So lucky

I should be so lucky.

Oh, this is weird.  I’m feeling sprightly.  It’s a beautiful bright and cold day, with only gentle flurries of snow tickling my cheeks on the ride into work this morning.  I’m giggling at how I’ve changed.  

• There was a time when I wouldn’t have considered getting on the bike to ride to work in weather like this. 
• There was a time when I wouldn’t have been laughing at my choice of bike (because I only had one).
• There was a time when cycling up the ramps from the subways (all legal and above board) was too much for me.  Now I do it in the big ring.

The time when I wouldn’t have considered riding in during weather like this isn’t that long ago. It’s yesterday in fact.  Now,  having ridden in yesterday into a head wind in a howling swirling low visibility blizzard, this morning’s cold and gentle flurries seemed quite sedate.  I even wore one less layer for the trip.  

Looking forward, looking back and looking to the now, there’s a little feeling of full circle.  I rather think I started this blog as somewhere to put down my cycle commute rantings and record the things that made me smile.  Here I am once more, commuting. The blog’s changed.  I’ve changed.  Sometimes, it’s simply not all about the bike.

This week has been commuting out of desperation, and there’s a bit of me wanting to jump on the bandwagon which is currently trundling along in various cycling press about exercise and mental health.  There’s a whole let’s not be afraid to talk about it ethos going on.  I’m not afraid to talk about my need to exercise to maintain mood, but I don’t feel the need to talk about it because it’s nothing special or unusual and it’s a fact not a question.  It does, though, offer up an explanation of why I rode in the blizzard.

Oh, and because I’ve ridden in twice in two days and have the endorphin thing working for me I’m singing along happily in my head to Kylie ...

Conscious Liberation

In the past decade I think there have been three occasions in total when I've stopped dead in my tracks and gone wow, I feel fit.  And fleetingly, that seemed to  happen to me yesterday.  Woke up feeling strangely fresh and vibrant, somehow almost floaty, featherlight.  Fortuitously it was a day for a bike ride.  Once again, and I appreciate this starts to sound samey, Rivington.  But it's not samey for me.  On a hot summer evening, with a good friend, and a bike apiece, it's bloody awesome.  It felt like me and the bike were dancing, a ride when somehow it would have been appropriate for multi coloured butterflies to accompany me up and down the hills.  I could almost sense them dancing through the air around me, enjoying the sunshine, the breeze and the movement.  Not a long ride, but a totally brilliant one, legs and lungs both on board with the process, and miraculously (well, if a sneaky early depart from work can be considered a miracle) we arrived back at the Great Barn cafe in time for toasted ham, mozzarella and basil ciabatta.  Loving those summer opening hours.

It's a funny old week, kind of a one out, one in type of a week as far as the car and equipment have been concerned.  Tuesday morning in went the road bike and the climbing kit.  Wednesday evening out came the road bike and climbing kit.  Thursday morning in went the mountain bike.  Thursday evening the mountain bike came out, got cleaned, and camping stuff accumulated in the hallway.  Friday morning wheels back on the road bike and off we go to work.  Friday night and the hybrid will take its rightful place in the car.  It's all change, change, change, and having earned a beer last night it was, in honesty a push to finish it sat in my pyjamas on the sofa (where I was discovered by my lodger on his return from his Morris dancing evening).

And I lay there in bed wondering why my buttocks ached, but this morning I still got up, got on the road bike and pedaled my way to work.  In record time.  It takes the hybrid 45-50 minute commute down to 35 minutes.  It's some kind of a miracle (that makes two then).  Bloody marvelous.

And in celebratory tones we're humming along with Eurythmics today while cheering to the TV in the hope it'll help Shanaze Reade who's representing GB in the Olympics BMX today ...

"Now this is a song to celebrate
The conscious liberation of the
female state!
Mothers - daughters and their
daughters too.
Woman to woman
We're singin' with you."

