Asleep
Road closed
Freshly shampooed hair on the wind
Biking in formation; a bike ballet?
Let’s all break the law
Down to the promenade
A smile from an old man
Fenced-in seating
A sun through misty clouds
Tattoos on both legs, camo shorts above
Grim-faced bikers
Pissing off a Land Rover at the lights
Home again, time to spare
The average speed of a fly - which variety, I can’t begin to tell you - is apparently somewhere around 16mph. I know this because I was overtaking them on my ride yesterday, and boy did it feel good.
On my ride last Saturday (the first since I’d gotten back in the country) I had my first encounter with the flies of late summer. While I’d love to tell you the entomological reason for their sudden and proliferous apperance, all I know is they were all intent on flying into me like little kamikaze pilots. Maybe it had something to do with the white t-shirt I had on, maybe I was biking upstream through some seaside fly convention; all I know is I was slapping them away, shooing them off my person and at least once, spitting them out as I rode. Pfooie.
Yesterday though, I was burning past them like a drag racer with his eyes on the finish line.
I’d skipped Thursday and Friday’s morning rides, as you might have seen,so I was determined I was going to make up for it on Saturday. Having negotiated a later start for our outing to the Duke of York’s Picturehouse, I saddled up around 12 and headed out. Fantastic day for it. Regardless of the subject matter of that afternoon’s movie, you can’t deny we’re getting fine weather these days… let’s just enjoy it before we all end up cooked to a crisp.
Last week, as I totally failed to tell you, I rode the entire length of the Undercliff Walk, going from Madeira Drive down past the Marina, on to Rottingdean and then beyond. It’s a few miles (nope, I don’t watch the mileometer from point to point, generally) and it’s a great ride. Pretty much entirely flat, with wide open paths. It’s quickly become my new favourite place to ride in Brighton, so I headed for it again yesterday.
Uneventful enough ride on the way out, although as luck would have it I was generally heading into the wind, which meant I knew I was in for an easy return journey. I finally remembered to take my camera with me, so took some shots on the way out that I’ll present in another post.
When the walk finally gave out I paused, took a few swigs of squash, took a few photos and then headed back. The weird thing I noticed was that with the wind at my back, it really didn’t even feel like there was a wind there. But I could sure see it on my speedo. With a little effort I clicked up through the gears and actually cracked 20mph at one point - a record for me on flat.
That was when I noticed the flies. At first it felt like I had an escort, as these things were buzzing along right beside me; but then as I passed through 16mph and beyond they fell away, one after the other. It was sort of surreal keeping pace with the same things that had been randomly colliding with me last week, but it made me feel a bit ‘one with nature’ all the same.
I ended up behind two female bikers back along the walk, one of whom could really have done with investing in mudguards, judging by the chalky mud all over her back. I had plenty on the bike too, but thankfully pretty much none on me.
With the wind behind me I was home soon, and happy I went out.
I feel like a chump. Yesterday morning was glorious sunshine, and I didn’t go out because on Wednesday night, I felt knackered enough that I figured I deserved a lie-in.
Last night? Rainstorms. This morning? Still raining and still cold. So no riding, after I told myself that I would go out. I am a wuss. But I am a dry, warm wuss….
I really felt like lying in today. Just because I could.
Now that I’ve almost established a routine with this morning ride thing, my natural inclination is to break that routine; I am the greatest saboteur of anything good for me. So when I woke, I almost went straight back to sleep, reasoning that, you know… sleep feels good. I stumbled out of bed, telling myself I was just taking a piss. Then I looked out the window, checking for any sign - at all - that the weather would make riding unpleasant. Damn those blue Brighton skies.
I guess it’s a toss up between good weather and my immense personal character as to which got me outside today.
No music this morning, just the remainder of a podcast I was listening to last night, and a solemn compromise to myself - take it easy. No headlong struggles into the wind, no frantic, devil-may-care spurts of speed. It worked, too; gave me time to think, which became very self-reflective - I distinctly remember thinking about writing about the process of writing about what I was doing, which tied me into a mental knot for a second. And does even now.
