May 22, 2015

I know you're different—you know I'm the same

For the past few weeks little A6-size booklets have been quietly spreading themselves around Edinburgh. You can recognise them by their front covers, four dark cyan and yellow ochre squares, each featuring an abstract smiley face. It's gone the middle of May already, which must mean that there's less than a month to go until the Edinburgh Festival of Cycling.

There are something like 46 different events in the EdFoc calendar, and nine of them appeal to me. Some, like the Brompton Fold-Fest, the King of Kaimes hillclimb and Ligfiets Zondag are frivolous but fun; among the more serious are Spokes' ever-present Bike Breakfast and roughly quarterly Public Meeting, and the Women's Cycle Forum. It can hardly be a year since the first WCF, can it?—but it is. And while the debate goes on as to why not more women are riding bikes these days, there is an undercurrent of hardier women cyclists who barely think about whether or not to ride a bike, because they've always done it and it's all they've ever known. Why is this?

A while ago I read an article that deconstructed "riding a bike" and its counterpart, "not riding a bike", reducing it to component parts that collectively could be termed an 'invisible bag' that one always carried, but I couldn't find the article this week when I looked for it. Having a bike in the first place might sound like a fundamental weapon in one's arsenal, but you can break that down further. In fact it was mentioned in a different (I think) article that looked more at privilege: one's wherewithal to buy or to deploy in some manner. But I didn't read it too closely, partly because riding a bike is all I've ever known, too, and partly because I was tired from riding my bike.

Murray Walker once described Martin Brundle as Formula One's "most experienced driver". In terms of number of races started or accidents avoided he might well have been at the time, but it wasn't Brundle who was always on top of the podium. Brundle wasn't a Senna or Hill or Schumacher, and quite honestly I think he preferred Le Mans and other endurance events. Cycling is equally perverse. If you have that much experience on two wheels, calmly anticipating incidents or knowing what food makes your best fuel, why should you ever have a bad day? I suspect it's because we're only flesh and blood and some skinny metal tubes, forever having to compete against hundreds or thousands of kilogrammes of steel possessed of unlimited amounts of power. When it became too much one day, I wrote several paragraphs that trod a very fine line, between angst and anger. If I had managed to get to that stage, what hope might there be for someone who hadn't even ridden a bike in traffic before?

With the Festival of Cycling looming next month, then, I recently realised I had a more pressing issue. Why do I feel awkward—nervous, even—about going to the Women's Cycle Forum? I supposed that the root of it might lie in the fundamental of not knowing any different, not having that experience of abject fear on the road, perhaps. I have been properly scared before, on a motorbike certainly, but only occasionally on a bicycle, and always because of an externality. How can I bring to the fore those paragraphs of angst, and what can I learn from them: what can I teach other people? If I'm brutally honest, it's not that much about riding a bike stuff at all, but by being in the company of many people my age, all ferociously intelligent and busy doing; creating; people in fact who can speak in public with a fluidity and allergy-free poise far stronger than mine. It might also have something to do with having always disliked how I sound, a weariness brought about by a lifetime of correcting people on the phone and perpetually avoiding recordings. Strange, then, that a stage will feel like an entirely natural environment as soon as I grab my beloved Rickenbacker and a microphone. But, from a fluid dynamics and vibration point of view, one's speaking voice and one's singing voice aren't the same thing at all.

At the last WCF I mentioned an approach I'd read about for improving "things", normally a project or an endeavour with an aim, and at its heart is a driver diagram. No, not Celestion and Electro-Voice and audio crossover circuits, but prerequisites. Every aim, and there might be more than one, is deconstructed to an objective, which is supported by tasks and by sub-tasks and micro-activities, and they can all interrelate as necessary: you draw arrows between them. Think of it as Keith Emerson's Moog Modular: input, process, output, with all those patch cords. In this manner, every morsel of an activity or a piece of information or a situation feeds into one or more more significant activities. In order to improve, you must know what elements are at its root, and the magnitude of each's contribution. In terms of being confident at riding on the road and able to avoid incidents, there are some very fundamental aspects.

