To Roll Softly and Carry a Big Camera

Easter weekend here is stretched into a nearly weeklong holiday of endless sunshine and gleeful business closures. It is quiet. Not in a hushed churchy way. But more in the lazy, sunbaked way of a backwater beach town in the waning days of August. The morning is so bright it could be mid-day. The sun does not set till nearly 9:00 in the evening. Friday gives way to Saturday, then Sunday, with a viscous seamlessness. This weather and this silence are disorienting, making me feel drowsy at random times of the day.

At an hour that could be early morning or could, just as easily, be high noon, I get on my bike and go. I have a route to follow, designed weeks prior in the unlikely event of just such a long lazy day of calm weather. And now I'm glad of it, because my brain is mush from the unexpected solar caresses. And my legs are mush from the too-fast ride done with a friend the day before. For the first time this year I have exposed my ankles and I feel giddy.

Along the main road processions of caravans and trailers flow unhurriedly. Some head toward the seaside caravan park. Others toward the Gliding Club. Their parade is peppered with the occasional car, stuffed with children being driven to football games and egg hunts.

Cycling alongside them gingerly, I am accompanied by honks followed by enthusiastic hand waves from people I know (how did I manage to know so many people here?!), as the sun beats down on us all. And then I turn off the main road, and all signs of life disappear.

On the narrow mountain lanes there are no church bells and no beach goers. No caravans and no carpools. There are no village shops, flaunting traditional Easter closures to capitalise on ice-cream sales. There is no weekday and no weekend. There is no sound, aside from the occasional hum of a distant tractor. There is only an eerie stillness, more noticeable now in the absence of wind.

The rapeseed fields, having blossomed all at once in the week prior, look now like a spillover of sun from the sky. The earth underneath them is scorched and cracked, showing no signs of the water that flooded it only weeks earlier.

Half way up a hill I pass a cricket field, the first sign of activity for miles. As men in white move about a whim bush-framed playing field, Binevenagh Mountain looms in background with an almost ludicrous picturesqueness. I do not know the game, but from the vantage point of my bike I can see it involves at least 2 bat-like objects in use at once. I remind myself to look this up.

Just then a ball flies out of the field and lands on the road beside my wheel, and so I stop and pick it up. The man who hops over the fence to retrieve it pauses to thank me, then quizzes me about my comings and goings in the uniquely local manner that feels simultaneously like friendliness and meticulous intelligence-gathering. In the end he squeezes my shoulder and gives me his good wishes, warning me to be careful over the next, sharply winding, downhill stretch of road. I photograph the cricket game and get ready to take off. "Ride softly and carry a big camera, eh?" I hear a laughing voice behind me as I pedal away.

Along roads like these you can ride with no end and no beginning, because they seem to have none. You can ride tired, drowsy, wobbly legged, half asleep. You can ride all day and not feel the bike or yourself as distinct from what is around you. The road rolls and you can roll along with it. You can roll fast. Or, you can roll softly and carry a big camera. And as you snap that photo you will feel that the still, sundrenched landscape will be here, rolling, with or without you in it.

Brevet-Ready

A friend said latterly to me,
"Why don't we ride the PBP?"
It's in two thousand fifteen,
we've time to train if we are keen!"

"How shall we train?" to him I say.
"Easy - we cycle every day!"
"That does sound very nice indeed.
Let us make ready and god speed!"

And so I hummed a happy song
and wondered what to bring along.
Some like a bag in front, some rear.
But which to choose, oh dear oh dear?

And then I thought, why choose at all?
I shall take both, and they'll fit all!
Some spare tubes and tires and tools,
some knitting needles and fine wools,

some notebooks, inks and fountain pens,
some fat and juicy sautéed hens,
some wine, some cheese, some clothes, some books,
a fishing rod and reel and hooks,

some Wellies and some dancing shoes,
some records, mainly jazz and blues,
some pillows, quilts and woolen socks
computers, cameras and clocks,

a loofa, soap, perfumes and lotions,
some gauze, syringes, pills and potions...
To Paris we shall ride prepared.
The unprepared have poorly fared!

But oh what bicycle to ride
and carry such a load in stride?
What tubing and of which fine metal
will suit me as I knit and pedal?