Boxing Gloves

Unplanned bike ride in to work today, courtesy of accidental early morning awakening and a sense of unrest in general.  For which exercise is possibly the only way forwards.  The run yesterday although making me smiley and calm somehow didn't carry through to this morning, and confusingly finding myself not even aching, well, what was there for it really?  On your bike.

And I'm setting off thinking, OK, you've got 45 minutes, 45 minutes to get this out of your system, to think hard or to beat your body into submission.  And by glorious coincidence I managed to do both.  One of the joys of simple straightforward exercise is head space.  I don't get that so much on the mountain bike where my head is crowded by concerns relating to the consequences of falling off and how to avoid such unnecessary evils.  But running or road riding, yes, I think as I go along.  Sometimes I also hum.  Sometimes there are tunes inside my head, and sometimes oh yes, I sing out loud.  But today I largely breathed.

I seem to have a psyche where I forget to push on.  I mean, I start with good intentions, focus, determination and think OK on this ride I will push it on particular sections, until my lungs and legs both protest.  And so I start, but then I get distracted either by the thoughts in my head or something around and about and I simply forget and find myself once again in spinning mode.  But today I was saved by a skinny man with hairy legs and a red rucksack.  For as I stood at red lights they turned amber and as they did so, he scooted on by.  So I set off in chase.  As you do, and indeed it was a bloody marvelous workout, because catching him was simply not achievable but getting nearer to him was, and as he reached his pace, I struggled to maintain the same distance, but made myself struggle and kept struggling and everything hurt and the hurt was good.

And swizzling through my head is Aztec Camera:

"Ambition and love wearing boxing gloves
And singing hearts and flowers"

The Gamut

I am made of stern stuff.  She says, frowning and attempting to look somewhat daunting.  Pushed aside the "oh but I really need to buy some calor gas for the weekend after work today" excuse, and simply put the bike lock in the bag.  Because of course bikes can carry calor gas.  And, it turns out a new t-shirt, pair of walking trousers and baggy cycling shorts.  Because I am fed up of having clothes which only fit where they touch and that would be mostly where the belt ensures contact.  I'm a teeny bit pleased with myself for accommodating shopping on the bike and not just opting for the car.

Sunny day and one of those weird journeys where cars have their windows open and you hear snippets of information.  Traffic on the M4, today's going to be a scorcher (this one puzzled me overheard at 6pm).  And because I'd veered across town to hit Go Outdoors up for the calor gas, my route home involved ... Langworthy.

First thing in the morning it's a pleasure to do this route, but in the evening you come to the top of a gentle rise, and into a long flat straight section.  Which would be absolutely fine on a dark evening or a rainy day or an early morning.  But on a sunny afternoon is treacherous.  For it is here that I cannot forget the experience of being water bombed by the locals.  So stealth cycling it is.  Timing the lights so I don't have to stop.  Being hyper aware of what traffic is about and staying nearer to the middle of the road than the kerb.  Because children can surely only throw so far.  Water bombs aren't the only thing the playful little dears have chucked at me along this stretch.  There have been cans, and crisp packets and just general chaos and mayhem, and most of me is screaming I'm old enough to be your mum.  But it makes for a good bike ride with clear focus and drive and determination ...

Everybody hurts

Ow OW Ow.

This entry is brought to you by Rule Five.  My favourite.

I noticed maybe Saturday that it hurt to stand, to sit, to go up and down stairs, in fact, most things involving movement of legs.  Big fat muscles in thighs giving it some welly on the stiffness.  Sunday it was noticeable on the bike ride and I chose to ignore it. Last night climbing I realised how the muscles had been put in that condition, and carried on regardless.  Today I cycled in, aware with every stop and start that the muscles were protesting.  But it is a good ache and frankly MTFU.  For indeed, everybody hurts sometimes.

