In praise of the long, lazy bike ride
Squeeze into fancy gear and obsess over your route? I’d much rather trundle along, get lost occasionally and look at herons I was recently sat outside the Downgate pub in Hungerford, Berkshire, supping on a half of ale when three local men headed out to join me. After they checked I knew where I was (pretty much) and where I was going (vaguely), they commented on my bike, a green city bimbler, and my choice of cycle wear. “Respect to you,” they said. “You’ve got your socks tucked into your corduroy, you’re riding a bike like that. You’re not like those Lycra lunatics.” Adding a silent punctuation mark, a racer with all the gear sped past. Knowing glances were exchanged. This blog post isn’t meant as a dig at what I still think of as ‘proper’ cyclists. I greatly admire those with the kit, the speed and the fitness. But I am interested to hear from those who have attempted more, shall we say, amateur long-distance cycling. Here’s an example. Recently I had a few days off work I didn’t know what to do with, so I decided to cycle to Bristol to see a friend I hadn’t seen in a while. I ordered some maps via Sustrans and some panniers, both of which hadn’t turned up by the day of departure. I went anyway, with the aspiration of staying with friends and cheap B&Bs on my way. Details were liberatingly sketchy. The plan was to follow National Cycle Route 4 , which flirts with the Thames as far as Reading and then leads on the Kennet and Avon canal as far as Bath. Such obvious geographical markers would, I thought, ward against the chance of getting lost. Signage was, for the most part, impressive and comprehensive. There was the occasional issue whereby local ne’er-do-wells had removed or turned the sign, so that in one case I ended up in Virginia Water, the kind of deathless Middle England suburban location that will likely survive the next ice age. No matter. A quick chat with a friendly policeman put me back on track, and I was soon whizzing through Windsor park and rewarded with a breathtaking view of the seat of royalty, glimpsed over a huge field of deer. The monarchy are an anachronism, but they have lovely castles. As someone who cycles mainly to commute, it took me a while to forget that I didn’t have to be anywhere by a particular time. Speed can wait when you have herons to gawp at, canal boaters to talk to and ice cream to eat. Bath, Bradford-on-Avon, Devizes and Bristol were all worthy rewards for the legwork put in. Even Reading had beer. I’ll admit to a degree of naivety on my trip. As probably the last person working for the Guardian to not own a smart phone, I had to rely on the old-fashioned and frankly outdated concept of talking to people. I didn’t bring a puncture repair kit or a spare inner tube. I had no plan for what to do if disaster struck, but I imagine it would have involved an expensive taxi ride. If it rained? Well, trousers get wet. It happens. But there’s surely a healthy middle ground between my incompetence and the near professionalism that represented most of the cyclists who passed me on my way. If you have a bike that works, stuff those trousers into those socks. Set off. See where you end up. Send a postcard. Post a comment. Ethical and green living Cycling Fitness Cycling holidays James Walsh guardian.co.uk
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on April 15, 2011. Filed under News, Politics, World News.
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In praise of the long, lazy bike ride
Squeeze into fancy gear and obsess over your route? I’d much rather trundle along, get lost occasionally and look at herons I was recently sat outside the Downgate pub in Hungerford, Berkshire, supping on a half of ale when three local men headed out to join me. After they checked I knew where I was (pretty much) and where I was going (vaguely), they commented on my bike, a green city bimbler, and my choice of cycle wear. “Respect to you,” they said. “You’ve got your socks tucked into your corduroy, you’re riding a bike like that. You’re not like those Lycra lunatics.” Adding a silent punctuation mark, a racer with all the gear sped past. Knowing glances were exchanged. This blog post isn’t meant as a dig at what I still think of as ‘proper’ cyclists. I greatly admire those with the kit, the speed and the fitness. But I am interested to hear from those who have attempted more, shall we say, amateur long-distance cycling. Here’s an example. Recently I had a few days off work I didn’t know what to do with, so I decided to cycle to Bristol to see a friend I hadn’t seen in a while. I ordered some maps via Sustrans and some panniers, both of which hadn’t turned up by the day of departure. I went anyway, with the aspiration of staying with friends and cheap B&Bs on my way. Details were liberatingly sketchy. The plan was to follow National Cycle Route 4 , which flirts with the Thames as far as Reading and then leads on the Kennet and Avon canal as far as Bath. Such obvious geographical markers would, I thought, ward against the chance of getting lost. Signage was, for the most part, impressive and comprehensive. There was the occasional issue whereby local ne’er-do-wells had removed or turned the sign, so that in one case I ended up in Virginia Water, the kind of deathless Middle England suburban location that will likely survive the next ice age. No matter. A quick chat with a friendly policeman put me back on track, and I was soon whizzing through Windsor park and rewarded with a breathtaking view of the seat of royalty, glimpsed over a huge field of deer. The monarchy are an anachronism, but they have lovely castles. As someone who cycles mainly to commute, it took me a while to forget that I didn’t have to be anywhere by a particular time. Speed can wait when you have herons to gawp at, canal boaters to talk to and ice cream to eat. Bath, Bradford-on-Avon, Devizes and Bristol were all worthy rewards for the legwork put in. Even Reading had beer. I’ll admit to a degree of naivety on my trip. As probably the last person working for the Guardian to not own a smart phone, I had to rely on the old-fashioned and frankly outdated concept of talking to people. I didn’t bring a puncture repair kit or a spare inner tube. I had no plan for what to do if disaster struck, but I imagine it would have involved an expensive taxi ride. If it rained? Well, trousers get wet. It happens. But there’s surely a healthy middle ground between my incompetence and the near professionalism that represented most of the cyclists who passed me on my way. If you have a bike that works, stuff those trousers into those socks. Set off. See where you end up. Send a postcard. Post a comment. Ethical and green living Cycling Fitness Cycling holidays James Walsh guardian.co.uk
Posted by
on April 15, 2011. Filed under News, Politics, World News.
You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0.
You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.