2 Wheels, 4 Legs: a Study in Attitudes

Since the very start of this blog I have shared random, at times ludicrous thoughts about pets and bicycles. But never have I been around such a large number of animals as now that I live in rural Northern Ireland. From being held up by bovine traffic jams, to getting my bicycle grips eaten by shameless Shetlands, to herding wayward lambs, to being herded myself, I've had enough experience with animals on my bike to last a lifetime. What interests me about the whole thing, is the mere fact that animals react to bikes in the first place. For instance, when I pass a sheep, horse or cow on my bike, I could swear that they pay more attention and study me more intently then were I to pass on foot or in a car. Perhaps this is because the hybrid two wheeled beast is a relative novelty for them, and thus warrants a closer look that the beasts they are familiar with. Or perhaps it's because animals, with their natural instincts, know a good thing when they see it. Would it be taking things too far to suggest a look of wistfulness comes over their faces as I roll past? 

Okay, maybe. All the same, certain patterns of behaviour are fascinating to observe - in particular among felines and canines. I live next door to a farm that is home to a handful of dogs and at least 40 barn cats. Whenever I ride, photograph, wash, maintain, or even park a bicycle outside my house, a good few of them come out to get involved. The dogs' behaviour in these circumstance is that of would-be participants. If I ride, they want to come along. If I work on the bike, they want to help. If I take photos they volunteer themselves as models or even try to paw the camera as if to advise on settings and composition. They are like that hapless, enthusiastic brand of intern every employer dreads, whose eagerness to help is matched only by their talent for getting in the way. And, hard as I try to explain that I do not require assistance in this particular project, they remain undeterred until they run out of energy and wander away on their own accord, off to pursue the next thing to catch their attention.

The cats, on the other hand, seem to think their job is to evaluate the machine. Whereas the dogs communicate joy at the sight of any bike that appears in front of them, the cats express caution and extreme skepticism. "What is this thing you've brought here? Better stand back till I examine it."   

And with an air of a put-upon expert who is nonetheless ethically committed to doing a job thoroughly, they circle the bike in slow motion, meticulously examining every inch, rubbing and sniffing and furrowing their brow as if taking copious mental notes, until finally they express readiness to pass judgment upon it. And that judgment is rarely simple in nature. Oh they have something to say about the bike, you can be sure of that. Question is, can you be counted on to comprehend their profound findings? "Pssht, why do I even bother," the cat's face finally says. And with an air of mild disgust the feline expert strolls away unhurriedly - returning every now and again to supervise, just in case you totally mess up whatever silly thing it is you are planning to do with this piece of equipment. "Certainly this job is beneath me," says the peevish flick of their whiskers, "But if I don't help you, who will? Certainly not that cretin, the dog..." 

Beach Cycling and Its Contents

For years I've dreamt of combining two activities I love: riding my bike and swimming in the sea. Considering that Boston was right on the water, cycling to the beach proved a surprisingly elusive goal during my time there, with successful two-wheeled beach trips few and far between. But now that I live practically on the shore I am determined to make the most of it. 

But what are beaches like in Northern Ireland, you might ask with a suspicious shudder - picturing scenes of frigid waters and relentless winds, clusters of pallid holiday-makers in ponchos shivering on soggy sand as black clouds loom overhead. Well, in reality it isn't nearly that bad. For instance, when I first came here I was told it was too cold to swim without a wet suit. Foolishly, I believed this and didn't even try to go in the water at first. Then one hot day I walked in the waves and discovered the water was perfectly within the boundaries of what is considered swimmable in Northern New England! Not quite lukewarm, but not ice cold either - with a good half hour of swimming possible before cramping sets in and limbs begin turning blue. And to top it off, it is sunny nearly every day! Not for the entire day of course, but more like for an hour at a time in between bouts of fog and rain, but let's not be nitpicky here. Summer is here and the beach trips have commenced!

