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. 

Adventures in Cyclo Shepherding

The first time it happened unintentionally. I was cycling down a neighbouring farm lane, when I noticed frantic activity in front of one of the cottages. The farmers - a man and woman in their 60s - crouched facing each other with their arms spread wide open, as if about to perform some strange circle dance. As I got closer I saw they were attempting to surround a tiny, highly vocal bundle of white fleece. The creature, sensing that capture was near, leapt and darted about wildly until it evaded the two pairs of outstretched hands and galloped away. Never having witnessed such a scene before, I stood frozen over my bike for a moment, mouth agape, watching the newly born lamb - hardly larger than a cat - disappear down the lane in the direction of the shore. For a moment the others stood silent as well. And then all at once we knew what needed to happen. By the time the farmer said "Would you go and chase it down on your wee bike?" my foot was already pushing the pedal.

So what exactly is involved in herding a lamb by bike? Luckily I had watched sheep dogs do this a few times, so I wasn't entirely clueless. First, I cycled fast, to catch up with the lamb. The rush from the escape having subsided, it now hopped along anxiously, its tail trembling, not sure what to do next. I slowed down and cycled directly behind it, coasting to let it hear the ticking of my hub and sense my looming presence. And then, ever so slowly and carefully, I maneuvered my bike as if I meant to cycle around it and into its path. 

After some initial moments of indecision, the lamb did what I had seen others do when confronted with this maneuver - it made a U-turn and ran back in the direction of the farm. Slowly I followed close in its tracks to make sure it kept this course. It was growing dusky by this time and my bicycle's headlight was glowing bright, illuminating our path. When the farmers spotted us approaching they were ready and grabbed the twitching creature after I steered it into a narrow, fenced in part of the yard where the newborn lambs and their mothers were kept in a pen. The poor thing had gotten out by accident, but now it wanted its mother - wagging its tail happily and going straight for the milk upon seeing her. All was well.

I would not say that herding lambs has become a habit. But I've helped bring back a few of these wayward darlings now, including this fleecy fellow just earlier this morning. My little Brompton is hilariously perfect for the task - compact and easy to accelerate and maneuver, it can sprint after the lamb, then slow down and hover around it until it turns in the desired direction. The lambs seem to accept this two-wheeled shepherd and behave predictably.

Despite their erratic galloping ways, once caught the lambs are actually quite docile and cooperative. Cooperative enough to sit in my bike basket, I've wondered? But, considering they aren't house-trained, I've never gone as far as to try it.

Transportation Cycling in Rural Areas: Some Food for Thought

The present-day culture of transportation cycling is predominantly associated with urban living. This makes sense, considering the realities of life in cities and their immediate vicinities. When commuting distances are short, motor vehicle traffic horrendous, and public transportation either overcrowded, unreliable or both, riding a bike can become an attractive option for getting around. Throw in some cycling infrastructure and perhaps a bike share system, as many cities are currently doing, and the appeal becomes greater still – especially as rising numbers of others take to the streets on two wheels, making it seem increasingly more normal and realistic.

But the desire to cycle for transportation is not limited to urbanophiles. Some rural residents may be commuting by bike already. Others may be considering it. Others still may be cyclists who currently live in a city, but are contemplating a move to the countryside. For the latter two groups a slew of questions and concerns might arise, with not a whole lot of resources out there to address them. This has become especially apparent to me since my own move to the countryside some months ago - in the course of which my email inbox has filled with questions from a surprising number of would-be rural bicycle commuters. Now that I’m feeling a bit more settled, I would like to start sharing some thoughts on the topic.

To state the obvious, there is a great deal of regional variation between rural areas. Differences in climate, terrain, distances and the availability of safe cycling routes will play a huge role in how realistic commuting by bike will be. Perhaps less obvious is that these differences can exist even within the same locale: pockets dense in amenities and pockets that are not, pockets that are hilly and pockets that are flat, pockets that offer safe routes for cycling and pockets that do not. As an example: My current house, while situated in what is generally a remote and shockingly hilly part of Northern Ireland, happens to be in a pocket that is unusually convenient and bicycle-friendly. I am just over a mile from a sort of farming hub, with several small shops selling basic provisions and local produce, and 7 bike-friendly miles from the nearest small town. Being at the base of a mountain but not on it, I have easy access to flat routes and enjoy mostly ice-free roads in winter due to warmer temperatures than neighbours who are even slightly uphill. In a pinch, I am also only a mile from a bus stop and two miles from a train station. Other parts of this very same region are far less handy for getting around by bike. This is all to say that it is essential to get to know an area thoroughly before forming an impression of what commuting by bike will be like there. Even to assume regional homogeneity would be a mistake. 

