RaceFace Canuck gloves

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I am quite particular about summer gloves. I’ve been through a few pairs over the years, and I’ve developed a strong sense for what’s going to work for me, and what’s not. It’s a short, but personal list, and I’m well aware that what’s good for me may not be everyone’s glove heaven. But I know what I like. And these RaceFace Canucks fit the bill rather nicely.

My Platonic Ideal glove needs to have no padding on the palms at all. I like to masochistically feel as much through the bars as possible.  These are pretty good in that respect – although there are some sections which have a double amount of material, if there is any foam padding I didn’t feel it. There is also an odd pad at the base of the palm, presumably to protect the ulnar nerve, which appears to have no effect whatsoever unless perhaps it’s there in the event of crashes. There are some ridiculous silicon grippy bits at the end of the first and second fingers that lasted – ooh, a fortnight. No great loss though.

My Platonic Ideal glove also needs a large mesh back; I have big sweaty hands, and these things have lovely cool backs. And they also have a nice big snotwipe – sorry, sweatwipe. I frequently sweat a lot. From my nose. The closure of these is unobtrusive too, and leaves the wrist open. Which I like. And most importantly (and unlike 85% of the gloves I end up with) in several months of riding them, I haven’t poked through the end of the fingers with my claw-like mitts.

Overall: Very nearly my ideal glove. Excellent work, RaceFace.


Review Info

Product:RaceFace Canuck gloves
From:Silverfish, silverfish-uk.com
Tested:by Barney for Three months

Barney Marsh

Singletrack Magazine Contributor

Barney Marsh takes the word ‘career’ literally, veering wildly across the road of his life, as thoroughly in control as a goldfish on the dashboard of a motorhome.

He’s been, with varying degrees of success, a scientist, teacher, shop assistant, binman and, for one memorable day, a hospital laundry worker. These days, he’s a dad, husband, guitarist, and writer, also with varying degrees of success. He sometimes takes photographs. Some of them are acceptable.

Occasionally he rides bikes to cast the rest of his life into sharp relief. Or just to ride through puddles. Sometimes he writes about them. Bikes, not puddles.

He is a writer of rongs, a stealer of souls and a polisher of turds.

He isn’t nearly as clever or as funny as he thinks he is.

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