Written back in December, before it all changed (but more on that when I can find the time)….
The night creeps in stealthily, before 3pm the skies begin to darken and the garden begins to drift into a dreary monochrome. Still air begins to chill, suddenly, and as I stand on the patio the tendrils of cold reach across the ground and up into my body. It’s Sunday evening – in the morning i’ll be back at my desk, too busy for cycling – so it’s not a hard decision to make – “I think i’ll pop out on my bike for a little while this evening darling, that OK?”….
With fatherly duties half discharged it’s 5pm before I retrieve my bike from the garage. Night has fallen now, and outside the road is a dusty grey, with an orange aura from the street lights highlighting the imperfections in the tarmac.
Through a lack of repetition the ritual of preparing for a ride is gradually deserting me, I sometimes find myself heading out for a ride without inner tubes, or water bottle, and on this occasion it is my eyewear that I have forgotten. It’s a strange feeling to have the air against my eye – having spent the last 25 years wearing glasses for everyday use and always teaming contact lenses with clear lens glasses – it’s like riding without a helmet, or without clipless pedals. Strangely I feel closer to my surroundings – more in contact with the elements…
As I head into the country lanes I fire up my bike light. Not the flimsy, pathetic glow, of the bike lights of my childhood, but a blazing modern LED lamp. The beam bounces from road signs two or three hundred yards up the road and illuminates my path perfectly. Unnervingly the beam is so intense it casts a heavy shadow in my peripheral vision, giving the constant impression of a gloomy figure pacing me throughout the ride…
As I toil up the first incline the beam sways and weaves across the road in front of me. My gaze focuses close to my front wheel – watching out for potholes or debris. As the road levels out I lift my head and begin to scan my surroundings. Riding near the coast limits the view in certain directions, but the strange paradox of night is that distant flickering lights belie the existence of hitherto unknown settlements. Across the estuary, hours away by bike, they seem so close I could almost reach out and touch them…
Steadily I grind onwards, occasionally crossing busier routes where the steady stream of cars provides a pool of light, but largely riding through silent, darkened country lanes…
It’s incredible how awkward the body feels when doing something unfamiliar. And shocking how that can apply to something previously so intuitive. Previously I would throw the bike into a bend – a supreme confidence in my ability to navigate the turn – but now the subtle feedback from the changing road surface makes me nervous and cautious. Contact points with the bike become sore and ache far more quickly than they used to – the soreness of leg muscles progresses in tandem with aching neck and forearms.
In spite of this I have incredibly lucid moments of connection with a time that seems long ago. A clarity of recognition as I recall winter rides from previous years. The smell of the cold – the sting of cool drizzle on my face – the eerie quiet of a rural lane. Most satisfyingly – the biting chill of cold air into the lungs every time I make an effort up a climb. There’s nothing more satisfying than making an investment in training. For all that cycling can be a thankless master – never allowing you to be as quick as you’d like – it is fair in the rewards it provides: put in an effort this time, you’ll go a little quicker next time…
Call it sentimentality, call it nostalgia: being out ‘training’ feels good. It’s not enough to take me back to racing – or even to club rides (which is a whole other story) – but i’m certainly becoming more inspired to ride.
meandthemountain 