I have very rapidly made an adjustment to the concept of lycra shorts without baggies on the commute to work.  Tra lala as I leave the front door feeling virtually naked with the skimpiness of the clothing, for it's early and I'm in work before 8am so who knows, cares or sees.  Except for the people at work but why would they be looking anyway.

The thing I'm actually slightly ashamed of, or perhaps just mildly embarrassed by is the bruises.  There is a certain threshold over which it's awkward off the bike to have bare legs.  There ought to be a classification of bruises along the lines of burns to decide on when it's appropriate to wear a) shorts, b) 3/4 lengths or c) long trousers whatever the weather.  Notice the subject of skirt hasn't even occurred.  So, shorts would be permissible with bruises at a grade one level or below.  Below this hasn't actually happened for quite some time and is something of a fantasy state, similar to the concept of being in peak fitness.  My imaginary grade one or below level would be maybe just one or two small bruises, restricted to below knee.  This would be one per leg really in an ideal world.  Grade 2 bruises would be a mix of colours, different vintages, potentially really only consisting of those more than 48 hours old so in a state of either grey or some fading yellow.  There would also be a percentage leg cover relating to a grade 2 bruise, perhaps up to about the 25% of lower leg cover.  Grade 3 bruises are a trouser only situation.  These are a mix of fresh bruises in an eye catching tender red mix with grey, and some of these are raised.  This is a 40% plus of leg cover, and may also include thigh and knee bruises.

There are also categories for bruises accompanied by grazes or by cuts.  Bruises which are so sore you can't shave your legs.  Bruises in really weird places where the pedal has smacked into you as you go down, and ankle bruises caused by climbing mishaps.  Perhaps some sub categories for bruises which alone cover 5% of your leg as opposed to that level of cover being comprised of several small ones.  There's clearly work to be done on this subject.

Singing along to REM because everybody hurts sometimes, everybody cries, but it's time to sing along ...

Passion killers

This morning's bike ride was brought to you by pain and suffering.  Decided I was feeling "on it" this week and it was time to do the slightly hilly route (note this is purely by my standards). It's weird, same start point (home) and same destination (work) and yet there's one route which has three excruciating short climbs and yet no noticeable descents and another route which is pretty much flat.  Where do the hills come from?

In a moment of let the dog see the rabbit I did even find myself attempting to chase down a man on a bike, who, from my somewhat distant view looked kind of achievable, and had the kind of arse I felt was worth pursuing.  But that was the first hill of the ride, and in honesty I was relieved when he turned off down a left turn as I carried on and the pressure was off.  It's not a chatty route, the hilly one.  It's a route which avoids the town centre which is a way that always offers up some kind of company.  A solitude route on the whole, shunned by other cyclists for reasons I can only comprehend if they too are not feeling the hilly love. And today I mostly sung as I pedalled to the tune, words and rhythm of Wilson Phillips.

I feel a need to over share.  Passion killers.  Cycling shorts by DHB.  I suspect this stands for Damage Her Behind.  And I'm being kind with that acronym.  I am at the bottom of the cycling shorts drawer.  The choices this morning left to me were the DHB death to my lady bits shorts or the Altura, well, we are lycra but frankly were purchased when Alison's arse was more a size 14 than a size 10 and the padding drifts around all over the place, and indeed we are stupid and not sure why we are in the house at all shorts.  So I chose the DHBs.  Fortunately I'm on the hybrid which has a saddle I would be humiliated to use on a bike of any sporting nature.  It has gel.  Let me say no more.  But the DHBs leave me often relieved that there are areas of my anatomy I clearly no longer have a use for ... saying no more.

Let me leave you with:

"I know that there is pain but if you hold on for one more day and break free from the chains"

Humming.