I was slow and steady heading down to the beach, and quite happy to bunch up behind another rider, matching his relaxed pace on the first stretch towards Hove. Eventually I decided to vary my route, and be a bit naughty (along with half-a-dozen other riders ignoring the ‘No Cycling’ signs on the promenade). That’s when I really woke up, as I crossed paths with a leash strung between a lean greyhound lookalike and its bright red haired owner.
Apart from that, it was an unremarkable ride on a pleasant morning. Back home inside 30 minutes, to find a construction crew who started tearing up our street with pneumatic drills before I could finish this. Probably a blessing that I didn’t lie in, after all.
I didn’t expect to be able to get out of bed to go for a ride today. That’ll be because last night, in what can only be described as ‘the most exercise I’ve had in a single day for a long time’ I ended up playing five-a-side football for two hours.
(Aside: for about a year, a group of fairly regular attendees at work have been playing five-a-side footie indoors at BHASVIC every Monday night. Some of us are totally crap (me), some of us are pretty darn good, but overall we field reasonably balanced teams, and have a good laugh. That’s the only reason I go; if anyone started to take it too seriously, I wouldn’t bother. End aside.)
After hoofing around the pitch and gaining two shiny blisters on my feet for my trouble, I was barely able to walk home. (Amanda attributes this to a lack of stretching, which might be true, but I like to think the five mile ride had something to do with it; I was creaky before I left the office to play.) Long story short, I figured I’d wake up this morning feeling like a plank of wood.
Long story shorter, I didn’t, and I ended up doing 7.6 miles, instead of my expected five.
Cold morning, at least until I warmed up, and I kicked off with Jimmy Eat World’s A Praise Chorus, which is about as religious as rock ‘n’ roll gets. It was cold enough and I was tired enough that I ended up blinking sleep tears out of my eyes, which would have made me a sight to see if anyone had been around. It did also make me a rolling traffic hazard as I couldn’t see, but a surreptitious wipe helped that.
Yesterday I cycled right, so today I went left along the seafront - Madeira Drive, which was surprisingly busy with cyclists and peds. I only realised why a little later; if you’re cycling along the clifftop (mad with cars) Madeira Drive must seem like paradise. It was such an easy ride down to the Marina I figured I’d keep going, considering my clock was only at eight minutes or so… kind of a mistake.
I continued on past the Marina and out onto the Undercliff Walk, which thanks to persistent mud and some sort of chalky residue, is about the closest I get to off-road biking. The ride was remarkably easy, and I opened up on the flat, by-the-sea section, getting past 18mph. At one point I passed a guy cycling in the opposite direction who looked damn tired and fairly pissed off, but I paid him no mind. Then I turned around.
Of course. I’d been riding with a tailwind behind me. Shit.
That early ‘lead’ I’d had on my projected 30 minutes riding time evaporated as I rode into the wind all the way back to the pier, struggling to get above 12mph and usually hovering around 11. Surprisingly I overtook the same cyclist on the way back, who probably really hated me by now.
Apart from a near miss with another cyclist (Sorry lady, I was looking at traffic) the rest of the ride was uneventful, and not as taxing as all that when I got out of the wind. Nevertheless… next time? Check the wind, Stephen.
It’s getting darker in the evenings. I don’t want to become a night biker (although at some point, I will buy myself some lights). I need to get out on the bike more. I can’t leave work early. Hence, the decision to get up early and do some riding.
Wasn’t exactly all my idea, to be honest; Amanda said it first. Of course just because someone suggests something doesn’t mean you immediately do it. I think it was only when I started looking outside at 6pm and seeing the sun was down, and on weekends realising I’d have to get onto the bike pre-4pm for the chance of getting a ride in before dusk… that’s when I sighed and realised I had no choice.
So, alarm goes off at 7am this morning, I roll out of bed and peer out the window. It looks kinda grey, and feels kinda cold, so I pull out a long-sleeved t-shirt (that I really didn’t want to sweat in, to be honest) and put it on with everything else. Keep 50p in my pocket for any potential nightmare scenario phonecalls (”Hon? I got sideswiped and the bike’s totalled… I’m okay… just send a cab for me, okay?”) and nip downstairs. I’m on the road at 7:15, with Razorlight’s In the Morning making me smile, in a why-the-hell-am-I-doing-this way.
