I'm giving away an NJS-approved MKS 'thin' chain tug completely free!!!
To get it, all you have to do is give an exciting account of the closing stages of the Tour de France, in which you bomb down the Champs-Élysées on your fixie and claim victory. I will look favourably on any account that includes NJS bikes, especially 3Rensho.
No more than 500 words.
Closing date Saturday 6pm.

I'll have it.
I live just off Champs Elysees at the mo, that any good? And I've got 2 NJS bikes - although technically Vivalo are not NJS anymore

Sorry Pistanator, but to qualify I'll need a gripping account of the closing stages (it's all there in the small print).

Sounds like too much hard work just to get a £12 chaintug. You throwing in a frame too?

cheeky bleeder! they're £16 on hub jub. Kids these days...

but hubjubs a rip-off! condor £8.50

I'm not really feeling the climactic excitement of the final stages of the Tour de France with this! 1/10 Try harder

I want it (having lost one), so here goes:

I'm bringing up the rear as I coming up to the Champs Elysee on my fix, when suddenly a mime jumps out with a mirror and a sack of cocaine. Suddenly, half the pro-teams stop for a cheeky bump, causing a pile up. The other pros then fly into a steroid induced rage and start fighting, with baguettes and strings of garlic flying left and right.

So I skid past them while doing a bar spin, crossing the finish line first. Then, a 24 year old Brigette Bardon suddenly steps out of a time machine, lezzes up with Audrey Tatou and suggests I join them.

I also get the yellow jersey (which is made by Rapha from all the puppies murdered as a result of people removing braze ons).

last lap.
cobbles or smooth gutter?
i dance on the pedals,
head down,
sweat dripping.
the agony,
the ecstasy.
drive to the line,
lungs bellowing,
thighs burning.
lunge and thrust,
it's all over,
i've blown my load.

That's laid down an impressive marker. You're the one to beat sunshine. 8/10 Well done.

As the riders turn on to the champs elysses for the final bunch sprint the leader begins to change direction erratically, his leg muscles trembling. The expression on his face tells the a story we are all too familiar with. Seconds later his right leg cramps and he is sent tumbling to the ground, riders behind him falling like dominoes, hopes of winning this years Tour de France dashed.

Three riders at the rear of the bunch manage to manoeuvre around the calamity and attention is back to the final sprint. Duval the gear mashing Belgian leads Smith the American with Leitch, the young Scot left handing on at the back.

Leitch’s hand reaches into the back pocket of his jersey to produce what can only be described as an I.V. bag. Sucking Smith’s wheel tightly Leitch manages to thrust a needle into his left arm. He squeezes the bag tightly before removing the needle and discarding the bag. Like a man reborn the young Scot jumps to life. His legs pounding on the pedals, Sugino Cranks creaking under the immense torque, the 3Rensho frame flexing. Leitch’s head goes down as he takes the lead in the last 5 metres only to come up as he sits back in his saddle, arms raised as he crosses the line to fanfare and applause.

Andrew Leitch has won this years Tour de France. Against all odds. From Glasgow to Glory.

This is very impressive stuff. I'm loving the adjectives 'creaking', 'immense' etc. It feels like i'm really there. I'm also very impressed with the 3Rensho mention, it was not gratuitous and it didn't interrupt the narrative flow. Sugino cranks I like too. 8/10. Excellent, this is really very close.

Are you some kind of bike pervo or something, are you wanking? Do you want me to call you up and describe it down the phone?

It's £16 per pair.

That won't be necessary.

I can't control the giggle that heaves up in one happy sob from within the pounding. I've just spun past the posh McDonalds, black with gold decals, and it hits me how far I've come from burger-guzzling lardarse to eager Tour de France entrant - the road for me has been so much longer than the one I've powered though over these last few days. Now, incredibly, the finish line is just up ahead, just past Maccy D's; the crowd's screams of "Allez! Allez!!!" cascade around me and with every second syllable I slice through, pounding the crank, hugging close in, my legs pumping, blurring. My 3Rensho frame feels so sure, so confident, and the very flexings of its geometery seem to speak to me in soothing, urging tones, and I get another rush of adrenaline through my chest, and I feel it surge up through my burning shoulders and triceps. "Yes, San, Yes".

I've been riding tucked well in, chin almost touching the stem, but now I lift slightly and transfer from the drops to the hoods, my favourite position and the one I have always felt reassured by. I tuck in my shoulders, shift my back momentarily and give one last surge of effort. 200 meters. The crowd is muted, ambient almost now, as the sound of my own blood roars through my chest and legs and the pain sears through my calves. I know they are so very close behind me, just waiting for one tiny mistake, one small pocket of error that will allow one of them, or all of them, to squeeze through. The helicopters are thwapp-thwapping. I can hear the contact of my tyres. I can hear each link of my chain. I can hear my mind.

