WHEN I first visited the Icebreaker website, there was an image of an attractive and apparently naked woman cuddling a large horned sheep.
Surprisingly, I ignored the erotic and slightly disturbing implication of the imagery and thought only: "Yeah, right. Wool is not that comfortable."
Let me explain.
As children, my brothers and I knew precisely the day autumn turned to winter: It was the day our mother hung Dad's long underwear to air in front of the living-room stove.
These voluminous garments that - we think - had accompanied him through the Second World War, not only provided Dad warmth but also took on the role of talisman. Acting in conjunction with the medically flavoured lozenges known as Fisherman's Friend, the long underwear magically warded off colds, flu and all ailments known to frequent the months of December, January and February. Without them, Dad would have been rendered helpless by any and every cold wind and the germs that were carried by them.
Here, in the interests of journalistic accuracy, I should point out that Dad was incredibly fit. He refereed soccer games at the weekend and cycled to and from his work twice a day on an old Raleigh with only one gear that weighed almost as much as he did - yes, and I'm pretty sure it was uphill both ways. So, in hindsight, I'm not sure Dad needed the warmth of his long underwear as much as he believed.
Dad had two sets that he alternated: one of cotton and one that was supposedly made from wool and "much" warmer. The concept sounds lovely and fluffy, doesn't it. Well, I'm here to tell you: never assume.
One Saturday morning close to Christmas when I was 12, in the middle of a winter so cold that you couldn't kick through the ice on the puddles, Dad asked if I wanted to go with him to watch Coventry City (our team) play at Charlton Athletic. Mum protested that it was far too cold to stand for two hours on the terraces and that I would certainly freeze to death since I did not have long underwear. I pointed out that I had just graduated to long trousers as part of my school uniform, but that wasn't enough for Mum. The only way I was going to this football match was if I wore Dad's long underwear under my school pants.
In vain, I pointed out that though tall for my age, they would be too long for me. Rolling them up at the bottom and pulling my socks up over them was an obvious solution. The extra material at the top could just hang over the tops of my trousers and be hidden by my jersey.
I knew the instant those woollen long johns went on that the afternoon was going to be a challenge. Itchy doesn't begin to describe the sensation. I walked out to the car with my legs as far apart as possible to reduce the impact of chafing. Only then - the horror - did the fact dawn that I would have to sit on these things for at least an hour as we drove across south London. I tried sitting on my hands; I tried pulling my knees under my chin; I tried alternating cheeks; I even tried kneeling on the car floor. Nothing alleviated the itch of a thousand devils with pointy pitchforks wherever the so-called wool touched my skin. Eventually I wiggled forward to the very edge of the seat and perched there like a member of royalty having tea with the common folk. There was no point in complaining. Dad wore the same garment every other week - apparently like a monk wearing sackcloth in pennance. No sympathy there.
Dad liked to park a long way from the soccer grounds we visited "so that we wouldn't get held up by traffic after the game." I'd never had a problem with the concept previously, but after a one-mile hike from where we parked to "The Valley" - the natural amphitheatre Charlton called home - I was ready to amputate both my legs without anesthetic.
I don't recall the match itself. I think the Sky Blues eked out a draw, but I spent most of the time thinking about the journey home. With 10 minutes left to play, I told Dad "I had to go" and begged for a penny and ran for the cubicle I'd scoped out at halftime. If that sounds strange, I should explain that soccer "facilities" at the time were geared to men and were often no more than four concrete walls with drain tile at the bottom of them.
Once hidden in what was likely the only toilet on the ground, I feverishly ripped the offending garment off my bright red legs and gratefully pressed my naked limbs to the cold metal of the cubicle's door. I briefly contemplated revenge by flushing the thing, but rebellion could only go so far and I shoved it under my jersey before dashing back to the terraces. The feel of the icy wind slicing unimpeded through my trousers was delightful. I happily jogged ("to beat the traffic") alongside Dad the mile back to the car and slid into the back seat, the better to protect what was hidden from view. Only when we were inching our way forward with the other cars, did Dad say offhandedly, "You'll have to put them on again before we get home and Mum sees you."
Experience had taught that defying or even arguing with Dad never improved matters, so we drove home in silence while I prayed for a traffic accident in front of us that would require the bleeding survivors to be bandaged in rags ripped from convenient underwear.
As we turned off the Kingston bypass, I took off my shoes and pulled the ugly thing on - over the top of my trousers. If Dad noticed he didn't say anything at the time and Mum just howled with laughter when she opened the front door.
I had planned a dignified "They work better this way" and a quick scuttle to my bedroom, but Mum's laughter was so infectious I actually stopped to look at myself in the hall mirror. I have never worn long underwear, let alone wool underwear, since.
That is until two weeks ago, when my wife left strict instructions to put up Christmas lights or else and promptly left to go shopping for the day.
The temperature was hovering around freezing, and we live on the edge of a ravine that funnels cold air off the mountains, creating a micro climate that is two or three degrees colder than whatever Environment Canada is saying. So I did what I had vowed never to do again and donned my new set of Icebreaker Bodyfit (stop laughing, please) 200 underwear and zipped up a cycling jacket that's also made from the wool of "my" mountain sheep that lives in New Zealand. If that sounds too esoteric to be true, Icebreaker has a cool deal where you can enter the "baaacode" of your garment on their website and track it right back to the specific sheep it came from.
I have plans to get fitter (please, stop laughing) that involve commuting to work by bicycle, so I also have some three-quarter length bike leggings with a built-in padded seat, but putting up Christmas lights didn't seem to require that immediate function.
I was quite dubious that these two thin garments were going to provide sufficient protection in weather cold enough that I could see my breath, but pausing only to grab a pack of Fisherman's Friend pastiles, I reluctantly went outside.
Within only a few minutes of moving ladders around I was unzipping my Roto Zip jacket. Lightweight as it is, I was too hot with two layers of merino wool. Clearly I am not going to need the Oasis Crewe under the Roto Zip for warmth when on the bike, unless wicking perspiration away from the skin becomes an issue - and not only is merino wool warm, it wicks and breathes. Apparently, it is becoming increasingly popular among skiers and boarders and I can see why. It's a fabric that more than lives up to its advanced billing in terms of practicality and is also soft and comfortable to the touch. Icebreaker guarantees its Bodyfit line to be the most comfortable, best performing base layer system in the world (offering three different weaves for three sets of temperatures). That's a striking claim, but count me among the convinced.
Fisherman's Friend may not have changed, but I'm pleased to report that long underwear has. For more information about Icebreaker clothing and where to find it, visit www. icebreaker.com.