I have a bike. In fact, I have more than one bike, but for the sake of argument it's a generic do-everything tool. Prerequisite #1: I can afford a bike, because I choose not to own a car, and I choose not to use my motorbike for every journey. Prerequisite #2: I can cycle to work, as much by luck and bloodymindedness as by design. Prerequisite #3: I can afford a bike not because I'm rich, because I'm not, but because I avoid consumerist acquisition for the sake of acquisition and one-upmanship. I buy stuff to use and wear out and repair. Other people might afford a bike because they have money to burn, or find they can't afford a bike because they have to have Apple's latest.

I have a bike that works. Prerequisite #4: I do my own maintenance so that it costs less money, and because I can. Prerequisite #5: I learned how to maintain my bike's systems by reading books I borrowed from my local library. One book was so good I actually photocopied entire chapters from it, because I didn't know where I could buy a copy for myself. Later on, I also had a job in a bike shop, building bikes. I read about maintaining bikes in case I have to buy newer components because the ones I'm used to aren't available anymore.

I have a body that works well enough to power my bike. The human body is a machine that gets stronger the more you use it. It evolved for mobility, originally on sand and fields, and its biochemistry rewards activity and exercise, and I contrive situations to allow for that. Prerequisite #6: I do eat crap from time to time, but food is fuel, and so if I pig out one day I try not to the next. Prerequisite #7: My body isn't broken (yet). My ankle sometimes gets complainy, and my knees have good days and bad days. I bought a wrap bandage to support my ankle when it needs it. I read about different knee problems and went to a physiotherapist. Prerequisite #8: Physio taught me about posture and alignment, so I found out about classes for yoga, Pilates and Tai Chi, and went to some free taster sessions and paid for some longer blocks of classes. See also Prerequisite #10.

My bike is comfortable to ride. It wasn't always that way. Prerequisite #9: My saddle fits me. I've had to buy and borrow various saddles to find one that actually suits my shape. Prerequisite #10: My saddle doesn't actually injure me. There is a reason that, outside the generic model I'm otherwise applying, I ride a recumbent bike most of the time. It's more comfortable than sitting on a hard little saddle and it completely eliminates the risk of re-injuring myself, something that has happened far too many times over the years. See also Prerequisite #3, and, much as I love my big enduro motorbike, #1 too. Prerequisite #11: My posture on the bike is comfortable enough. It's about handlebar height, handlebar grip shape, the distance from the saddle to the stem, the height of my saddle and the fore-aft position relative to the pedals, the length of my cranks, and the Q-factor of my cranks and pedals. See also Prerequisite #5.

And it goes on. Some are more practical:

I have somewhere to store my bike at home. I've made the space for it by not filling the place with hyperconsumerism. Or children. Perhaps not surprisingly, no little amount amount of space is given over to tools and the neat ordering of them. There is however a delicious irony in multiple bicycle ownership and me pleading against consumerism.

I have somewhere to store my bike at work, or when I go to the shops.. I've lobbied for it and I've advised on design and specifications.

I have a lock (actually, various locks) that is strong enough to protect my bike. I know how locks get broken, and I've learned how to lock my bike effectively and where the safer locations are.

I can ride in rain and snow and wind. I have clothes that allow me to do this in reasonable comfort. I didn't arrive with those get-ups: I had to learn by trial and error what was comfortable and what worked and what didn't work, like fleece gloves that didn't keep my fingers warm, or wore out the fingertips too quickly. I had a woolly hat that was too loose in the wind. I bought some shoes that I discovered put my feet at the wrong angle on the pedal, which then hurt my knees. I had some shorts whose pad was the wrong shape, and an earlier pair with lycra that wore out too quickly. I still remember the day, twenty years ago, when I wore my jeans and it rained, and I didn't dry out until going-home time. I can ride in snow. I have special tyres that allow me to do this safely, and I can fit those tyres myself because of Prerequisites #5 and #7.

Others are more strongly rooted in emotion and the socio-economic.

