Lycra is an insidious fabric. It attracts ridicule to those who wear it - and most of us are cyclists. After one strenuous commute into work, it advertises its presence forcefully to the nostrils of passing colleagues. When I first started cycling to the office, I swore I wouldn’t be seen dead in the unseemly, skin-tight black shorts, with their spongy inner nappy, so beloved of the two-wheeled fraternity. I was happy to wear football shorts, trainers and cotton tee-shirts which would double in weight and be wringing with clammy sweat by the time I reached my destination. But if only I’d known it, I was at the top of a slippery slope. Cycling magazines and a growing interest in the Tour de France were my downfall. Replica team jerseys crept into my wardrobe as I admired their garish colours and improbable names. The most unglamorous firms put sponsorship money behind cycling, in the hope that a rider wearing their brand will make it to the end of a Tour de France or Vuelta a Espana sta...