Road kill

The American car industry is in big trouble. After a few days here, I know why. Their cars are rubbish. Actually I knew that before I came to Houston: it's hardly a secret.

The strange thing is, Americans still live to drive. Cars remain a staple of TV advertising. This week I twice caught an ad for the Chevy Equinox, 32mpg on the highway. This was billed in green capitals as "The most fuel-efficient crossover on the road". In terms of being damned with faint praise it's right up there with "Slightly less ugly than the Ssangyong Rodius".

I thought fuel economy information might be mandatory in US adverts, but Range Rover studiously ignore it, preferring to venture into anorak territory with "best-in-class residual values". Chevrolet, undeterred, boasts that the Silverado truck (pickup) does 21mpg. There are thousands of trucks in Houston, even though the roads are smooth and no one needs to carry anything in the back, other than spare jerrycans, presumably.

The continuing popularity of American cars in America has shielded the US motor industry from an unpalatable truth: they are behind the times. Nowhere else in the world would 21mpg, or even 32mpg, be considered a selling point. Ford and GM have made some great cars for the global market; Chrysler made some really bad ones. But in the US market they took all the best features of their rivals' vehicles, ignored them and kept doing what they'd been doing for decades, churning out gas-guzzlers the size of Minnesota. Finally, as economic restrictions and high gasoline prices bite, Americans are realising that foreign cars are often more efficient, better designed, more reliable, better built, heck, even better looking. Japanese and European cars are gaining a foothold in the States even as American cars become more disdained and less bought in other parts of the world. It sounds just like the UK motor industry in the 70s.

I don't underestimate the human impact on cities like Detroit when huge companies run into trouble. But there's some comfort to be had from knowing it's happening because a proud nation is recognising it doesn't know best and needs to change its ways. The day that the Silverado, the Equinox and Ford's humungous F-Series become pariahs on the roads of the US, will be a sunny one for humanity.

Back in the land of the free (refill)

For the third July running, I am in Houston, Texas, which pretty much guarantees the reinstatement of any weight I may have lost recently. A few nights ago I saw on TV a man nearly as fat as a couple of days eating Texan makes me feel. His name is Prince Fielder and he offically weighs 268lb (and the rest). And here's the thing, he is a professional sportsman: a first baseman for the Milwaukee Brewers baseball team. 

He was on ESPN participating in the Home Run Derby in front of a full house in St Louis. This consisted of Fielder and several slenderer rivals slugging tame pitches as far as possible. Not exactly riveting even by baseball's low standard of thrills, but the fans were lapping it up. Whoever catches a home run ball gets to keep it and their value seemed not to diminish even as the zillionth plopped into the spare hand of a man wrestling with a burger and coke, or a boy in an outsized hat. I assumed this joust of the juggernauts was the warm-up for a league game but I was wrong. It was the final of a huge competition and Fielder won a trophy not for being the hugest, but for hitting the most home runs.

The football equivalent would be rewarding the player who can score most penalty kicks against a blindfolded goalkeeper. Then again, a footballer as huge as Prince Fielder wouldn't even be able to manage the run-up. But that's the thing about the USA: conventions are turned on their head. You don't need a brain to be president, you don't need to be fit to be a sportsman. It's a land of opportunity for all.

Chariots of fire

My list of athletic achievements is not extensive. I was never a particularly fast runner at school, although over longer distances I sometimes managed to outlast my more easily bored rivals. Although a regular member of the school football teams between the ages of 10 and 13, I was probably the worst goalkeeper ever to set foot on a pitch - and after that my lack of height meant opponents could lob the ball over me instead of relying on my butter fingers. As a cyclist, my enthusiasm has always exceeded my speed. And a lack of hand-eye coordination works against me when it comes to badminton and squash.

So it was with some trepidation that I entered the dads' race at sports day this week. I agreed to take part because Adam desperately wanted me to, even though I suspected his pride and confidence in me might not last beyond the first few strides of the race. It was also a slightly altruistic move, believing it was better that I finish last (as I inevitably would) than some dad who was ultra-competitive and might need counselling for the trauma. I didn't think I could last 60m, let alone race it. Forget dead last, anything other than dead would be a triumph.

It turned out that machismo and competitive urges generated a sizeable field of entrants, for such a small school. (It must be said this is a school with an abnormally high proportion of nuclear families.) There being too many to fit on the track at once, someone suggested the dads should be divided by age, 35 being the cut-off. As I looked around I questioned who would fall into the younger group and realised on age handicap alone I might have a chance. As it turned out the 15 or so dads were split according to who was keener, and I found myself in the second race. This put me up against Luke, who was a couple of years ahead of me at school and is as weedy as ever (although a lovely chap). Now here was someone I could beat - and who would cope with the shame of it. 