Though technically I live right on the water, the nearest official beach - staffed with lifeguards and lacking in dangerous riptides (well, relatively speaking) - is 3.5 miles away. It's a pleasant ride that can be accomplished on almost any bicycle. The easiest is to ride my Brompton, with its bottomless pit of a front basket into which I can throw anything a beachgoer could desire, laptop and portable wifi unit included. But really any bike that will accommodate a large Carradice-style saddlebag will do, and sometimes a faster bike can be more fun. 

On the bike I wear my regular street clothes, with shoes that are easy to slip on and off and underwear that can pass for a swimsuit. Some time ago I discovered that wool underwear - both short and long - feels amazing to wear in the water, keeping me warmer than an ordinary swimsuit would. The wet wool also keeps me cozy once I get out of the water, and begins to dry relatively quickly. When I'm ready to leave, I just put my clothes back on over it and pedal home. Even if the wool is still damp, this feels surprisingly okay - nothing like cycling in a soggy synthetic swimsuit or wet cotton underwear. And being able to do this eliminates need to deal with the logistics of changing or transporting a soggy swimsuit by bike (though the latter is not especially complicated - just wring it out and use a plastic bag).

The rest of things I bring along, I will wrap in a towel - starting with the fragile stuff first, so that it's surrounded by the most padding. 

This makes for a neat bundle that can then simply be stuffed in a bike bag or basket, with everything held in place and not bouncing around too much. 

And voila: Beach bag and beach bike. Heaven!

I've been to the beach plenty of times this summer already, and though it isn't quite warm enough to submerge myself fully yet (oh yes it is! finally swam after writing this post) I find just spending time there - reading, writing, photographing, living -  to be boundlessly enjoyable, and all the more so if I come and go by bike. There is something about cycling down a sunbaked road, in anticipation of smelling the salt, seeing the waves, and touching the sand with my bare feet, that makes for an out of this world experience. True, Ireland isn't exactly a tropical island. But something this good is best in measured doses, and worth getting rained on once and again… and again!

Rand-O'Clock

A brevet is not a race. This is a thing that randonneurs are ever eager to remind us of, a fact that they repeat with conviction - particularly when enticing newcomers. And technically it is true. We are given a time limit to complete a brevet, and on the surface the time allotted seems plentiful: If we pace ourselves and make a reasonable effort, we can enjoy the scenery and the camaraderie, even grab a meal or two. But no matter how we spin it, a brevet is not a leisure ride and it's not a tour; it is not a free-form meander or a spontaneous frolic. It is a timed event that requires strict adherence to a route. The map is our indispensable guide. And the clock is our constant companion. 

Doing a ride on the clock is an altogether different experience from cycling that is not timed. On the clock, things have a way of coming into sharper focus. The present attains a simplicity and clarity; it becomes more concentrated. What's in front of us and inside us reveals itself in the finest of detail, the periphery fading away. We discover things about our bicycles and bodies that surprise us, even if we're far from novice cyclists. We gain new insights into our speed, strength, style of cycling, energy fluctuations, nutritional needs, even our moods and our character. 

Why does the presence of a timer, a self-imposed stressor, do these things to us on a bicycle ride? Because we're human. It is really no more complicated than that. And it's what makes randonneuring challenging, exciting, frustrating, fulfilling and addictive. 

I began this summer with a 300K brevet and will probably do a couple others, same distance or shorter, in the near future. But inherent to randonneuring is the pressure to "advance" to longer distances, making such a plan seem rather unambitious. What about a 400K? If I did a 300K out of the gate, surely I am ready to try the next distance.

Giving this some consideration, I thought again of my companion the clock. Based on the 300K and on self-timed rides I've done before it and after, I know that my overall average (not to be confused with rolling average) over long distances with significant climbs is around 10.5mph. That's above the roughly 9.5mph minimum required to complete a brevet. But it's not enough to relax and enjoy myself on these events. It also means that I spend way more time on the bike over a given distance than a speedier cyclist - creating more opportunities to develop fatigue, aches and pains, and various other problems - physical, mechanical, and logistical. 

Consider, for instance, cycling in the dark. A rider fit enough to complete a summertime 300K in sufficiently few hours to finish before dusk will not have to deal with the issue at all. A rider who is not, will face this extra challenge. Same goes for sleep deprivation on the longer distance brevets.