I ride my bike because I've arranged much of my life to accommodate it. I would love to throw my big heavy camera tripod into a car and drive into the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night to do astrophotography, but I don't have a car, and the motorbike isn't well suited to that. I could hire a car I suppose, but that costs more money.

I ride my bike because I don't care particularly what other people think.

I happen to be white and middle class. I'm thus possessed of a God-given right to be unremarkable or not.

There are of course a hundred more nuances, setting out why I ride a bike. So far so good. So why am I not driven to post videos of innumerable instances of bad driving, or bad cycling? I see them every day: car and bus drivers intentionally stopping their vehicles in Advance Stop Lane areas, cars with defective headlights and tail lights, people cycling on the footway (if, admittedly, usually at only jogging pace), people ignoring red traffic lights (yes, drivers and cyclists), cyclists not performing shoulder checks when they change position on the road, car occupants opening their doors without checking for oncoming vehicles or oncoming pedestrians, road users ignoring zebra crossing protocol—the list could go on. But I want to think about the more dangerous instances, particularly cyclists undertaking buses and HGVs, cyclists positioning themselves in a vehicle's blind spot, getting cut up by bus drivers, and close shaves with vehicles emerging from side roads. What am I doing that other people aren't, and are those methods useful to other women who do have a bike and do want to ride more safely?

John Franklin wrote a book called Cyclecraft. In it he set out his case for cycling on the road effectively and safely, and reading it has become almost a rite of passage for British cyclists. Much of the way that cyclists in Britain ride is a learned response to British motoring habits and the media; a game of cat and mouse where the only way to win is to not be the mouse. This generally means riding as though you were a car: fast, wide, obvious, attentive, and as necessary, courteously obstructive. Frustration at the difference of speeds compounds itself, and alternatively can lead to injury. Fast isn't always possible, because hills exist. Wide requires confidence, because you place yourself in direct line of others. But counterintuitively, as every vehicular cyclist knows, a wider position gives you three dimensions on the road, which encourages others to actively overtake instead of passing as though you have no width or length, only height. Courteously obstructive means getting in the way on purpose for specific occasions, when your own safety must take precedence over someone else's precious seconds. Being obvious is not just being wide but making your intentions clear to others. When you signal, for goodness sake signal with your whole arm and not a flick of the wrist and hand, and use expected gestures. What does waving your outstretched arm around mean to another road user? Help me? Overtake now, please? Perhaps you look as though you're waving to a friend, and the following motorist will divert their attention for half a second to try to see who you're waving to. That's half a second when they're not concentrating on you, or anyone else on the road.

Attentive in my experience is where far too many people are missing a trick. Motorbike training school teaches you an awful lot about observations: where to look and when to look. Shoulder checks, lifesaver checks, roundabout exits, right turns, tarmac banding, the colour and smell of an oil slick, road camber, drain covers, the facial expressions of others, escape routes, braking distances (do you practice "tar and tyres" when you stop behind another vehicle? Do you maintain a two-second gap when moving?). Imagine yourself to be The Terminator in enhanced vision mode. 'I see everything.' If you don't find it tiring, you're probably not concentrating enough. What was the last road sign you passed?

My journey on a bike must never be so important that the time I lose sitting stationary at a red traffic light is worth more than my safety. I've regularly been at a red light for two whole minutes; that's a long time to be waiting and sitting still—and feels even longer when it's raining or snowing. But five seconds might be the time between nipping through that gap and waiting for the last car to pass. Am I really in that much of a hurry? When my speed is up, of course the last thing I want to do is grab the brakes and convert all my hard won momentum into heat. Riding a bike is all about not having to slow down unnecessarily. But that speed might not be appropriate if you can't avoid a cracked piece of tarmac in time when a car driver is approaching from the other direction. Perhaps a pedestrian is about to step out from behind a parked car, too. And there's a child and some parents crossing the next side road: is that side road also your escape route?

