me a 2006 model instead, and it should be here at the end of the week.

And then another two weeks elapsed.

Yesterday, I called the bike shop again, and he said that this time he has a tracking number, and that the bike would arrive and be built sometime today. I have elected to not hold my breath.

But Not That Patient

Meanwhile, Bianchi is two days shy of taking an entire month to ship a bike. Let me rephrase this so as to make my astonishment and frustration clear: Bianchi, a company whose sole business is to sell bikes, has taken a month to sell me a bike. During that month, the great weather of September—during which I had planned to ride my bike—has come and gone. I’ll get it in October (if I get it at all), which is not exactly a prime outdoor velodrome riding season here in the NorthWest.

So there goes the Cyclingnews series, "Track Racing for Absolute Beginners" I was going to write. Too bad for Bianchi.

I’m pretty sure it’s not just Bianchi that’s doing this, either. If you don’t want what’s in stock at the bike shop—and if you’re looking for anything special, that’s going to be the case—you’re going to have to wait for it. And wait for it. I don’t know any other industry that keeps its most important clients dangling like this.

OK, I’m nearly done venting now. I mean it, though: Bike manufacturers, stop spending quite so much time telling us about the wonderful bikes you make, and consider thinking about how you can actually deliver them on a reasonable timeline.

[Update: 20 minutes after posting this, I got a call from the bike shop. My bike is ready to go. I should point out that I have no gripe whatsoever with the bike shop that sold me this bike -- they've been very good to work with.]

Today’s Weight: 163

PS: If you’ve had a good or bad experience with ordering a bike, post a comment. I’m riled up enough right now that I’m thinking of emailing a link to this post to a number of different manufacturers. They should know who’s doing well, and who’s not.

PPS: Why I am I so grouchy today?