The Tuesday after Paris-Roubaix weekend, I was out for a ride with a friend and I got a puncture. As I sat on a conveniently placed bench and calmly changed an inner tube, I had a moment’s peace to reflect on the fact that this was a very different affair from the punctures that had defined Roubaix events as they crossed Northern France in a torrent of cursing.
There are many, many varieties of puncture. When I started to think through all of them, I realised there is a whole matrix of possibilities: fast or slow, frightening or just annoying, the dull, even the mysterious.