Bike mechanic

... wanted.  I have some strong girlie tendencies when it comes to approaching all things mechanical, or indeed skillful.  Last night saw me sitting on the sofa with various bits of bike scattered around me as well as some random props such as track pump and superfluous tyre levers.  My spacial awareness is so appalling that with the bike upside down I simply cannot work out which way to put directional tyres onto wheels, and much flipping of the bike took place to try to get it right.  Oh, and I was lied to by a colleague at work who suggested that the sidewall of the tyres would have a simple arrow advising me of the directionality (is that even a word?).  But nonetheless, somehow wasting a perfectly good inner tube I managed to upgrade both tyres to something that actually has tread and this morning they remain fully inflated.  Win.

Feeling encouraged by the seemingly successful upgrading of tyres I felt inclined to check out the gear cabling and at least investigate whether I could possibly without the aid of the phone a friend option or the RTFM option persuade the bike that the inner ring was indeed an option, a desirable option.  OK, it took me a while, and I did some stupid things but it does look now as though with minimal persuasion it will go into inner ring and indeed all other rings, and without that curious I'm slightly out of alignment rattle.  The girl did good.  One day I might even work out how to get the brake pads aligned properly.  But not today.

A latecomer really to the world of cycling, it never fails to amaze me how some of the basics others take for granted are a Wow, it works like that experience for me.  Spent  last night's journey home tentatively experimenting with Stuff Wot I Read in a  Book.  My brain in disbelief that corners, in fact, could or possibly should be taken with the bike being the thing that does the leaning while the body stays more or less vertical.  This is terrifying.  With the bike at an angle, the bruising possibilities seem to depend on a crazy tyre / road contact point which, if I think about it ... well, actually, best not to think about it.  I've always been a lean my body into the bends person.  So gentle baby steps, and I keep on stepping forwards, but at least it's in the sunshine right now!

Could get into this commuting malarky.  Plans to get back on it Friday, and some optimistic soul which evidence suggests must have been a pre Christmas me seems to already have stacked the locker at work with clean underwear and work tops.  Who was that woman?

Summer time

... and the living is easy.  But before I wander off humming Gershwin classics to myself, let me offer up a little praise to the possibly temporary arrival of a British summer (we all know what this means don't we).

There is  no avoiding it, this week is prime cycling to work weather, and the excuses are becoming rapidly more flimsy.  So transparent in fact that last night I admitted it to myself, I was going to need to cycle in or accept that I am simply no longer a bike commuter.  So tyres were pumped (unlike the owner) on the hybrid, pannier was stuffed with spare inner tubes and tyre levers and basically I was committed.

Put out all kinds of appropriate biking clothing last night.  Then this morning got out of bed and ignored all my carefully selected baggy trousers and microfleece type top in favour of a simple T-shirt and cycling shorts.  Yes, cycling shorts.  Lycra as an outer layer.  Lycra.  Me.  All those wobbly bits on display.  Suffice it to say I slunk out of the house avoiding the eyes of the mountain bike as I quietly wheeled out the hybrid.

Ah, the joy of the bike ride.  Instead of sitting in traffic jams in the car fiddling with the heater / air con to try to get the temperature right, instead of changing radio channel every five minutes to avoid arguing people but still find out what's happening in the world, instead of being in such interminably slow traffic that my left buttock starts to ache from the clutch change. Instead of all this I was in control of my commute, and my lungs were pumping, my legs were hurting, I was doing this.  Then something happened which never happens in the car.  At red lights I chatted.  Another cyclist came up from behind.  He nodded and smiled.  I nodded then smiled.  And the lights stayed red.  And I opened conversation, he reciprocated.  Two miles later on we were still cycling side by side chatting.  Ahem.  He was chatting.  I was panting somewhat.  And it just wouldn't happen in the car and I saw that it was good.

"One of these mornin's, you're gonna rise up singin'; You're gonna spread your wings And take to the sky."

Humming.

