This article is part of a series called ‘A love letter to…’, where Cycling Weekly writers pour praise on their favourite cycling items and share the personal connection they have with them. The below content is unfiltered, authentic and has not been paid for.
Icons of cycling achieve such a status through a number of associations; great triumphs, heroic failures and, in some instances, flawed characters. In our minds, we can hark back to images of them, thanks to two things: the team and its kit.
If we play a word association game, you’ll get my point. If I say Coppi, you’ll say Bianchi. Simpson, Peugeot. Merckx, Molteni. Museeuw, Mapei.
When I came into cycling in the mid-eighties, there was a striking contrast between the typical kit available in your local bike shop and the stuff the pros wore on TV and in the pages of Cycling Weekly.
This coincided with advances in technology and the materials being used, allowing for greater creativity and eye-popping colours; from La Vie Claire’s Mondrian-inspired banger, to the cartoon-like Z offering, cycling clothing became bright, fun and distinctive. I wanted in.
Today, traditionalists swoon over the scratchy, old school wool jerseys. For me, the louder the colours the better. When Decca released its lime green, white and grey SuperConfex team jersey for the 1987 season, it was an instant classic, and I had to have it.
My collection then grew. I bought the great PDM kit, inspired by Sean Kelly, Roland-Skala because I liked Jesper Skibby, and the wonderful Système U jersey and shorts combo, purely for the reason that Laurent Fignon wore glasses, like me.
During this time, I was a student, and on one training ride with a friend, who was also wearing trade kit, I asked why he too was emulating his favourite pro team. “It’s a bit like the dressing-up box at primary school," he replied. "We do it to fire our imagination."
I’m now 56 and still delving into my dressing-up box. Why should youngsters have sole access to the ‘if you can’t see it, you can’t be it’ ethos? Besides, I’ve got a debit card, kiddo, and the internet has made acquiring the kit so much easier. I'm at the point now where I’ve got so much of the stuff, I even have a walk-in wardrobe at the top of my landing just to accommodate it.
Part of the reason for this is that I have a form of OCD, and working from home gives me unfettered access to online stores, without my wife knowing what I’m up to.
Some people, I know, try to keep hobbyists away from team kit. According to the rules of cycling etiquette published by Velominati, the self-proclaimed 'keepers of the cog', the 17th commandment states that: "Team kit is for members of the team". Still, it also concedes that, if you must fly a pro team’s colours, "all garments should match perfectly", and I am so down with that. It gives me an excuse to buy the shorts, too.
The rules also say: "Pro team kit is questionable if you’re not paid to wear it". To which I say, yes, I may pay to wear pro kit, but at least I get to choose what it is that I’m wriggling into. Unlike poor old Fignon, who in 1993 was contractually required to suffer the indignity of wearing the mind-blowingly naff Castorama team kit, modelled on the sponsor’s staff uniform of dungarees.
And while those who favour a more subtle, muted and understated palette may shudder, I think there’s an over-looked advantage of pro kit.
It is designed to stand out – on TV, in publications and websites such as this and, of course, on the road. In urban settings and rural environments, pro kits tend to be far more noticeable. I even notice myself - now, whenever I'm out riding and clock my reflection in a shop window, I can't help but deal back a smile.
