The Srampagmano Tales (a quick review)
I’ve posted a short review of Scarlett Parker’s new book of cycling prose elsewhere, but I thought it might be worthwhile jotting a few more thoughts down for the blog. I’m lucky enough to be loosely acquainted with Scarlett, having taken part in a few of his ‘Tuesday Night Ride Club’ outings organised over on the LFGSS forum. I’ve stolen quite a lot of his routes, too. Scarlett’s pretty well informed in all things cycling, and has taken part in time trials, hill climbs, and probabaly a whole lot more besides in the London area for some time. He’s not particularly easy to track down on teh internetz, and alongside his twitter account you’re most likely to find him in the shady corners of certain cycling forums displaying his rapier dry wit and the irritating habit of almost always being right.
As a relative newcomer to cycling, the literature hasn’t seemed all that attractive to me so far. Much of it is based around the lives of sportsmen; their suffering and their celebration. That doesn’t interest me a great deal. There’s another kind of introductory literature about where and how to ride, how to fix this and that, which is frankly quite patronising. There are the touring books, which often seem compromised by the protagonists inability to relate the significance of their adventures. I’m generalising, of course, but my point is that a lot of it really doesn’t hit the spot. The Srampagmano tales has felt a little different though. Scarlett’s an insightful writer, and cleverly captures a lot of the subtlety that others miss.
The Srampagmano Tales is certainly a niche affair. Fifty pages of ‘Chaucerian’ verse littered with detailed cycling references, describing various cycling tribes on the annual pilgrimage from London to Brighton. If 50 pages of rhymes sounds intimidating, you’ll be please to know that it’s accompanied by simple but charming illustrations. If there is a dedicated collection of cycling poetry, it certainly isn’t circulated widely. The Srampagmano Tales certainly fills this void, and does so with style. The prose flows williingly, and is as engrossing as it is hilarious. I read it in a single sitting.
It’s not a long, or particularly inaccesible read – not for any cyclist who’s dabbled in various aspects of the sport – but after a few pages I was left thinking: Why hasn’t someone thought of all this before? Many of these observations have been documented elsewhere; I’ve seen them, spread throughout countless turgid cycling publications, and passed over them with a sigh. Yet this rendition brings together all those cliches and boring generalisations into a coherent narrative, with genuine, comical insight into the life of the cyclist, and in the form of poetry, to boot.
It’s a genuinely original contribution to the cycling literature. It probably isn’t for everyone, and some of the technical references might be lost on the non-cyclist. But everyone probably knows someone who fits into one of the tribes, and the London-to-Brighton seems to have become a rite of passage for the cyclist, thus making it a fantastically accessible narrative device. It certainly deserves to be read more widely, and I hope it comes to be appreciated as the little gem that it is.
I’m very happy to have got my grubby cycling mitts on a signed copy. Unfortunately the window for those has closed, but you can still get a copy from the dreaded amazon in ebook and paperback, or direct from Look Mum No Hands.
Scarlett’s given interviews over at traumfahrrad and the washing machine post.
Oliver & Ottavio 