Dog - Rabbit

Let the dog see the rabbit.  What on the earth is it with my mindset, why when I see another cyclist ahead who is without lycra and road bike do I get the bit between my teeth and start to stalk.  Seriously I focus on nothing else other than the rider at 50 to 100 yards ahead.  My body position changes, my shoulders move inwards, my cadence gradually increases, I may even add a gear on and push a little harder.  And it's measured, incredibly measured.  There is no unseemly rush or sprint, it's a gradual gentle stealth approach but the acceleration is there, quiet, gradual and sustainable.  I want that rider's scalp.  Fortunately for me this morning the prey animal turned off to the left before I snuck into their wheel.  I say fortunately because I was definitely feeling yesterday's brave towing effort in my glutes, in my thighs, in my knees, in my lungs ... need I go on. 

It's a good feeling though, the reminder that yesterday I really put something into it.  Because that feeling alone tells me that this is a future gain, the effort of yesterday will reap its fitness reward in days to come.  I hope.  Does it work like that?  I don't know, but I sure as hell am enjoying fooling myself into believing it.

I was overtaken 6 times on my journey to work this morning.  Hopelessly left behind, feeling like the mature lady I am as the lycra clad men, and one bearded guy on a similar straight handlebars number to my own cruised on by.  I felt old, unfit and frankly a little despondent.  Will I ever be able to effortlessly ride at that pace?  How do people get to that point?  Is the bike important?  Is it truly, all about the bike?

Woman's pride

Pride is a scary thing.  Or is it a closet competitive nature which is bursting out of me in middle age.  If so, where the hell was it in my early twenties when perhaps it could have been of some use, maybe even helped to make me a career woman instead of a steadily cruising secretarial type.

The ride home today I planned on taking it easy, and the plan started badly.  First set of lights and there in front of me in my sights is a woman on a road bike.  She looks young and slim and fit, and suddenly I feel like I'm in the Tour de France, that rider who's hanging off the back of the bunch, with the unattainable goal of regaining the peleton too far ahead to be reached.  But nonetheless, as though she is a magnet I try on the long level stretch of road to make up the distance and get onto her back wheel.  Eventually I do, but in honesty am then relieved when we go separate ways as frankly that was hard work. 

I make it through the city centre without incident, but there at the lights at the bottom of Liverpool Road something unusual happens.  There, in the cyclist stop box are three other cyclists.  I assess their general appearance, clothing, age, weight, bike, and position myself where I feel I should be in the lineup.  It's a tricky and delicate thing this, and male pride could get involved.  Basically I don't want to find I've placed myself immediately behind someone who is a dawdler as opportunities to safely overtake will be few and far between and that's just plain frustrating.  Also, I don't want to put someone else in that position of having to hang behind me waiting their chance to carry on and get on with their own journey home. Tricky, eh?  Here in particular the men and the boys get separated.  It's a long uphill drag with a steeper lip at the top just before reaching lights.  Doing this at my own pace is crucial for my survival!

I place myself second in the lineup.  Behind the tall skinny guy in red lycra but ahead of the 50ish year old in jeans.  There's also a guy on a mountain bike, probably my age, not wearing lycra, carrying a couple of pounds perhaps but not obese.  I take the chance that superiority of steed will win me the day.  This turns out to be a good assessment of ability.  The guy in jeans is lost behind all of us.  I can't get on the wheel of red lycra man, and although MTB guy is obviously present behind me (I can hear him panting) it seems to work out.  A mile later though, he's still kind of there.  He gets dropped, gets back on, gets dropped, gets back on.  We chat at the lights and he smiles and comments about making me do all the work.  I narrow my eyes "yes, so I saw" I say cheekily.  Then we're off again.  Problem though with knowing that I have someone working his pants off to stay on my wheel is I feel I have to keep going.  And going.  And going.  For me this is a long sustained effort, because I'm really trying, there's no slacking here.  3 miles of this and eventually he goes his own way.

But what was it made me try harder because I knew he was there?  It felt more like an effort to not hold him up than an effort to demonstrate superiority.  Whatever it was, I'm pooped!