They say it's not about the bike,
you ought to ride the one you like.
The one that's comfortable and sturdy,
sports fenders, lights, and can get dirty.

Just then I saw her by the door
and my dilemma was no more.
Her rod brakes might not stop till Brest,
and turning does take some finesse,

her wheel rims are full of pits,
she's heavy as a trunk of grits,
she's sixty years old and rusty,
but! She stays upright when it's gusty,

and although gears she has but one,
she's oh so hardy and she's fun!
The Triumph shall roll smooth and steady.
"My friend," I shout, "I'm brevet-ready!"

Green Chariot of Derry

Just back in Northern Ireland, and I've ended up at the St. Patrick's Day Parade in Derry. It was, as they say here, legen-Derry. Har har.

It was rainy,

sunny,

carnival-like,

secular,

spectacularly crowded, yet surprisingly sober and lacking in rowdiness.

It was also not without a touch of bikeyness. Or, rather, trikeyness. One of the parade's main attractions was this marvelous old rickshaw chariot. Pine green. Double top tube. Rod brakes. Derailleur gearing. It originally hails from India, the grand forest elf astride it told me.

Bedecked in flowers, a patchwork canopy and lanterns, this thing was just gorgeous.

It attracted good will and cheer as it made its way down the city street at a parade pace of about 1mph.

Not a bad start to the week, all things considered.

Happy Monday everyone. Spring is here!

Ride Away

"Look at these cute bikes and these young ladies! Good for you girls. Good for you!"

The man was clean cut, of late middle age, and looked not unlike one of our teachers. But his expression of friendliness was too studied and strained. As he made his way to our bench in the shaded part of the park we instinctively put down our sandwiches and stiffened our postures.

"So... what are you exactly anyway?"

"Excuse me?"

"You know - Chinese, Japanese? Korean?"

"Umm..." I could see K's face twitch and turn red. She was born in Connecticut.

In the seconds of confused silence, he sat down next to us and leaned over chummily.

"Nice day!" He made a show of looking up at the sky, then glanced around furtively.

"Excuse me, but we came here to have a private talk..." I said this as friendly as possible, wile my eyes searched for passers-by.

"Hey, and what about you honey? French? You got a bit of an accent there."

I attempted a discouraging glare, but he continued.

"Polish? Knew a girl looked just like you once and she was Polish. Nice girl, very mature for her age. Strict parents though. Do you girls have strict parents?"

In the moments that followed I could almost hear the wheels turning in all three of our heads, crucial calculations taking place as the breeze tussled the leaves.

"You're quiet girls, aren't you?" he finally said. "I like that..."

In unison, K and I stood up.

"I'm Cambodian," she offered brightly, prolonging the breaking point.

We didn't run, but, leaving our lunches on the bench, moved quickly and with precision toward our bikes - rusty things propped up against a tree. Then we grabbed them, hopped on and pushed off just as the man's face contorted into an agitated snarl and he lunged after us.

"Dirty little sluts! You coupla whores!"

Safely out of reach we could still hear him yelling.

"I got a car you know! Gonna go after you all the way to your house!"

This made no sense, but nonetheless terrified us into riding circles around the neighbourhood for hours before going home. It was the summer after 8th grade and never had we been so glad to own bikes.

This was not the story I meant to come up with on Women's Day, but it popped into my head. The bicycle as escape tool. Not often talked about, but it has served that function for me and countless women I know.

Before 2014

In these last days of the year, there's been, as usual, a great deal of talk about New Year's resolutions. And after hearing some friends say their resolution was to cycle more in 2014, I finally suggested - why not now? Because I can't help but feel that the very point of a resolution is to delay this activity you are supposedly resolved to do, to find an excuse for not doing it already. As a result, this thing you put off until January becomes infused with dread and seems all the less appealing. And how sad it is that cycling should be put into such a category!

And so on this fine December 31st, upon my gentle prodding, we set off on a short photo expedition up the side of the mountain. It was a windy, but sunny and cheerful day. The ride turned out hillier than planned, but we did not complain, as fabulous vistas spread out under a perfectly clear sky as far as the eye could see. We even encountered an old acquaintance, who was happy to join us for a spell. It was one of those unexpectedly, spontaneously perfect days made all the better by being out on bikes.