But speaking more generally, rural transportation cycling, as I see it, is not just about locations, distances and terrain. It is a categorically different kettle of fish from urban cycling. Why? Because it is fueled by a different set of motivations. Whereas in the city, cycling might be the faster, more convenient transportation option, in the countryside that is extremely unlikely to be the case. With long miles to cover, little in the way of traffic congestion and parking easy to come by, the car is clearly the more convenient choice here. So in devising ways to commute by bike in rural areas, we are doing so because we value cycling in of itself more than we value convenience. For some, this could boil down to physical fitness. Commuting by bike make take longer, but it is in fact two activities in one - commuting and keeping fit, saving time that would otherwise be spent at the gym. For others the real issue is financial. The bike costs next to nothing to run compared to the costs of a car, and for that some loss in convenience could be seen as worth it (or simply, necessary). There could be other underlying factors. Environmentalism. Or the inability, be it for legal or physical reasons, to operate a motor vehicle. But all that considered, I would venture to say - and this is just a guess really, a hunch, an intuition - that for a great portion of dedicated rural bicycle commuters in the developed world, the love of cycling for its own sake is the dominant motivating factor. It may be an irrational love. A love that goes against what's reasonable or practical. But it's a love strong enough to, however creatively, turn it into reality. Otherwise, it is just too easy to opt for other forms of transportation. And people generally do what's easy, unless they love the other option that much more. 

In the coming months, I hope to continue sharing thoughts and ideas on different aspects of rural transportation cycling. I would also like to compile a list of rural cycling blogs and post it here. My collection of links to those is pretty small so far, so if you know of any - or write one yourself - please do share!

How Could They?

A little while ago I got the chance to ride a vintage roadster again. It's been a while, and let me tell you - that magical, floaty feeling was just as wonderful as I remembered.

The owner's great uncle rode the bike as a young man. After that, the machine languished in a shed for decades until the nephew discovered it and gave it a new life. "I gave it lower gears," he said, "to make it easier on the knees." And he pointed to his strong-looking, athletic 40-year-old knees. Having done the same to nearly every vintage bike I've owned, I nodded understandingly. Then I took him up on his offer to try the bike out on a longer loop.

About a mile down the flat main road, I turned, unthinkingly, left, onto a lane that winds around the side of the mountain at a steepening grade before coming back down. I've grown used to making this turn, as it's a loop I often do to get to several of my favourite photo locations. Despite the climbing involved, it is easy enough to manage on my own transportation bike with its low, low gears.

Now I'm riding the roadster up this lane. Almost immediately, I get into 1st gear. And almost immediately after that, the 1st gear is not nearly low enough. I pedal harder. I grind. Then I stand up on the pedals and push with all my might. After it feels as if I've been at this forever, I look back over my shoulder and see that I've made little progress. It is safe to say, the magical floaty feeling of the roadster is gone.

Miserable minutes, that feel like years, go by. I am in decent shape and not averse to hard work on the bike. In fact I've recently been introduced to the concept of "strength training," and will now often climb a hill in a harder gear than comfortable deliberately. But the difficulty of pushing this thing up the hill stuns me - in a way that is perversely motivating to keep pushing past the discomfort, to keep going just to confirm that it is humanly possibly to ride this bike up a hill without breaking my legs! After all, I say to myself… Back in the day people used to do this all the time. And they didn't even lower the gears! Imagining riding the bike up the same hill in its original gearing nearly makes me throw up, and as I finally arrive at the top of the slope, drenched in sweat and wild-eyed with effort, the question rings shrill and loud in my mind: How could they?!

Seriously. If we are to believe that ladies on loop frames carrying their shopping in front baskets, and men on roadsters going to and from work, were once a ubiquitous feature of the Irish rural landscape, then we must also believe they could tackle with ease the very hills that today make their grandchildren weep - or at least demand a 1:1 gear. Were the older generations inherently more fit than us? More stubborn? More willing to put up with physical difficulties?

In Boston, I remember trying one loop frame roadster where the 1st gear was so high I had trouble starting the bike on flat ground. I asked the owner, who happened to be a vintage bike collector, how ordinary women could ride these things 40 years ago. And his reply was, that in fact these bikes were not ridden much, and the high gearing must have been one of the reasons for that. And it's true that most of the vintage 3-speeds found in New England are in remarkably good condition, many of them blatantly unridden and suffering only from damage due to age and neglect.