And I roar and the finish line is gone, way behind me, and I lift up my hands and roll through the avenue of smiles.

"I FUCKEN SMASHED THE CUNTS!!! SANRENSHO WOOO!!!"

do i win?

It would be extremely disrpectful to the other sterling contestants (see above) were I to award you the prize with this (admittedly powerful), yet too brief, entry. 4/10. Shows promise.

i'm happy with the 'encouragement' award.

i got donuts! :(

you lot are fucken weird. reeeally fucken weird...

:D

OK, second go, but with more in jokes.

With 1km to go, team Londonfgss are towards the back of the peloton and aren't looking good. GA2G is flagging because he can't spin, while Lebowski is still some where around La Rochelle. The only people left are tom., Hillbilly, Object, Hippy and Slaytanic.

A last attempt to regain some ground is made, with Hippy's amble frame provide a slipstream for the others to throw themselves out of. They go, but 500m from the line Kanye West leaps out of the crowd, trying to mug Slaytanic for his HHSB - Slaytanic keeps him at bay with his blackmetal hand, but is quickly left behind.

Tom., Object and Hillbilly start pulling forward as Chris Crash, Smallbrown Bike et al sit eating vegan food and shouting "pull a skid". Suddenly, Hillbilly swerves violently and tries to cut a support car in half using only his bike.

Object and Tom. pull away from the other teams, and it's one last sprint to the line to see who gets the yellow jersey. Object crashes into one of the posts supporting the finish line though, snapping his body. Again.

Tom. wins! Cue time travelling Bridget Bardot, etc. Tom. also punches a mime and teaches the country personal hygiene.

Leadout? You're fcuking joking.. I mean.. maybe if I stopped at a pub on the way those feckers would have a chance..

Salutations, homme du velo!!
First off, apologies for my tardiness in announcing the victor of this, the inaugural chain tug competition. I'm fresh off the air plane after a truly first-rate weekender – vintage tandeming up Napoléonsgaard in western Luxembourg, where it saddens me to report that fixed gear has failed to rouse much interest among the locals. I fear this has as much to do with the unforgiving topography as to the tongue-twistingly un-hip translation of our cherished pastime... 'örtlich festgelegtes Zahnradthe' anyone? I digress. May I begin by commending all of you 'Capital' fellows who entered my concours frivole! Thoroughly entertaining to a man! Rusty's 'immense torque' impressed hugely, as did the copious drug references... keep it real, I say. I was touched by Pistanator's tender enquiries about my sexuality and availability to partake in telephonic lewdness with him. Sadly, my man, I do not possess such a device. Later on, we had badtmy's ejaculation of killer verbs, Scots vernacular and bawdy gutter talk. It was envigorating but, alack, like a potty-mouthed candle in the wind, you burned out long before your legend ever did. And so, finally to the two main contenders: a pair of big pumping thighs among scrawny calves.
Tom captured my attention not only with his eagerness to learn and determination (two entries) but with his splendidly apt xenophobic rant: "Cue time travelling Bridget Bardot, etc. Tom. also punches a mime and teaches the country personal hygiene' which brought his offering to a shudderingly vulgar climax. However, my fellow judge (I was assisted in my adjudication by a Guardian journalist who, for his own personal safety, wishes to remain anonymous owing to the torrid time a member of his profession suffered recently at the hands of y'all Hip Hop Slaves!) felt that the references in his second submissin to fellow forum members leant his account a 'parochial, introspective quality that may restrict its appeal to a wider audience'.
The haiku-esque poem by dogsballs was a triumph of tense, emotionally regulated drama... a veritable poésie comprimée!!
Which brings me, huffing and puffing to the finishing line, where we have Pajamas' "flexings of its geometery seem to speak to me in soothing, urging tones" and "Yes, San, Yes", which, for me, encapsulated everything i was looking for in this 'race within a race': bigging up wicked NJS shit and some poncy poetry. Your reward is not just the chain tugs, but my admiration and respect, my friendship and a pint of piss-weak lager. I'll forward you my contact details post haste.

no frickin' waaaayy!!!!!!!!

oh man, so chuffed. who'da thunk it eh?

wicked!

payment is a white rolls i believe ;)

i killed a hipster by knocking him off his overpriced japanese clown bike because he was going so fucking slow on his twiddly brakeless gear.
i tore him a new arsehole with my lockring tool and shoved his pristine risers up there until the white oury grip popped out of his mouth like one of those milk ice lollies i used to eat as a kid.
he didn't stop twitching for ages though, making his asymmetric fringe flap for a good 5 minutes.
i then shat on his bike and went home to knock one out while watching re-runs of cipo win a stage of the tour.
i went to bed and got up the next day and won the tour de france by 2.36seconds.
the end.

now give me the chaintug you cunt.

Brilliant.

Oh well, my winning the popular vote seems to have counted for nothing. How typical of a Grauniad journo!