The Way We Do the Things We Do

A recent bout of flu has activated a marathon knitting session, with nearly everyone in my immediate radius now supplied with a hat or two as a result of my drowsy, sofa-ridden industriousness. I've also started a sweater, which, thankfully, is complicated enough to keep me occupied for days. When fellow knitters see the things I make, they usually ask about the pattern. And my reply is that I don't use a pattern. I know the basics of knitting and sort of improvise from there. I visualise designs in my head and implement them without even sketching anything out on paper. I gauge sizing by looking at a person and guesstimating. The whole process is so intuitive and unconscious for me, that it is almost automated: From conception to completion, I don't pay much attention to what my hands are doing, until - voila- the thing is magically finished, and with some luck, looks and fits as intended.

This approach to knitting has its benefits. However, it also means that I am terrible at explaining to another person how I made a particular garment. It seems so obvious to me, that I find myself saying things like, "well, just - you know - knit a beret shape!" (they: "but… ??!!")

In the midst of such conversations, I am fully aware how frustrating it must be - particularly for a novice knitter - to talk to someone like me. Because that's how I feel talking to anyone for whom cycling is so intuitive, such second nature, that any attempt to break down technique into a step-by-step process is beyond them. "What do you mean how do you climb standing?" such a person might say, "you stand up on the pedals and do it!" Right. Just like you'd pick up the needles and knit a beret.

It may seem that cycling and knitting have little in common. But in fact every productive and performative activity involves, on some level, mastering a sequence of distinct steps. The earlier in life we learn this activity, the more naturally we take to it, and the more frequently we practice it, the less aware we are of those steps - the more seamless and unconscious the sequence becomes. We go through it automatically, unthinkingly, and in so doing we might even genuinely believe that the act is, or "should be," that way for everyone. But the thing is, it might not be. It really might not.

If I consider the way I do the things I do, I realise that cycling is one of the very few activities I do on a regular basis and enjoy doing, where I give any explicit thought to process. Everything else - be it cooking, photography, painting, knitting or dancing - I do on a more unconscious, automated level. Technique is involved, but I've internalised it to the point where it has become invisible unless I really, really force myself to acknowledge it. Maybe over time, it will be the same with cycling. Or maybe it never will. In the meanwhile, I try to be more mindful of the way I explain my process to others, if they ask me questions about activities that to me seem self-evident.

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.

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.

Is This About a Bicycle?

"Will you follow after me till I have a conversation with you privately?"

On this disconcertingly sunny day before New Year's Eve I am siting in a coffee shop in Coleraine, Northern Ireland. Past my table a smallish policeman wanders casually. He is dressed head to toe in protective gear, including a heavy bullet proof vest and an enormous face shield. No one but me pays him any attention. Heading for the rear of the shop, the policeman carries an object that resembles a briefcase made of oversized Legos, plastered with bright decals whose warnings my eyes can't discern in the dim interior. Some minutes later he re-emerges from the rear and - toylike briefcase firmly in hand - makes his way back across the room toward the exit, slowing his steps, it would seem, as he once again is about to walk past my table. For a moment I am certain - completely certain - that he intends to stop and say this very phrase to me. But he only throws a tired, face-shielded smile my way and walks out, and I remain there - mouth ajar, hand with coffee cup frozen in mid-air, and a copy of Flann O'Brien's The Third Policeman splayed open across my lap.

For some time I resisted reading this book, despite repeated suggestions that I really ought to. I shunned it due to an erroneous belief that it was a slapstick comedy detective story type of novel, to do with Ireland and a bunch of cycling policemen; I had so many other books to read that I could not be bothered with such a thing just then. Or so I said to myself. But in retrospect it is clear to me that my resistance to The Third Policeman was due to something else entirely - an intuitive knowing, if you will, that the book and all the information within it could prove hazardous for the delicate state of my mind. Because that it was, and is. While I am normally a quick reader, getting through The Third Policeman took me ages; it was too overwhelming to take in quickly. And at the end, I found myself conflicted between not being able to take much more of it, and not wanting it to end.

If you can imagine Master and Margarita crossed with The Naked Lunch, crossed with A Bit of Fry and Laurie, crossed with Waiting for Godot, crossed with almost anything by Thomas Pynchon… well, The Third Policeman is really nothing like that at all. But conjuring up such a hybrid might prepare you for it a little, maybe.