By contrast, vintage roadsters found in Ireland and the UK tend to show signs of heavy use. In fact my theory as to why it is comparatively difficult to find vintage 3-speeds here is that most of them have been ridden into the ground by the original owners. Considering that the terrain here is hiller than what the Boston area has to offer, the argument that the high gears made the bikes as difficult to ride then and they seem now does not fit.

When I returned the borrowed roadster to its owner, by the colour of my face he could tell I had tried to ride it up a mountain lane. "You know," he said, "my great uncle used to live up a hill just like that and I've often wondered to myself how in the world he rode this bike every day!" He shook his head, and I did too, as if we both shuddered at the thought of it. Then he gave me a wave and pedaled the old roadster down the flat main road, as I got on my easy bike and rode in the opposite direction, feeling like an utter weakling with legs like boiled spaghetti.

Roadsters on the Sand

"So what on earth are you doing here?..."

In a village cafe with impressively bleak sea views, we said this to each other almost simultaneously, as if really questioning ourselves. Clive is here from New Zealand, via England, via... well, it's a story not easily summarised. Much like myself, he does not have a neatly packaged explanation for how he ended up in Northern Ireland. He is simply here. Existing in what sometimes quite overwhelmingly feels like the middle of nowhere. Floating really. Coasting. 

To put it frankly, befriending Clive Somerville has made me question my sanity. And as I worked beside the television last night, the Secret Window playing in the background, I was reminded of why. Clive Somerville could very well be a figment of my imagination. A stress-induced hallucination, an imaginary friend to keep me company in unfamiliar lands, whatever you want to call it. Bottom line is, his realness is worrisomely implausible. Take the name, for instance. Somerville? I moved here from Somerville, Massachusetts. And "Clive"? I'm sorry, but that's a fictional name if ever there was one - a film noir character. Or, a name I might give to one of my bikes... 

And speaking of bikes, the one he rides could have been plucked out of my imagination. A racing green BSA roadster, 1960s vintage, with Sturmey Archer hub and full chaincase - a beast he maneuvers as adeptly as if it were a BMX bike. 

The BSA's frame has been drilled for rod brakes, yet the bike appears to have been fitted at the factory with rim brakes (which Clive fitted with Kool Stop "Vans" brake shoes - in white, to match the bike's grips). In all other ways, it is a traditional roadster. 

Clive bought the bike (named Lady Huck) while living in England two years ago, in a vintage shop in Dorset. He describes it affectionately as having been in "nightmare" condition, rough shape with most components on the brink of failure. 

Once he started riding it, the bike promptly began to fall apart - which in turn inspired Clive to learn how to fix it. Enter the Sheldon Brown website. Enter the classic and vintage bike forums and various blogs. Enter the world of vintage parts hunted down on ebay, wheels rebuilt by hand, hubs repacked, and cottered cranks replaced. With Lady Huck, boredom is a non-issue.

Then there is also a matter of Clive's commute. He cycles 6.5 miles each way, from his home in Portstewart to his job in Coleraine - utilising the rural cycling highway. With my own impressions of cycling in Northern Ireland overwhelmingly positive, I sometimes wonder whether my sense of this is somehow skewed. But, having lived here for nearly a year, Clive agrees: "Cycling in NI seems really well catered for. The cycle paths are convenient, the drivers are mainly extremely courteous and friendly, the local roadies wave, the police ignores me - it's all round a nice place to ride." Of course, his co-workers nonetheless think him nuts for commuting by bike - but neither Clive nor Lady Huck are phased. 

Though his favourite place to cycle so far has been the New Forest in England - an area he describes as so idyllic, I have difficulty picturing it. And as far as cycling in his native New Zealand, Clive describes it as great for mountain biking and BMX, but "hostile and dangerous" for commuting, roadcycling and touring in most parts of the country. This is interesting to me, as it's pretty much the feedback I get from all those who've lived in New Zealand - yet the place is rather enthusiastically promoted as an ideal bicycle touring destination. Goes to show that it's always good to talk with locals. 

While neither Clive and I feel anything like locals here and probably never will, we've each been getting to know the area and the people, while riding our bikes and snapping photos. Meeting up a few times, we've discovered some common ground - including complicated life stories, a shared interest in film photography, and a giddy admiration for Malachi O'Doherty. We could be figments of each other's imagination, for all we know. And I suppose there is nothing wrong with that. 

Having photographed Clive on his BSA, the following night I had a dream where a group of people - all on vintage roadsters - were cycling on the sand, for miles and miles and miles as the sun slowly set. It was more than a bit surreal, but also quite doable here. Who knows, it could be a theme for a future V-CC Northern Ireland ride...