Nearly Naked

Such a nice day, that not only did I decide to cycle into work once again but paused half way through dressing ... and stopped.  It felt really strange to have the lycra shorts as my outer layer instead of adding on a pair of baggy shorts or 3/4 length trousers as camouflage.  Add to that the T-shirt without a wind stopper of any variety and I felt I had left the house in the buff.  As a general rule, vanity prevents me from exposing my hind quarters to the world without adequate covering, but sod it, it's early when I set off and who's to see?

Cycled through the city centre today which is the route I do generally only when the fighting spirit and vigilance is at the top of its game.  To get through the city you have to be prepared to be a little bit nippy at the lights and a little bit assertive, a lot confident, decisive and very very clear about your intentions.  No car driver must be left in doubt as to what you're doing, and to make sure that's the case ... well, you too need to be sure of what you're doing, and that means taking on board all the information possible rapidly to make that decision and having the fast twitch ready to do what's needed.  Balance and strong indication are pretty key too.  The world of city centre commuting is very mean to those who hesitate and I don't want to have a fit and healthy corpse.

But before 8am the city centre is fairly mellow.  Enough other cyclists about so the car drivers are already attuned to the possibilities of bike riders, and enough people on foot stepping out in front of cars (and cyclists) to make sure everyone is on their toes for the preservation of life and dignity.  Well, maybe not so much the dignity in the lycra shorts.

Beautiful morning

It doesn't feel like I've been on the bike for a bit, although I would guess less than a week.  That's the oddness of not cycling at the weekend when I opted to take the walking boots with me rather than the bike.

So this morning in glorious sunshine I'm back in the saddle, and I'm loving it. The commute to work is perfection, the hills are just enough work, not too much, not too little, the lights appear to be green, there may even be birds singing (although I suspect perhaps not in the suburbs of Salford).  I note just one near death incident, which on a daily commute is the average, and four  miles into the journey I sit up and smile.  Grin in fact.  At the same point where last week driving in the car I was waving my fist with a heart rate increased through anger I'm smiling, relaxed and remembering what a wonderful way this is to travel.

Easy Rider

Blimey I'm a crabby old cow.  Drove to work today after two days of cycle commuting.  The reason (or excuse, make your own judgment) is because tonight is book club night and me, accompanied by the Complete Works of Shakespeare had places to go after work, and then a journey home at 9pm ish.  Somehow, though, the two days of cycling to work have turned me into the most angry motorist imaginable.  I hated the drive in.  The whole time I am prevented from moving up to the 30mph speed limit by congestion.  Every set of lights is red, and at every set the queues are so long I watch two changes before we can finally move.  Other car drivers are indecisive, or stop abruptly in front of me or get into the wrong lanes or just generally act like cretins, and I spend my journey staring frustrated at other people's exhausts.

It's the cycling that's done it.  On the bike I'm always at what passes for top speed (which for me, not so fast), nothing is ever in my way, red lights happen and I stop but never ever ever have to sit through more than one change of the lights.  If car drivers are acting like cretins it affects me much less because I'm so much slower, not dependant on most of their actions and basically only being vigilant for those who edge too near the kerb or do the usual stupid move where they overtake the cyclist and turn left (this is a daily occurrence on the bike) causing me to brake / swerve / feel heart rate rise.

In the car, however, the calm cyclist who just focusses on her own journey becomes a raving nutter lunatic who shouts, who waves her fist in the air even, and is generally a rather assertive driver.  She's not nice.  Realisations like this make me think hard about cycling to work more often, but then, there's always the excuses ...

Audience Participation

There was me thinking cycling to work was a solitary occupation.  The kind of thing poets and philosophers might happily participate in.  Long periods of no company but your own, in your own world, free to muse on the accumulation of litter around the Lower Broughton McDonalds, free to consider the state of the pot holes and drainage as you circle Cheetham Hill and to contemplate the permanent all season puddle along the Alan Turing Way.