I've spent ten years riding bikes that have two mirrors, left and right. Mirrors are fantastically useful: you can watch traffic behind you without having to turn your head! You need not wait until you're ten metres from a parked car before looking over your shoulder (if you even do that) and pulling out to overtake, only to find on your tail another cyclist on your tail who has already assumed the overtaking line and who is now adding to your own safety by acting as a deflector shield; you can plan that manoeuvre much earlier, judging the best time to signal (you did signal, didn't you?) and move out. The Highway Code might be stuffy, full of shoulds and musts and fiddly advice, and you might be bored to tears with the memory of The Ladybird Book of Road Sense, with children wearing reflective arm bands and ankle bands, the Green Cross Code, and bicycles with sticky-out flags, but the advice is if anything more relevant now than ever, our drivers too busy with their phones and imbued with a Top Gear sense of superiority and selfishness. There should be very little that comes as a surprise if you have mirrors and you use them. Don't use them too much, because you also need to be watching in front for drivers who haven't spotted you before they embark on a trajectory that Cyclo-math predicts will intersect precisely with your own.

Cut up by a driver? Ideally you should have seen it coming with a flick of your eyes to your mirrors. But could you have prevented it by riding in the middle of the lane instead? It's happened to me before. I watched a car driver tailgating me up a short hill, and stayed in a wide position on the road because I was less than 30 metres from a red traffic light and I didn't want the driver to attempt to overtake, cut in and hit the brakes. In the event, the driver overtook anyway at speed, then cut in on purpose. I hadn't expected that part, but I was already fingering the brakes in anticipation, my spidey senses perking up. And so I jammed my brakes on, steering only slightly to my left, which meant the driver overshot my position and while I was shaken for half a second I was untouched and intact. Cycling shouldn't have to be this way, but it is. Sometimes the best approach is to get to love your brakes, and teach your brain to stop pedalling in those instances. And if you're going to hit the brakes, you need to know in a split-second what is behind you. Turning your head is much, much slower than swivelling your eyeballs.

Observations. Anticipation. Decision making. Reaction times. And an improvement approach. I have a feeling that British cyclists are probably some of the most experienced in this regard. American motorists take prisoners: if the internet is to be believed, will kill you soon as look at you should you be cycling in the lane and not on the shoulder, thus preventing through sheer firepower the fast, alert style of cycling that involved give and take. Dutch people (and other countries with similarly high cycling modal share) probably have greater fitness on account of more everyday riding, but have infrastructure that greatly reduces the bicycle-vehicle interactions at significant speeds. In a town centre, if you reduce motor vehicle speeds to that of a moderately fit cyclist, the entire environment becomes more relaxed because you eliminate the element of competition and one-upmanship.

Your author is of course writing this from a very particular viewpoint: someone currently fit and fairly fast on the road, and who doesn't have to cycle with children. I'm a motorbiker, and I try to be aware of my abilities and the limits of those abilities. I still practice what I was taught when I learned to drive a car. And different bikes require different mindsets. When I tow a trailer full of shopping, I am not a fast cyclist. At all. My brakes have to work much harder, which means I go downhill more carefully, which means I am extra-observant about other vehicles and their intentions. When I pilot my velomobile, my speed on the downhill and level can be very high, but I have a lack of height. The safest thing then is to ride very wide, and I am extra-observant about vehicle blind spots and whether I can be seen in someone else's mirrors—not just wing mirrors but rear-view as well. High speed requires more planning for stopping distances; when riding up hills my slow speed means I watch my mirrors very closely so that I can tuck in as necessary (out of politeness as much as anything) or stay wide as necessary if there is a lot of parking on the road or if I will be making a right turn ahead. And in a velomobile I don't attempt to filter past vehicles unless there is an extremely good reason for doing so. It's too much of a risk to try it and find the ASL area blocked by a car, or to become stuck halfway because a manoeuvre requires turning more tightly than the steering will allow.

Your author is also writing from a viewpoint in which lycra is the preferred clothing, and who never seems to have found a good skirt for cycling in. This may be connected to my preference for riding a recumbent bike, which is more or less incompatible with skirts and baggy shorts. On an upright bike if I was cycling to a restaurant, then I would really rather look less "cyclist", mainly because everyone else would be doing likewise. Until the clothing companies start making trousers long enough for me I'll probably endure the dubious fashions of bepocketted plus-fours over lycra leg warmers that at least look a bit like stockings. And until the clothing companies start making cycling-cut coats with long enough arms, I'll carry on wearing my stretchy windproof fleeces.