Now I have done New Year's Day rides before, but never an Old Year's Day Ride. And I have to say I highly recommend it. As we cycled on this last day of 2013, we felt - on a delightfully visceral level - that we were pedaling away from 2013 and toward the blank slate of 2014.

So my message to you dear readers is… If you have time for a ride in these last hours of 2013, why not say "good bye to all that" on two wheels? Happy New Year to all and thank you for reading! I will see you again in 2014.

Let It Snow!

Well the weather outside is frightful

But the bike is so delightful!

What the heck, I'll just pedal slow

Let it snow

Let it snow

Let it snow!

Wishing you a happy holiday and some good cycling weather from the rainy, windy, snowy Northern Ireland. Thank you, as always for reading Lovely Bicycle!

How to Start a Fire

I've always felt November to be a month of anxiety-laced anticipation. It is that slow pivot when cold gives way to freezing, when colour fades to black and white, when Autumn slips into winter. It could be a dreary winter, or it could be a gorgeous winter. It could be a winter of being stuck indoors or a winter of uninterrupted cycling. Which it will be, we do not know. The season will slowly unfold to manifest itself, and all we can do is wait - distracting ourselves with a cluster of holidays, shopping, and big meals. 

Earlier this week I explained Thanksgiving and Black Friday to an Irish friend. It surprised me that I had to explain it at all, as they've grown up on American sitcoms here and at this time of year practically all the episodes are holiday-themed. But I guess it's possible to watch and enjoy American shows despite not getting all the cultural references, and so Thanksgiving was one of those fuzzy concepts until I fleshed it out with an elaborate description of what actually goes on. In return I am asked whether I miss Thanksgiving. Is it making me homesick?

Hmm is it? Well, not in an obvious sense. Having lived outside the US half my life, I skip it as often as I celebrate it, and have mixed feelings about the holiday anyway. But I do miss the role it plays in marking that November transition. Without Thanksgiving as a marker, I feel a bit lost this year - lacking in structure and a sense of flow.

There is also the question of weather. In New England I've formed a strong association between Thanksgiving time and that crisp, dry chill in the air. There is something festive about that dry chill, something comforting and uplifting, invigorating. In Northern Ireland the late Autumn cold is different. Humid and penetrating, it feels as if an army of invisible clammy tentacles slowly wrap themselves around me, creeping persistently beneath layers of wool, then tightening their hold to sap my bodyheat. That kind of cold is not festive at all; it is energy-draining and spirit-dampening. And determined not to give in, I have been fighting it with fire. 

At the risk of disappointing those who took my earlier "thatched cottage with no electricity" comment seriously, my dwellings in Northern Ireland have all had modern amenities, including central (oil) heating. However, many here agree that heating a house via fireplace or stove remains the most effective method. There is something about the dancing flame of an open fire that dries out the damp better than anything. 

In my current fireplace I can burn wood, coal and peat - or a combination of any of these. All in all, coal seems to offer the best combination of heat, cost-effectiveness and ease of procurement. Coals burn slowly and they burn extremely hot. The heat is easy to regulate by the amount you put in, and how you arrange them on the grate. And in the new place I'm about to move into, get this: The main wood/coal burning stove (pictured) plugs into the central heating system, so that the radiators and the hot water can actually be stove-powered rather than using oil. I've been tinkering with the system to figure out how it works exactly. 

Getting a coal fire started is not easy - in particular when trying to do it quickly, with freezing trembling hands in the early morning. You cannot simply light a piece of coal with a match - it's like trying to set a rock on fire. Instead, you have to create conditions of extreme heat on the grate, which will set the coals aglow slowly and gradually. This is achieved by building up what looks like a little fort of sorts - layering crumpled paper, then thin dry pieces of wood, on which the coals are then placed. You light the paper, which burns quick and shallow, in turn lighting the wood, which burns slower and hotter, in turn lighting the coals which take some time to catch but, once aglow, release a heat of such depth and intensity that a small house can easily be kept warm all day with a couple of bucketfulls. Wooden logs can be added to vary the feel of the flames, which I like doing as well.

It is a dry, crisp heat that is comforting and festive in the absence of the seasonal markers I'm used to. I do not miss Thanksgiving, but I do want to wish a happy one to my US-based readers. Thank you, as always, for reading, and I hope you are finding ways to keep warm...

...with or without a fireplace!