I launch a men’s cycling rangeNovember 5, 2014 at 9:09 pm | Posted in cycling, marketing | 2 Comments
Tags: advertising, apparel, biking, clothing, cycling, humour, ladies, marketing, rage, women
Did you realise I had a cycling apparel company? I know! I haven’t had to advertise much. Our core market is women, of course: our range of superbly-cut, technically innovative performance gear in a spectrum of eye-catching, grown-up colours has been flying off the shelves. The revolutionary seaming on our skinsuits has sports scientists rubbing their thighs in wind tunnels up and down the country. Our edgy-but-hardwearing off-road kit is sported by the most fearsome women in the business.
It’s been so crazily successful that we’ve decided to take the plunge. While it’s seen as a risky move, given that the market is so unpredictable and the costs of manufacture are so high, I’m incredibly excited to announce that we’re launching… a men’s range.
We know from market research that men don’t want to stand out. They don’t like competing: it might make them unpopular. Men support and nurture each other. They don’t like getting all sweaty and messing up their beards. Men’s cycling is about friendship, happiness and fun. Our new men’s range reflects all these values.
Our camera chick’s on holiday at the moment, shredding Mongolian trails and sampling the local firewater, so I’ll have to give you the written outline. But I’m sure you can visualise it. This is our promotional video. We’re very proud.
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The sun shines. Three slim, artfully-coiffed twentysomething boys of a variety of ethnicities tumble out of a café, laughing and joshing one another. They wear a coordinated range of impeccably clean urban cyclewear. As they strap on their combat-look ‘it’s more of a hat, really’ helmets and unlock their sparkling city bikes, jolly music plays: the carefree, happy-go-lucky kind with whistling, and ukuleles, or maybe banjos. One boy pops a colourful backpack into his front basket; another puts a small dog in his trailer. They teeter off on traffic-free roads, pointing out things in electrical shop windows to each other. One freewheels delightedly, his Converse-clad feet sticking out adorably to each side. Another tries to do a trackstand; his mates giggle and help him up.
Cut to the same three boys, this time in race-cut performance gear. Their shorts ride up over their unmuscled thighs; their overworked biceps strain the cuffs on their jerseys. Closeups reveal that the jerseys are adorned with swirls of footballs and tiny pint glasses. The shorts feature camouflage flashes. Their drop-handlebar bikes are matt black, with flames painted along the top tube; army green, with stars and stripes; navy blue, with mod targets. They ride unsteadily in single file along an empty country road, elbows locked, helmets loosely buckled, saddles low.
Cut to one of the boys straddling his top tube. He lifts a gleaming bidon to his mouth and drinks from it, his perfect profile silhouetted against the blue sky. Another boy offers him an energy bar; he smiles, breaks a chunk off and nibbles it.
Final cut, to two of the boys sitting in a pub garden, in more perfectly-clean cycling gear. The third boy appears with a tray of halves of cider. They clink glasses, throw their heads back with perfect-toothed laughter, and pick at gourmet burgers.
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There. That shouldn’t scare anyone off, should it?