I could adopt the non-cyclist attire of the Cycle Chic movement, but on my recumbent I'd get chain marks all over my jeans, and on an upright my jeans would give me saddle sores. I had them in the past and I don't want them again. The alternative might be courier-chic, but for me padded shorts are mandatory on an upright bike, and tights would have to go over the shorts, which would look ridiculous so I'd need to wear a skirt over the top, and then I'd get much too warm again. It would be fine in the autumn, except that it's then too cold on the legs for just tights. Perhaps I should turn Roubaix lycra inside out to have the fluffier side exposed. That would look less like lycra. Of course, the seams would then also be on the outside, so some custom tailoring might be in order.

I don't want to make a big deal out of clothing being the barrier to women not cycling more, because I think there is a lot to choose from nowadays for most averagely sized women. I won a prize recently for a 1000 metre turbo trainer time trial, and all the clothes I received were too small for me, but I'm not average. Cycling clothes do look less dorky if you buy them in greys and blacks, and also less dorky if you buy walking clothes rather than cycling clothes; I've stopped wearing traditional cycling jerseys since I realised that wicking t-shirts are far nicer. What is still a big deal to me is bike shops, and also bike shop mentality. Too much cycling clothing is marketed as fluorescent armour, when in fact how you ride on the road will stand you in better stead than assuming that hi-viz will mean everyone will play nice around you. Not in Britain right now, anyway. And far too many bike shops still have a blokey, hi-tech vibe to them, not helped when there isn't a single woman on the shop floor. If you feel smaller when you leave the shop than when you went in, take your custom elsewhere. You'll find that outdoor shops are much, much better in this regard.

My invisible bag, therefore, carries quite a lot. Cycling works for me because each journey is low in cost and surprisingly predictable in terms of how long it takes from A to B. I've worked hard to be able to maintain a bike, without paying someone else to do it. I want to carry on being able to do it, too, so I try not to take unnecessary risks, but measured risk-taking keeps up my level of alertness. So far, so good. Telling someone else to 'man up and take the lane' seems easy enough to do, after all, if I can do it anyone can, right? Wrong. I'm not them, and I don't know what's in their own invisible bag. More importantly, until they tell me, I don't know what isn't. And they can't find those things to put in their bag until they work out what they are and how to overcome each one in turn. That's a big part of what the Women's Cycle Forum is for.

May 18, 2015

I want to believe in that love yet again

I made a decision the other day. I bought a new Yes album.

When Yes put out their part-orchestral Magnification album, all Myst-style computer graphics artwork and a sound that was an English stately home personified, I was thrilled. The subsequent DVD, Symphonic Live, with the European Festival Orchestra performing alongside Yes—a Yes still featuring Jon Anderson, of course, with Tom Brislin doing sterling work in Wakeman's stead—was also superb. And then poor Jon had all manner of vocal problems that with a tour looming eventually saw him bow out of the band, to be replaced with a diminutive Canuck called Benoit David. Brislin departed and Oliver Wakeman came in for the tour. I remember going to their concert at the Usher Hall, in which David put in a solid performance (if also rather tambourine-happy). Man-mountain Chris Squire, a bit of a hero of mine, scowled and plunked at his Rickenbacker with his usual gusto but unimaginatively. Steve Howe alone saved the day by being absolutely on fire.

The tour came and went, and a new album was in the works. Wakeman and son of Wakeman were long gone, replaced by one-time Yes alumnus and, with Steve Howe, co-founder of Asia, Geoff Downes. At the controls was Downes' earlier partner in crime and one-time Yes vocalist, Trevor Horn, and everything looked it would be absolutely peachy. Except that the new work, Fly From Here, turned out to be total rubbish.