According to some seasoned randonneurs I've talked to lately, the 400K is a pivotal distance precisely for that reason. Compared to the shorter brevets, it is new territory. A make you or break you distance. A wild card. And much will depend on the rider's fitness, on how many hours those 250-odd miles will translate to.

Mary of Chasing Mailboxes describes a 400K she recently completed on tandem, in 20 hours. It's a number that made me want to cry and laugh simultaneously, reminding me of just how great the discrepancy between myself and most randonneurs I encounter truly is. Mary's performance means that, purely time-wise, her 400K experience was more like my 300K, which I completed in 18 hours 45 minutes. Can I handle a brevet where I'm on the bike 1 hour and 15 minutes longer than the longest time I've spent on the bike so far? Yes, I think I can. But realistically, a 400K is likely to take me 25 hours and I'm not sure my body and mind can handle all that time on the bike quite yet. I'd like to try a 400K some day, but I'd rather do it when I'm fit enough to complete it within a shorter timespan. 

When cyclists discuss their readiness to handle a particular brevet, I notice they tend to speak solely in terms of distance. But as I dip my toe deeper into the murky waters of randonneuring, I come to feel that thinking of it in terms of time makes at least as much sense. The clock is my constant companion,  and it does not let me forget.

Shelter From the Storm

The other day I was cycling with a friend when it began to rain fiercely. An admitted fair weather cyclist, he suggested we stop and shelter under a canopy of trees until the downpour's intensity lessened. I explained that I thought this a bad idea. Stopping on the side of the road in chilly weather when already soaked and sweaty, we would only grow colder and more uncomfortable. Rather than shiver under those dubious trees, why not continue pedaling - say, to the nearest shop or cafe, if he really wanted out of the rain. Luckily we were close to a village, and soon enough we were enjoying the cozy interior of a filling station shop, watching the rain taper off over vending machine coffee. My companion seemed happy enough that we'd gone with my suggestion.

"Not bad," he said biting into a gooey bun. "But where do you shelter when you're out in the middle of nowhere?"

"Shelter?" It was the third time he used the word and I realised that this notion, so apparently normal to him, was not something I'd ever given much thought to. "I don't shelter from rain; I just go on with the ride!"

Fast forward to this morning, and I was ready to eat my words. Cycling alone and yes, in the middle of nowhere, I got caught in one of those flash floods - a wall of rain so dense the visibility was next to nothing; water on the road so deep I could dip my toe in on the downstroke. God knows how, but this water carried with it a rather strong current, pushing my bike in its desired direction - which was off the side of the road - as I strove to progress forward. In this manner we battled, until finally I was forced to admit defeat when a tractor came close to crossing paths with me under this waterfall, careening wildly around the bend through deep water. Cycling in these conditions wasn't safe; I had to stop until this blew over. But where?!

One interesting feature of the Irish landscape is the abundance of derelict buildings in various states of dilapidation. Like a scattered flock of unkempt, emaciated sheep, these structures pepper the landscape with an air of resignation, gray crumpling stonework peeking out of green weedy chokeholds. Their presence, while sad under ordinary circumstances, becomes a happy occasion for a cyclist in need of a bathroom stop. And so it was now that I needed shelter from the storm. Stepping over a thicket of nettles, I dragged my bike and myself through the doorless entryway and stood in the dank interior watching the road outside turn into a river. I do not have a plan for sheltering from bad weather, rarely finding myself in situations so bad I can't pedal through. But as life likes to remind us from time to time, anything can happen. Should cyclists have a strategy for this sort of thing?

Twenty minutes later it was over, and, in the feeble sunshine, I was back on my bike, contemplating this quick burst of celestial violence as I cycled home. Sticking out from under my helmet, my two soggy braids made a "thwack" sound as they hit my shoulders every time I shook my head in disbelief.

Visceral Entertainment

When we glamourise urban transportation cycling, a favourite fantasy activity of this genre is cycling to the theater. A civilised evening out and you can do it on a bike! Oh my. Wistfully we picture elegant sophisticates pedaling stately steeds unhurriedly, their tranquil faces luminous in the neon glow of storefront signs. 

