Sunday 11 May 2014

20. Bikes, Booze and Bon Homie

I'm a cyclist. I know, nothing to show off about. Just saying.

However, I want to make a subtle distinction here, between being a cyclist and someone who rides a bike, because I think there is one.

A cyclist cycles as often as possible, all over the place and in all weathers. To my mind a bike rider is someone who keeps a bike in the shed and takes it for a tootle or two, usually in the summer months, before popping it back again, and using the handlebars to hang things on till next year. Nothing wrong with that, I just don't think they're cyclists. Feel free to argue.

I cycle. I've always cycled. I do it because I love it. Simple as that. I didn't start out, seventy  years ago, thinking it was a way to save the planet, save me money or even keep me fit. I just thought it was a fun thing to do. So I kept on doing it. And I still do which, apparently, means I'm now a bit of an anomaly. Women cyclists, over sixty are, according to a recent survey, a tiny minority. This came as a surprise to me, as I seem to see plenty of older women out there when I'm taking a spin, but I suppose cleverer people than me collate all the statistics, so I'm in no position to bicker. But now I feel like an almost extinct species. Maybe someone should slap a preservation order on me.

But, if we are a dying breed, I'd like to try and change what might be few adverse mind-sets concerning cycling. Let's start with the loathsome Lycra. I have cycled the length and breadth of the British Isles and pushed my pedals around foreign climes as well. I have never felt the need to wear Lycra. It's not a necessity. People were cycling long before Lycra came on the scene. I don't fancy it. I suspect it makes things a bit stuffy in the nether regions, and nobody wants crotch-rot. You need cool stuff when it's hot, warm when it's cold and waterproof when it rains. Exactly. You knew that. The main thing, especially in Britain, where the infra-structure provided for cyclists is negligible, is to make yourself seen. Thus high-visibility is the name of the game, and nowadays you can find some quite natty little numbers in the way of fluorescent tops and jackets. As for helmets, I've never worn one and never will. If you doubt the sanity of my choice please read 'Why it makes sense to bike without a helmet.' www.howiechong.com which says exactly what I think, but a lot better than I can do it. Basically, you're more likely to receive a life threatening injury if you're in a car or if you're pedestrian than on your bike.
On the other hand, if you venture to a country that treats the cyclist as having equal, if not greater, value than other road users, all this sort of stuff becomes superfluous. Cycling in Amsterdam, or anywhere in the Netherlands, is bliss. If you rode through Amsterdam in a helmet and Lycra they would point and snigger at you. Everybody cycles. It's a way of life. No special preparation is required. People ride to work in their work clothes, whatever they may be. Women in suits and high heels with their brief cases in the basket on the front ride alongside those in overalls, uniforms or whatever. All the kids cycle to school. Whole families travel together, with wonderful 'wheel barrow' attachments on the front to carry those too little to ride. In the evenings everyone's still out there, dressed up for whatever the occasion, be it dinner or dancing. I once rode through the park in the middle of Amsterdam behind an elderly lady in a beautiful, full length evening gown, She didn't prompt a second glance. And because Amsterdamian cyclists favour lovely big, sturdy three-speed bikes with fully encasing chain guards you're not worried about your hem getting caught. It's very liberating. Of course, all this is aided by the fact that the country is largely flat and the cyclist is regarded as king, with perfectly surfaced, wide cycle lanes everywhere you go. I love Amsterdam, for lots of reasons. We don't need to go into all of them here.
 Of the many places I have cycled, I think Britain is one of the least 'bike friendly.'
That's not to say the general population are unfriendly towards those of on two wheels, not at all. Just our roads. And this is where I come to the real joys of travelling by bike. I think one of my favourite cycling holidays is the one we spent zig-zagging across Southern Ireland. As usual, we had a good map and a rough route planned but nothing more than that, just relying on finding a B & B at the end of each day. This might sound a tad risky, but my husband likes to adopt the approach that, if you don't have a plan, it can't go wrong. This has stood us in good stead so far and we've never actually ended up sleeping under a hedge. Come close, slept in some funny establishments, but always been fine and it all adds to the adventure. There was one place where we sat up all night, because the landlord had the demeanour of a serial killer, and may well have been, but he did a cracking breakfast so I could forgive him a lot. 
I think the people of Southern Ireland are the warmest and friendliest we've encountered anywhere.
We couldn't pause without passers-by stopping to chat. Even on a remote country road a passing farmer on a tractor came to a halt to ask where we were heading, and then suggesting things we should see when we got there, which we'd never had known about otherwise. We were a constant source of interest to people, in the nicest possible way, and we met with amazing kindness. Mending a puncture, in the middle of nowhere, a motorist stopped to see if he could help, found we were fine, but insisted on giving us his 'phone number '....just in case you're ever stuck anywhere,' and saying he'd always be happy to come out with his trailer to pick us up. He then gave us a bar of chocolate and went off with a wave.