It shouldn't have been. With all the right ingredients there was plenty of sparkle in the production, as one would expect from Horn, but there was no spark in the playing. In fact, there is only one little section that sticks in my memory, a sort of hi-tech, herky-jerky version of the repetitive ascending organ section of Awaken. I can also gauge how much I like an album by its position in the pile of CDs that don't have an allotted place in the rack that's full. Fly From Here is languishing two-thirds of the way down; higher up than some The Alan Parsons Project stuff and 90s Iron Maiden, but lower down than Pink Floyd's Division Bell, various Gentle Giant albums, and much, much lower down than Soft Machine, Magna Carta and SBB. Heck, Fly From Here is lower down in the pile even than Starcastle! Unfortunately that's how much it excited me.

What then, for Yes? Follow Chris Squire's method of course. Hear about another musician who could fill your bandmate's shoes better, and nick them. And so it was that Benoit David parted ways, and Glass Hammer vocalist Jon Davison came in. Another Jon! In fact, another Jon dressed in white who was equally interested in Paramahansa Yogananda and for two pins sounded remarkably like Jon Anderson, a timbre slightly thinner perhaps but a perfect fit in the mystery and mystique of Yes music.

Even the fans readily accepted Davison. Not for him I suspect was the reaction of the crowd when Horn sang his heart out at Madison Square Gardens in 1980, and someone shouted "Fuck off!" Anderson might be short in stature but has very large shoes to fill, and Davison was up to the job. I was burned buying Fly From Here, so I decided to wait a while; give it a few months for the reviews to appear. Of course, the only Yes studio albums I don't own are Union and Open Your Eyes, both of which I'm in no hurry to acquire, thus it was only a matter of when—not if—would I buy the new one. And so it was, twelve months later or so, that I did.

It's called Heaven & Earth. Squire, Howe and White are the three elders now. Squire got divorced, got married again, lost some weight and regained his cheekbones. Howe grew out his hair again into a wispy grey cape, probably to get away from looking like someone's grandma. White has hardly changed for thirty years, but ought to grow his moustache again. Perhaps that would give him some imagination in his performances. Downes is looking quite middle aged these days, still bouncy but quietly spoken on the keys. Davison looks much younger than I think he is; he ought to grow a beard to place him more in the shaggy disciple role that singing lead in Yes demands. That's why Horn's big round bank manager glasses didn't quite fit, even in the rolled-up sleeves days of the early 1980s. Remember Anderson's shoes, and so much of Yes is Anderson, groovy, hippy, cosmic and slightly barking.

The first thing that struck me about Heaven & Earth, in reading the liner notes first in my best homage to vinyl's gatefold sleeves, was that Billy Sherwood was part of the production. Sherwood was all over Yes' The Ladder album, prog-AOR par excellence, and he seemed dull as ditchwater. But so too do we have Jon Davison! The sound of the album is bang up to date in its clarity—you can practically hear individual windings as a pick scrapes along a guitar string. You can hear sub-bass frequencies spilling out like those in the control room would hear, as synth bass and possibly real bass plumb the depths. You can hear Davison's voice soaring, a little penetrating at times yes, and Squire's ever-present harmony is there too. But it's also too clear, too sharp. Too accurate.

Albums from the 1960s have a wobbly, sometimes muffled, always close-up sound to them. In the 1970s as microphones and tape recording came of age you could saturate the tape signal, as you might overdrive your Marshall or Ampeg, but you still operated through oscillators, valves, transistors, knobs and switches and pieces of wire. There was always a feeling that an organ or an electronic instrument or a mixing desk or some recording apparatus was alive, because it was affected much more by heat or radio frequency. You never quite got the same thing twice. It was said (by Ralph Denyer, I think) that if valve amplifiers had been invented 30 years after transistor amps, they would be called harmonic processors. This audible interfering with what should be something immutable and programmed, coupled with tape's accommodating response to overloaded signals, is what brings that pleasant vibe to recorded sounds. It's called 'warmth'. If you didn't know what you were doing in the 1980s, digital meddling would clip harshly, ending up sounding gritty and jarring. If you did know what you were doing, like Alan Parsons, you could create incredible depth and realism to a production.