First thing to realise… Brighton streets certainly aren’t empty at 7am. They’re quiet, but there’s a steady stream of folks walking up our street to the station; London commuters, on the way to the station, I guess. I’m blinking sleep out of my eyes and avoiding dogwalkers, questioning myself all the way to the seafront, but then I hit a series of good curves and small downhill stretches and feel the way anyone does when they let gravity work for you; great.
The sea’s a little choppy this morning, grey with white caps, and the wind feels strong but I manage to keep up a good pace. At least, what I feel like is a good pace for 20 minutes out of bed. There’s a steady string of bikes passing me in the opposite direction, and I even go past a girl looking like she’s struggling more than me. But she’s smiling.
Interesting mix of bikers, though. Most of them look like commuters, judging by dress, and I wonder if they’re on their way to a really distant office (Rottingdean?) or if they’re just early starters. (One of our office biking types is always in before 8:30am.) I see a few training types; one pensioner in full-on racing gear, and one other guy who could be my identikit twin - shorts, t-shirt, bike helmet, glasses, pained expression on his labouring face. Add a ginger-ish beard and we’d be separated at birth.
In my mind I’ve told myself that ten miles is out of the question this early in the day. For one thing I know that my usual hour-long round trip will take another hour to cool down from, and that’s not time I can afford. I figure that five miles will do it, so I pause at the bandstand near the Leisure Centre, turn and look back at the seafront. Light is breaking through the clouds in a sunburst, not only warming me for the first time but again reminding me that I really do need to take a camera when riding.
I watch it become less spectacular for a few minutes, then head home. Razorlight are singing Back to the Start on my headphones as I round the last couple of corners.
In my wildest dreams, I’d do something like Leon Steber did: cycle around North America (that’ll include Canada and Alaska, folks) for almost eight months. Continuously. Without, apparently, much direction. Except, you know, onwards.
I know Leon, in a six-degrees kind of way; he lives right here in Brighton with a work colleague, and when she mentioned his love of biking and his photography, I asked for his website address. As well as taking very nice photos he’s also catalogued his epic journey around the US in the summer of 2004.
This guy’s dedication to a cause is exemplary. Or, possibly, insane. Or both. Not only has he written about every single day he was on the road (although, admittedly, I have no idea if he wrote about events after the fact), he’s also made some fantastic maps that show you his route. (The only tiny, tiny quibble I have is the lack of geographical detail; sometimes it’s hard to remember that he’s passing by mountains, or over huge expanses of nothing. Perhaps he should be introduced to Bikely.)
I find reading the thing incredibly compulsive. Even though I can see the end of his journey on his maps (in Mexico; keep in mind he started in northern California), I keep reading just wondering what he might find down the next stretch of road. Which, incidentally, is generally not a whole hell of a lot; one thing Leon’s journey teaches me is that the US and Canada are filled with a whole lot of nothing. Still, his laconic, casual writing style (almost, I’d guess, an inevitable byproduct of being a Western Australian… nothing phases ‘em) is link-clickingly addictive, and it’s worth reading hundreds of pages to get to long stretches in the remote Yukon, with entries like this:
“Today was the worst. Colder than buggery again. I had far too much time to think today. What does one think about for ten hours a day and almost six hundred miles of riding in the freezing cold? One feels extreme anger (ANGER!), jealousy (JEALOUSY!) and resentment (RESENTMENT!) at every passing car. I started to wish that I’d had a misspent youth and had learnt to break into and hotwire a car. A car with a good heating system and a coffee cup holder. With a thermos full of hot coffee to last the entire day. A car that does one hundred miles in an hour and a half, not a day. A car with a strong heater blowing right onto my feet. A car that says a big “Fuck you” to headwinds and drizzling rain. Words like “toasty” and “warm” keep running through my mind, and I get angrier and angrier. It seems like I can’t remember the last time I was warm and comfortable. I don’t think I’ve ever been so cold and miserable before in my life. I’m low, real low.”
All I can think is ‘Keep on riding, Leon’. He’s doing it for all us armchair tourers out there. Oh, and incidentally? According to my inside source he’s off around France right now. Jammy git.