What is this book like, without giving too much away? I don't want to describe the plot or any of the details. Which is just as well, because what got to me was not any of that, but that the book tapped into - a little too realistically - my own experience of present-day rural Northern Ireland. Before you think this an attempt to be funny, let me explain that I refer not to the absurdity of the plot or specific encounters, but to Flann O'Brien's detailed portrayals of sensations, dialog, scenery and mannerisms. To be sure, he exaggerates and distorts grotesquely, and he re-shapes language. But in so doing he captures the essence of being here more poignantly than any other local author I have read. On top of this - or maybe because of it - his manner of communicating ideas (the kind of insane ideas I try to suppress in myself) is so delicate and subtle, it is easy to underestimate how deeply they penetrate the psyche until it's too late. Honestly, I will need to ride my bike for hours, possibly days on end, just to recover from the effect of this book.

And speaking of. I should move on to the important question for the readers of this blog: "Is this about a bicycle?" Well, since that might be the most quoted line in the book, the answer is a sort of yes. Except that it is really about language, metaphysics, the absurdity of organised society, and the pathology of everyday life. So on second thought… Sure, it is about a bicycle. After all, everything is.

Black Ice - Not So Nice

It was a beautiful, bright and clear Boxing Day. The temperature hovered at a balmy 40°F. The wind blew with an almost playful temperateness. Now and again the sun even came out, casting its long, flickering rays over the sleepy valley. And the road - ah the road! Quiet and empty of cars, how endless it looked, how inviting and smooth. But alas, these favourable conditions were but a cruel illusion. My ride attempt came to naught, foiled by the winter cyclist's enemy number one: Black Ice.

Now, reader, please understand that I have cycled through four New England winters without incident. At this stage, I did not think I could be daunted by ice of any variety - be it black, white, purple, or any shade at all. But what I encountered here was a frozen-state phenomenon of its own class. So stealthy and perfectly invisible this substance was, that I can only attribute this to sheer malice on its part - malice toward cyclists.

Absent were the signs that I know to look for. Like the bits of lacy white edging in the texture of the pavement.

Or the tell-tale shimmer, when the sun's rays catch the road surface just so.

No, this brand of black ice had not the decency for any of it. It adhered to the contours of the chipseal in a matte, thin, perfectly transparent crust. It did not reveal itself in any visual manner what so ever, ensuring that its ice-rink quality slickness caught the traveler entirely by surprise. 

Having discovered this treachery, I backtracked gingerly only to learn that even more of the road was covered with the stuff than I'd realised. What before had looked inviting now seemed hostile, even sinister - a formidable booby trap. A Boxing Day ride was not to be. But at least now I understand what I'm dealing with, and why the locals warn about it so zealously. Black ice is a force to be reckoned with, all the more so when its perfect stealth is matched by its perfect slickness. Even studded tires, I'm told, will not always help. This could be one long winter!

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!

The Darkest Days

I think of the depth of winter as being sometime in late January - early February. The December arrival of the winter solstice catches me off guard. It feels early. Winter is just starting; are these really the shortest, darkest days?

All throughout Autumn, the locals repeatedly warned me, a newcomer, about winter on the North Coast. These warnings were as ominous as they were vague. Just you wait till winter... It will get bad... Stay the winter and see if you still "like it" here!...

Now that the solstice is coming, I am reminded that winter is in full swing. And I get occasional inquiries into the progress of my opinion. On the day of a particularly bad storm, or a drastic temperature drop, someone will inevitably ask: "And how do you like it here now, eh?" - studying my wind-burned face with a hint of glee.

Granted, living here is not without challenges. The winter cold feels far worse than the temperature readings suggest, due to the nasty strain of dampness particular to these parts. The winds get so powerful, it can be difficult to walk, let alone ride a bike. Visibility can grow poor - and rapidly - due to sudden onset fog and flurries. While food is very affordable here, heating is problematically expensive and needs to be thought through carefully. None of this has put me off so far; I adjust. On non-windy, or mildly windy days, I try to get all my long-distance errands done. I have figured out how to get things delivered, if need be. Working from home, I try to time my work so that I'm out of the house in daytime and work mostly early morning and after dark - as its more efficient to heat the house that way.

Daytime lasts until about 4pm these days. Except on those badly overcast days when the sun never really comes out, and the 24 hour period is split into a state of complete darkness and semi-darkness. Those days have not been infrequent as of late. In fact today was one of them. Allowing myself to be pushed about by erratic gusts of wind, I cycled to the little farm shop down the road after riding a mildly hilly loop along the base of the mountain for purely recreational purposes. The light at 10:30am looked no different than the light at 3:30pm, all diffuse and veiled and, if you want to be unkind about it, dirty-dishwater-like. It is the sort of thing that I suppose should feel depressing, but isn't - instead awaking a part of me that is asleep in more overtly cheerful environs and inspiring a flurry of creative and productive activity.

The darkest days are here, and they are okay. I have bikes to ride and work to do and food to eat and logs to burn and people to talk to and animals to pet. The Winter Solstice is tomorrow and it will be the shortest day yet. Suddenly I feel like a bike ride to celebrate. Who else is planning a Solstice Ride?