Imagine, therefore, my surprise at finding my ride from work was in fact a spectator participation event.  There I am, minding my own business, pedalling steadily away through the roads around the Salford Student Village, being mindful of progress across the roundabout in readiness for the one and only minor uphill on the way home when suddenly, there it is.  A shout.  A coach style "Pick it up" is yelled at me from the side of the road.  And indeed I do pick it up, because that was the plan anyway.  Still, nice to feel part of something bigger.

This morning, in  honour of the start of British Summer time (I believe the finish is next week) I am wearing light weight walking shorts over my lycra.  Do not be fooled, this was not through some misplaced belief the weather would actually be sunny.  Indeed it related more to an anticipation of rain.  The lightweight shorts will not flap like sodden sails around my legs when the rain starts and in showers will be quick drying too.  But short they are, and the shortness is noticed.  Hoots happen.

Stopping traffic

Cool.  Not done this for a long time.  Stopped traffic, and not for any wrong reasons (wrong being falling off in front of cars).  Today marks the start of bike to work week.  http://www.bikeweek.org.uk/.  Well, actually I believe yesterday was the official start date but given I only work Monday to Friday today is my official start date.  Despite Saturday's over the handlebars incident I felt cycling in was not just an option but positively desirable, given the clement weather and the need to keep going on the fitness work.

So dressed in pink, off I go on the hybrid bike heavily weighted down by the pannier bag of clothing to change into on arrival at work.  A bit of gravity keeping me on the ground was, methinks, desirable.  The Aldi bright pink women's cycling softshell jacket is a wonderful thing, mostly for its visibility to traffic, and its indication that the rider is female.  I find motorists have a very different attitude towards me wearing this to wearing my mundane grey.  I strongly suspect they give women a bit of a wider berth and perhaps some polite distance and respect, maybe seeing us as more vulnerable and in need of protection.  Whatever the reason, I like the result.

Turns out it's quite a warm morning and at a handy set of red lights I proceed to begin the striptease.  The lights go green and to my amusement the driver next to me is watching me undress as opposed to watching the lights and it's only when I turn to make eye contact with him and gesture in the direction of the lights he continues on his journey.  I finish stripping off the bright pink, and I'm down to the pale pink clinging T with the words "Shakin' my arse" on the back.  Love this T-shirt dearly.  But yes, I stopped traffic.  Me.  At 42.

White Van

Imagine my surprise.  Hooted at by a white van.  Not, to my amazement in a get out of my way cycling filth fashion but as a tribute to my legs.  Well, that's the way it came across to me anyway.  A man of discernment one imagines, particularly given my chosen costume for the commute.

Heavy old hybrid, baggy top and unfeasibly baggy shorts.  Lost a bit of weight since I invested in those.  Altogether quietly happy to hear it.  It's a long time since I attracted any kind of whistle or cat call, and there's a certain age over which these things are welcome rather than irritating.  I do realise though that some women could find this intimidating, aggressive, or threatening, and ponder over what an appropriate reaction would be given the bigger picture.  However, I can only react as I react which is to smile to myself, not turn around, and just continue with my two wheel journey.

No overtaking

Word from the physio yesterday for my journey home yesterday evening was no overtaking.  Condemned to take it easy and to amble home avoiding jolting pains going through my lower back.  No easy task with standing starts from red lights being incredibly different as any pressure going through the left leg gave a jarring pain through that back muscle.  Very ouchy indeed.  No out of saddle, no hard acceleration; instead a sedate and somewhat boring journey.

Of my two routes home from work on the bike, one is a frenetic city centre ride, always on the alert for cars doing unexpected things without signalling.  Do I hear people gasp at the thought that car drivers could ever ever ever do something so imperfect?  Well, yes, they do.  It involves several forced lane changes where I have to move right to the straight on lane or of course turn right by getting across lanes, and this requires me to have good control, to be looking and listening all the time and ready to make a dash for it.  The back isn't permitting making dashes safely and in comfort.  So instead I take the meandering route round the city outskirts, and the most complicated moment is ... well, actually there were no complicated moments.  Eased my bike and my back home where I took the physio's advice of hot bath, hot water bottle, and ad libbed by adding a muscle relaxing glass of red wine all of my own prescription.