Meanwhile, there I was… bracing against the headwind, sweat streaming down my face, as I cycled 7 miles past endless fields stuffed with grazing sheep, the smell of freshly spread manure filling the evening air. Ah, rural cycling at its finest. A civilised evening out and you can do it on a bike! 

At last, and only slightly worse for wear, I arrived in the tiny town of Limavady to see the much-recommended Flesh and Blood Women. The community arts center where the play was staged has this multi-purpose room that makes for an intimate auditorium, with the audience clustered close to the stage. When I walked in, the place was packed. The only available seat that offered a decent view was in the front row. I took it. And, as the lights dimmed and the performance began, I found myself face to face with the actress delivering the first monologue. 

I have seen my share of plays, but it's been a while since I'd seen one in a venue this small, sitting this closely to the stage. I had almost forgotten that, when a play is good, the physical presence of the actors is so viscerally engaging as to be overwhelming. It is as if a real event unfolds in our presence. We don't just watch it happen; we feel it happen.  

The actress in front of me was so very there I could see her eyes tear up, her forehead glisten with sweat and her calf muscles twitch as she paced in stiletto heels. I could feel the force of her breath when she spoke. Her emotions vibrated and these vibrations in turn resonated through my own body. Weakened and relaxed by the physical effort of having cycled into town, I found myself especially receptive to this stage presence physicality. There was a rawness to watching the play that matched my own state of being.

Feeling all this, I could not help but recall the previous week, when a friend and I had driven to see a movie. These experiences were parallel, but so interestingly different. Seeing a movie on a screen versus seeing a play, and driving versus cycling. In one there is a degree of separation introduced that dampens the visceral and makes for a more detached, abstract experience. In many ways, this is a more comfortable way to be - to travel, to observe, to seek entertainment. There is privacy, protection. There is a reduction in effort. But in spite of this - or perhaps because of it - it cannot pack a punch as strong as direct experience. 

Riveted by the persons on stage in front of me, I hear the final click of their heels as they leave the stage and imagine pedaling home in the cool country night. What a strange and visceral entertainment. 

Long-Term Review: Vulpine Women's Rain Trousers and Jacket

When we think of rain gear for cycling, we tend to imagine technical, slippery garments designed for the very specific purpose of keeping dry in wet conditions. These garments do the job. And we can't wait to peel them off once the rain ends. But what of those of us who live and ride in climes where rain never really "ends" as such? where precipitation is the norm, and not a special occasion? Are we to resign ourselves to permanent clamminess under plasticky shells? Are we to shiver under the oppressive weight of soggy tweeds? 

"Heavens forbid," says British apparel manufacturer Vulpine. "We've made some Epic Cotton (™!) rainwear for this very predicament. And it even looks stylish off the bike." 

"Oh Vulpine. You with your quirky social media presence and your heady claims. I'll believe it when I try it for myself." 

And that is how a parcel landed on my doorstep last Autumn containing items from the new Vulpine women's range (read about the men's in this earlier post as well as here): a pair of women's Cotton Rain Trousers and an Original Rain Jacket. Admittedly I took my sweet time testing these garments. Autumn turned to Winter and Winter to Spring, and before I knew it summer was around the corner. Of course, this being Northern Ireland, it has rained continually. 

After months of wear, I remain unsure of how to describe the Vulpine Rain Jacket. It is flattering and comfortable, it's kept me dry in the rain, and has all sorts of cycling-specific features that I'll list in a bit. But beyond that there is just something about it - can jackets have auras? - that makes for an overall effect beyond the sum of its parts. On the bike or off, I don't mind saying this jacket feels fricking lovely.

The cotton fabric has a soft texture to it that is pleasant to the touch. The "Epic" treatment (read about it here) really does make it water-repellant and resistant (as defined by keeping me dry for up to 4 hours in a downpour; haven't tried longer). Available in the military green shown here (which is more like a soft sage) or indigo, this jacket is designed for both dry and wet weather, and rated for temperatures 8-18°C. The fit feels true to size, I am a UK size 10 (US size 4) and the Small fits me well.