Arriving at one B & B, situated deep in the countryside, we asked the landlady if there was a pub or anything in the area where we might get some dinner. She told us there was nothing for miles and, as it would be dark before we got back and the roads were unlit, we really shouldn't attempt it. We travel with a few snacks in our panniers, ready for such emergencies, so were unconcerned and went off to our room. Half an hour later there was a knock on the door. The landlady told us she'd put a, '...few bits and pieces...' on the table on the terrace. We went down to find this table, overlooking her extensive garden, on a glorious summer evening, laden with fresh salmon, some cheeses and butter from her neighbours' farm and her own bread and pickles. This feast was completed by homemade yoghurt with strawberries and raspberries from the garden.  Next morning, despite our lengthy protestations, she refused to take anything other than the agreed bed and breakfast price. This same lady had told me, almost apologetically, that she'd,...'only had the eight children.' Only! Blimey! I was too ashamed to mention my pathetic effort of three.

People were prepared to go to endless trouble for us. Arriving at one place, to find it already full, the lovely lady who ran it said she'd ring round and see if she could sort somewhere for us. After several calls she told us that a couple who had a cottage a couple of miles away, who didn't actually do B & B but had a spare room, would take us. We were met by the man of the house who asked how far we'd come that day. We told him we'd covered about fifty miles, whereupon he slapped us both on the back, declared, 'Fair play to you!' and insisted we join him and his wife in the kitchen for whisky and scones, warm from the oven. Then he took us to the local pub, where he was a penny whistle player of some repute, and we had an amazing night. Next morning we mounted our bikes in a fragile state, but it had been well worth it.

Stopping in a tiny village, to check our map, a couple out walking their dog wandered over to ask the now familiar questions and on learning our destination for the day announced they had relatives there, who were also keen cyclists, and would be happy to have us. They marked the route to the house and assured us they'd be expecting us. We were doubtful, but duly made our way to the address. Sure enough, we were greeted like old friends, and even included in a visit to neighbours later that evening. These people became real friends who we are still in touch with.

I seriously doubt if any of these joyous encounters would have occurred if we'd been on an organised trip, travelling by car, immune to the world and people around us. We did once take a more luxurious holiday, cycling with a group to pre-arranged hotels and with a van to carry our luggage ahead of us, and it was a lot of fun. We were in France, travelling through the glorious Loire Valley, and there were many highlights. I well recall riding through fields of sunflowers, stopping at vineyards to sample the wine, and getting to know our fellow cyclists, who were from all over the world, as we shared wonderful food in the evenings. It was a lovely experience, but it lacked that sense of adventure that the 'do it yourself' holiday has.

And I love city cycling. I think it's the best way to discover all those little alleyways that the main traffic can't explore. The shortcuts and dodges that make you the envy of the traffic-jam bound motorists. I always travelled to work on my bike. It livened me up in the morning and relaxed me on my way home again.

There's so much more that could be said about cycling. We all know that there are those, jumping the lights and riding on pavements, that get the rest of us a bad name but, honestly, they're the minority. Most of us just want to be loved, like the next needy git, so we do it by the rules and hope that you, behind the wheel, will too.

Some people try and tell me it's a dangerous pursuit, especially the city thing. But that's rot, isn't it?
Everything's a risk. From the moment you take your first breath. Does that mean we should merely exist, rather than live? You could stay cocooned in your own house and still trip at the top of the stairs and break your neck. Better, surely, to go doing something you love. Personally, I'm still holding out for a peaceful demise, in my own bed and, preferably, after an excellent dinner, plenty of decent red wine and, to be honest, a spot off sex would finish it off a treat (See previous blogs. Old people have sex. Get over it! You should be glad. You'll be old yourself one day. Think on.). Failing that, I can think of no better way than bowling along on my bike when some twat of a pantechnicon driver, taking a left turn, fails to see me in his mirror and splat, that's me. At least you'd know I'd gone with a smile on my face. I'd prefer that to a lot of the alternative options.

There's so much more I could say about cycling. I could do a whole article on the art of packing your panniers so you have clean clothes every day for a fortnight. It can be done. The tight roll is the secret. You'd be amazed just how much stuff you can get into a small space if you have the knack.

But I'll settle for saying that if you fancy it then give it a go. You might enjoy it, regardless of how old, or young, you happen to be. I'm no fitness fanatic. I do loads of things that are, supposedly, bad for me. I don't see the point of prolonging your life if you're not having any fun. But I find cycling is a great hangover cure, a good way of relieving tension after a row, gives you time to think when you need it and generates a nice feeling of camaraderie with other cyclists. These are good things.

Whenever I straddle my old friend (My bike! you know perfectly well I meant my bike!!) I have an immediate sense of pleasure at the adventure ahead. And ok, so I don't much like hills anymore, but you can always get off and walk for a bit, and that's nice too. No shame in it. Go on, two wheels are the way forward. You know it makes sense. Ding, ding!





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