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?

Horsing Around with Brompton Foam Grips

After nearly two years of owning my Brompton folding bike, I am finally about to replace one of its parts due to wear and tear. To be fair, the components have all held up well so far, in all-weather conditions in New England and Ireland. But I am saddened to report that the foam grips have failed to stand up to the rigours of rural life. The cause of the damage? A horse. Of course. 

Propping my bike against a farm fence a couple of days ago, I walked away a short distance to take some photos of the landscape. When I noticed the chubby creature making its way across the field toward it, I thought it was cute at first. She seemed so curious, making a beeline for the bike on her dimunitive legs with a brisk shuffle and an air of determination. And I thought it was cuter still when she got up close and personal and began sniffing the handlebars. At least that's what I thought she was doing. Alas, when I reached the bike I saw the situation was quite otherwise: A good chunk of the right grip had been chewn off. 

Taken aback by such brazen impertinence, all I could do at first was rebuke her. "Pony, how could you?!" 

In response to this, she glanced up at me with an expression of feigned innocence, all the while continuing to gnaw industriously. By the time I gained the presence of mind to yank my bike away, the grip was but a mangled mess of foam. Pedaling away, I shook my finger at the treacherous Shetland and wondered whether Brompton sold replacement spares.

Here I will backtrack to explain that I never imagined I'd be keeping the flimsy-seeming foam grips that originally came with my Brompton. In fact, I thought they'd be the first thing to go as I'd inevitably proceed to customise the bike. I considered ergo grips with extensions to allow for more hand positions. I considered leather grips in a caramel-brown colour to match my saddle. I considered colourful hard-rubber grips to add some firmness and zing to the so-called cockpit. But in the end I never bothered altering this bicycle in any way at all, and, like everything else on it, the original grips remained - proving perfectly comfortable just as they were. It just so happened they were the ideal size for my hands. And the foam itself was of a good consistency - cushy enough to absorb road shock, but not so cushy as to be too soft. I wasn't a fan of the drab gray colour, but this alone was not enough to make me forsake their comfort. And so the grips stayed and I grew to love them all the more - now wanting nothing but an identical replacement to the pony-ravaged one.

When I turned to Brompton for guidance, they informed me that they now sell replacement foam grips in their online shop. Not only that, but these grips now come in a selection of nice colours. Well then! In my excitement, I almost bought the overpriced little gems in red. But then my boring neutrals-loving side took over, and ultimately I went with the white - as an homage to the vintage 3-speed folders of yore.  

Impressively, the grips arrived to my remote Northern Ireland abode in 2 days. And soon I was fondling their milky-white foaminess in anticipation of mounting them upon the handlebars.

But as I held them up to my old grips, I noticed something alarming: They were not quite the same. The consistency of the foam feels similar enough to the touch, but the replacement grips lack the curvature of the originals - namely, they're missing that middle bump around which the palm of my hand wraps so comfortably. Would holding these new grips feel the same, and dare I risk finding out? 

As I contemplate this important question, I continue to cycle with my old grips for now, my right hand feeling the shredded texture through my glove. As I pedal past the shameless equine responsible for the deed, I shoot her what I hope comes across as a meaningful glance. But indifferent to my troubles, she merely shakes her head and makes a noise which is almost certainly a giggle. 

Headwinds in Both Directions

I thought I had imagined it at first. Cycling along the Seacoast Road one day, I pedaled against a strong headwind. On the return trip along the same road not long after, I found myself struggling against a headwind again. How could this be? In this land, where sadistically steep hills, heavily textured road surfaces and other resistance-producing phenomena were so commonplace, was I not at least entitled to a return tailwind in accordance with the laws of physics?

Possibly I was mistaken in remembering there had been a headwind in the original direction. Yes, that must have been it, I decided. But several days later, the same thing happened again along this route - a route which, as "luck" would have it, had by now become a regular commute. I paid attention this time. Setting off late morning: headwind. Heading back early afternoon: headwind! Time after time, it was the same.

Just as I began to question my sanity, one day I heard some local pilots talking about a flight they were planning. And one of them mentioned off-handedly that the wind would be changing direction mid-day. My ears perked up. 

"Wait, wait a minute. What did you say?"

"Oh sure. We get a sea breeze by the Lough Foyle here. Changes direction around 2pm."

"Sea breeze," eh? Well there's a euphemism if I ever heard one, considering how strong this wind can get. How lucky for me to get the headwind end of it. But at least I know I was not imagining it. And, decades from now, I'll be able to say to a room full of bored youngsters: "Back in the day, I rode my bike with headwinds in both directions."