The tailoring I would describe as military meets biker, relying on a combination of darting and drawcords to give the jacket structure.

At the same time there is a drapeyness that softens the look, the flowy quality of the fabric an interesting contrast to the square shoulders and crisp standup collar.

Large zipper pockets with magnet-closure flaps have somehow been achieved without adding bulk to the waistline. A slew of additional interior and sleeve-side pockets offer more storage opportunities, again without compromising the flattering silhouette.

A removable hi-viz "splash guard" flap with reflective detailing can be released or stowed away (I never use it, but for those who like this sort of thing - it is indeed highly visible: "Like a baboon's bottom!" according to the delighted remark of a cycling companion).

A subtly placed vent over the shoulder blades provides ventilation. And extra length in the rear and in the sleeves provides good coverage even in a drop bar position, without looking out of place off the bike. Neither do the subtle reflective bits at the shoulders and sleeve cuffs look overly cycling-specific.

On the bike, the best thing about the jacket is that it does not pull or constrain in any way - the cut allows for excellent freedom of movement while appearing sleek and tailored. In cool weather the jacket regulates temperature adequately even on spirited rides, though I would not wear it in temps above 75°F.

Over the months I've tested it, I have found the Vulpine Women's Original Rain Jacket surprisingly versatile. I have worn it on commutes, on long photo expeditions and on road rides, as well as off the bike altogether. I have worn it with cycling clothes, with casual clothes, even with dresses and high heels. In cool temperatures, I find the weight and breathability to be well suited for both casual and sporty cycling, regardless of whether it's raining or not. The one major drawback as far as versatility, is that the jacket is too bulky to stow away in a jersey pocket or even in a small handlebar/saddle bag, which limits its usefulness in a roadcycling context.

While the Vulpine Original Rain Jacket has many useful features to recommend it, in truth my fondness for it has just as much to do with its overall je ne sais quoi. It is one of the more interesting articles of clothing I have worn in some time. It looks lovely, feels lovely, and has become a wardrobe staple.

Alas, I cannot say the same for the Rain Trousers (available in the indigo shown here and in sahara - a light khaki). Ever on the lookout for a good pair of cycling-friendly trousers, I wanted to like these things, but they are just not for me. The fabric seems to be the same as that of the jacket, but somehow feels stiffer in use. As far as fit, perhaps the problem is my large behind, which makes these trousers sit all wrong - unflatteringly baggy around the abdomen and hips, but tight across the butt.

The high-waisted tapered leg design doesn't do me any favours either, giving my figure a dated, lumpy look. I can picture these trousers looking good on girls with willowy, boyish figures, creating curves where they do not already exist. But big-bottomed girls, beware!...

In theory, the adjustable waist and ankles of the Rain Trousers are useful features. However, for me they only exaggerate the unflattering fit mentioned earlier.

Ditto with the enormous front pockets, which tend to bunch up inside the front of the trouser legs.

The front pockets and the waistband at the rear flare out uncomfortably when I am on the bike, and while they don't constrain leg movements I can at times feel a pulling sensation suggesting an awkward fit. 

But fit issues aside, there are other aspects of these trousers I am less than enthusiastic about. Firstly, while they are just as water-resistant as the Rain Jacket, they somehow don't feel quite as effective at temperature regulation, despite their 4-20°C rating. Perhaps it's the lack of vents or the fact that, unlike the jacket, they sit directly against the skin. But my legs get hot and clammy when cycling vigorously, even in cool weather. The fabric feels a bit too stiff for pedaling comfort as well. Maybe others will have a different reaction, but I cannot imagine wearing these trousers for anything but casual commuter spins.

To balance out the critical comments with some positive ones, the Vulpine Rain Trousers did get something important right that other manufacturers can't seem to manage: They feature a nice roomy gusset at the crotch and no seams that dig into sensitive areas on the saddle regardless of position on the bike. The reflective bits at the cuffs are also nice, and I daresay these trousers look a bit more flattering as capris with the cuffs turned up. 

As far as durability, I cannot fault either the jacket or trousers after several months of use. Aside from their impressive water-resistant properties, both garments have proven to be stain-resistant and even scuff-resistant. The jacket in particular I've been wearing quite a lot, and it hardly shows signs of use. 