Too competitive

Today I am sat at my desk with a heated wheat bag snuggling around my lower back.  And similar to having a hangover this is a self-inflicted injury and therefore, by rights, I cannot complain!

I get more peeved on the bike than I ever do driving the car where I am a peaceful patient, laissez faire kind of a driver.  It peeves me to see other cyclists disobeying the rules of the road.  Specifically, riding through red lights.  It doesn't make any sense to me at all.

So, this morning, a younger gent on a Cannondale bike walzes past me at red lights, waits briefly at the junction and then moves forwards across a lane at a time, all the while the lights are on red.  And I see red.  I see him accelerate, I see him reach cruising speed, the lights are now green and I change up a gear, I press on the pedals and suddenly there I am, in pursuit.  I hover behind him, assessing his speed, decide that if I overtake him I can indeed continue to pull away and will not simply die a death and have the humiliation of him accelerating past me.  And I do it.  I'm dressed in pink.  At the lights he's waved at a mate of his in the traffic queue.  We have witnesses.  Hopefully his nuts shrivelled as the move played out.

Later on, he did of course move past me again at red lights, and stay ahead as he went through two more sets of red lights.  But the moral high ground is all mine.

Oh, and I seem to have slightly pulled a back muscle in my moment of chimped up competitiveness, but all is well, the physio has laughed at me, advised and loaned out the hot wheat bag thingy.

Stay Safe

The cry of cyclists to each other following another cycling fatality on the roads is Stay Safe.  And we try.  An erstwhile work colleague of mine died on Thursday while riding home with a friend on their bikes.  The jungle drums have it that he was hit from behind by a car with a teenage driver. 

Friday was a day in shock for the office.  Rob was my age and leaves a wife and child. He was one of nature's good guys, time for everyone.  He was a very experienced cyclist, one that taught others how to do it safely and well, and definitely not on for a testosterone rush.  The rumour has it the car didn't see him.  Rob was over 6 foot and did not run to leanness.  Hard to miss in the office, why so hard to miss on the road.

It's frightening to less skilful riders like myself to realise that someone who would be reasonably described as one of the safest guys on the road could die, just like that, on the scene.  It would presumably take some shunt to kill a giant like Rob on the spot.  He always seemed solid.

If I hadn't cycled to work Friday when the news broke and therefore had limited choices about getting on the bike home it's highly probable I'd be thinking more than just twice about commuting on the bike again.  If it could happen to Rob then surely it's more than likely to happen to me.  So, stay safe out there people, stay safe.

Being brave

Do something each day that scares you, they say.  Whoever they might be.  Generally I laugh scornfully at such a statement and respond "what, just one thing?".  So I am very much aware of my tendencies to be a wuss.  It's been really really windy recently.

This simply won't do said the nasty parent state inside me (Berne's transactional analysis model has a lot to answer for http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Transactional_analysis).  So after much internal wrangling on Tuesday night I got the bike out, just to see what it felt like to be a little out of control and at risk of wind blown diversions from the straight and narrow.  Just a short trip, a killing two birds with one stone thing (there we go, another of those common phrases), by doing the two mile trip to the allotment on the bike.  Wanting the trip to be a success, I dressed with care, even donning the winter bike tights (it's nearly June for pity's sake), and a windproof softshell.  And it was fine.  Turns out the commuter bike is built like a tank and it would take one hell of a wind to blow something that weight off track.  Job done.

So, Wednesday did see me back on the bike again on the work commute, possibly over dressed for the time of year, but I got out there, and I did it, and nobody died.