The whistle blew and we were off, in a blur of slow motion. After about 20m I was behind Luke, which by my reckoning meant I must be last and knew I would have to find another gear. I have to say, by the finish line I was in full flight. I was confident I hadn't come last, because as I turned around after almost hitting the boundary fence a dad was only just crossing the line. But suddenly one of the finish-line judges was slapping a sticker on me: 3rd!

It's fair to say this is one of the finest achievements of my recent life. Sarah listed the names of the people I'd beaten and in fact I wasn't that far behind the winner. I am choosing to overlook the likelihood that the first race was the faster of the two, so third of about eight might equate to 11th of 16. Adam was in fact quite proud of me. I believe it is time for me to retire gracefully, lest I fail to live up to raised expectations next year. In any case Sarah has promised to enter the mums' race...

Because it's there

Once a year, as summer's sweaty fug gives way to mornings of uncertain cloud, Wigmore Cycling Club holds an event at Hollingbourne Hill, just north of Maidstone. The official course record is three minutes 1.7 seconds. A couple of Saturdays ago I did it in under two minutes. Unfortunately I was going down the hill, while the Wigmore CC Open Hill Climb has its nature not at all concealed in the name. I happened to be passing through Hollingbourne and thought it a good idea to acquaint myself with the challenge; how hard could it be? The road snakes like a tarmac cobra on the side of the North Downs, a simile that sounds even worse once you get to the neck, upright and venomous. Six minutes of sweat and burning legs had me eventually at the farm gate that marks the summit, and I vehemently believed I was about to expire in a gory explosion of overwrought ventricles and taut sinews.

And that is one of several reasons why my ride from Land's End to John O'Groats next year may not happen. Hollingbourne Hill is one of the most severe climbs in Kent but at only 1400 yards long and 100m of ascent it doesn't compare to the monsters of Cornwall and the wild north. My hopes of coping with a sequence of those in ten successive 90-mile days are twofold, and one of them is Bob. If, however, my confidence suddenly grows by time October comes around, I might go back to Hollingbourne Hill and try again. Not under the eye of Wigmore's stopwatches, but in the company of someone with a handily placed calendar to record which day I start and finish.

I'm old and I know I am

I am completely out of touch with the yoof of today. This isn't surprising: I know very few teenagers and those I do, tend to be too monosyllabic to convey their thoughts. Sarah reckons I would like Kings of Leon yet hasn't seen fit to buy me an album and I can't remember hearing any of their music. One of my colleagues is Pixie Lott's cousin and provides frequent updates on her burgeoning career but again I've no idea what she sounds like. It's 20 years since I made crude tapes of the Top 40 with Bruno Brookes and then Mark Goodier, tried to predict who would be where, failed to understand why my peers bought Stock Aitken and Waterman songs, and longed for Erasure to be run over by a bus. At least with the current phase of reunion tours I recognise some of the names, although I doubt many of them have any credibility to those aged around 15. Music is only one aspect. I also don't understand why most boys' trousers fall down all the time and couldn't tell the difference between a goth and an emo, or why R-Patz is the hunk of the season rather than Zac Efron.

Thankfully my sons are a few years away from teenagehood, which gives me time to familiarise myself with current trends, before they pass me by in a blur.

There are times though when I'm glad not to understand the world of the young. The tragic story of Shakilus Townsend, whose killers were sentenced yesterday, was one example. Another day, another knife murder - but maybe not. Shakilus Townsend wasn't as innocent as some victims - he was a young offender - but he died because he had a crush on a gang leader's girlfriend. According to the BBC, she felt used by the gangster and led Shakilus on. He paid her attention and offered her gifts. He warned her she was in danger because her boyfriend was angry. And then this girl of 15, presented with a choice, sided with the villain and lured the nice guy into a trap which cost him his life. It's a strange world where being kind and friendly, without it seems any return, is valued less than a knife and an orange dress code.

I do worry at time what kind of a life my boys will grow up into. Knife crime isn't prevalent in Wigmore - or even in the Medway Towns in general - but who knows what the menace will be in 10 years' time. Today I read Shakilus's mother gave birth at 17, which probably seemed like a good idea at the time, with no idea of the "madness" that lay around the corner. What kind of a life did she anticipate her son would have? Certainly not one that ended as it did.