Vulpine designs their clothing to transcend the on/off the bike distinction, as well as to bridge the gap between sport and transport. These in of themselves are tricky endeavours. Add water-resistant properties and women-specific fit to the mix, and they're really asking for trouble! In light of this, to come up with a garment as cool and versatile as the Women's Original Rain Jacket is commendable. And I hope my blunt feedback about the Rain Trousers will not discourage Vulpine from continuing to offer their brave and unique designs. 

Complete picture set of the jacket and trousers here. 

Once There Were Vikings

Over the weekend my pal Bryan visited from Donegal, and he brought along his current daily rider - a 1970s Viking. Chances are, you've never heard of the rather obscure Viking Cycles. But around here they are not uncommon, as they were once produced in Derry, Northern Ireland. This reminds me of a request I've had from bicycle enthusiasts with an interest in the Emerald Isle: to talk about Irish-made bikes. Were there any local manufacturers back in the day? 

The short answer is that Ireland does not have a rich history of bicycle production. There was a handful of framebuilders active in Northern Ireland who made machines to order, and I've been gathering information about them with interest. But as far as manufacturers, large scale or small, my understanding is that there weren't any native to the island. At some point Raleigh opened a factory in Dublin, but they were a huge company with facilities all over the world. Viking Cycles, with their production exclusive to Derry from the 1970s until their demise, might be the closest thing to a local manufacturer. 

Originally an English company, Viking was formed in 1908 (though this is debated) by Alfred Victor Davies in Wolverhampton. By the 1930s they were focused on "lightweights" and began sponsoring racing teams. 

The beautifully lugged race bikes from this era were, by all accounts, of excellent quality, if not especially unique. "You're behind the times if you're not riding Viking!" the adverts from this period proclaimed. 

This went on successfully until the 1960s, when Viking began to decline and eventually folded, its remnants sold to Lambert/Viscount (UK/USA), then Trusty (USA), then possibly to a man named Roy Clements. What happened during this period precisely is not known, but by 1977 Viking Cycles re-emerged as a new company, with production facilities in Northern Ireland. 

Over the course of the year I've been here, I have seen perhaps a dozen NI Vikings, some as part of collections and others "in the wild." The description of these machines as "competent but uninspired bicycles" seems pretty much spot on. A couple of high-end, handbuilt models existed during this period as well, but examples of those show up very rarely.

The Vikings I've seen have been low to mid-range 10-speeds from the late '70s and '80s. The diamond frames and mixtes look well ridden, and by their owners' accounts were decent, no-frills bikes.  

When exactly the Derry-based Viking folded is unclear, but production probably ended by the 1990s and officially the company was dissolved in 2012. Though the brand was hardly legendary, to local bicycle enthusiasts it is significant as a remnant of bicycle manufacturing in Northern Ireland.

The bicycle Bryan brought along is a Viking Superstar 5 - 

- a basic lugged road bike with a single chainring 5-speed drivetrain

operated by a single downtube shifter. 

This bike was rescued from the trash some years back, and Bryan nursed it back to health with some used replacement parts, including a Brooks Competition saddle, a rear wheel to replace the damaged original, and a set of 27 x 1 1/4" tires.

He replaced the original 46t chainring with a 40t to lower the gearing, and fitted some nice blue fenders. I thought these were Bluemel mudguards at first, but they are in fact a lower end alternative -  made by a Scottish company called Bantel. The rich vibrant blue adds some lively accents to the all- silver bike. 

In truth, to come up with much of interest about this machine other than its place of manufacture would be a struggle! But that's all right. It is a handsome bike, and a very ridable bike according to Bryan. He enjoys it as an everyday "user bike," as much as he enjoys knowing it was made just 20 miles from his house. Not many cyclists in Ireland can say that about their bicycle. 

For more information about Viking, visit the V-CC-affiliated Classic Viking Cycles site, as well as this history page from the Transport Museum. Bryan's photos of his bicycles and other things can be found here. The other Viking frames shown in this post come from this collection.