What Heaven & Earth—and Fly From Here before it, and sundry other works like Rush's Test For Echo and Vapor Trails, and Primus's Tales from the Punchbowl—is missing is that warmth. Fans mourn the passing of Chris Squire's crunching Rickenbacker tones, Rick Wakeman's Moog that sounded like a laser beam going through butter, and the way a real Hammond B3 has a creakiness that Downes' artificial Hammond doesn't. So why not pull out those ancient instruments? Use a real Mellotron, and a chrome plated microphone, and dig those vintage vibes, because they sound good. That's what Wobbler does. They have a rule about no post-1972 instruments. You can hear it all over Afterglow or Hinterland. Or play your guitar and drums like you always do, but record and mix it with analogue equipment, and analogue only. Brain from Primus knew this, which is why The Brown Album has that fat, dirty, close-up sound quality to it. A bit too dirty, many say, but it gives it a proximity to the listener that's miles away from the scientific, razor edge of its predecessor. But I'm talking about prog, or at least the halcyon days of prog.

Wobbler's output is also chock full of clever riffs and themes, but they don't have what Yes did when Yes was their age: a hard-battling but ultimately democratic consciousness that bound those riffs and themes together in a cohesive way with the maximum musical value. Wobbler simply lurches from one to the next.

The first track from Heaven & Earth actually excited me. In fact, I even picked up my bass and jammed along—to a song I hadn't even heard before. Squire's bass was too low in the mix, but my own Rickenbacker made up for it. The album loses its footing towards the middle, becoming a bit too pedestrian and safe in its lyrics. Towards the end it picks up again, chucking in some pleasant and rousing orchestral stuff that would've sounded better coming from real French horns. Gravitas, you see. Some more odd-meter playing is a tip of the hat to days of yore, and the climax is Right There, and suddenly that's it. There's no gentle fade out, letting the listener gradually swim back to reality. Yes's later works will always be compared with the stalwarts of the early 1970s, and it's very hard to be objective and to measure performance by the standards—and preferences—of it's now 65 year-old musicians.

Heaven & Earth is really nearly there, but it's definitely more Earth than Heaven. What I wish for, more than anything else in the latter-day Yes canon, is for Squire, Howe and White to ditch Pro Tools, go back to tape, and bloody well start showing off again.

June 18, 2014

Use the passions that flow

Even I'm old enough to remember the beginning of the World Wide Web, old enough in fact to still have my free-with-Mac-Format magazine "road map of The Internet", when it was all pages hosted by academic institutions, Gopher was still a pretty neat idea, and Kurt Cobain was still alive. I'm therefore invoking a meme from a few years ago because it provides a neat preface; the meme called for one sentence but a few more will help.

"There was still a gaping hole in our plans, however, for with the departure of "Gawain", we had left ourselves nothing with which to replace him! So…, at this juncture we parted ways, Alex, Geddy, Terry and Paul to begin work on some of their overdubs, while I would be imprisoned in my room until I could emerge glowing triumphantly, clutching some wonder of spontaneous genius to my knotted and sweating brow!! — mere fantasy, I fear. Did I perhaps have a title? Ah, no. Did I have a few strong ideas lying around? Well, no. Did I have any ideas at all? Well, maybe, but not exactly. And for two days I stared in frustration and growing unease at blank sheets of paper, and questioning eyes."

I could go on, for the original paragraph is as long again and Neil Peart is a much better writer than I, but on the third day in a newfound welter of creativity he began to piece together a host of ideas and thoughts, at once unconnected and yet circuitously themed. The product was of course a song called "Natural Science". Two days? Eighteen months more like, in my case. I'm far beyond sounding like a broken record: my record has long been recycled into a dainty bowl with crinkled edges, designed for holding pot-pourri or marbles or one of those curious collections of small metal objects typically comprising safety pins, half-broken zip sliders, paperclips and a selection of prizes from crackers—the same hoarded collection of items whose owner would without a hint of doubt claim that they might be useful, perhaps in say ten years; or more likely, never. My record of late hasn't been all that great.

My "Natural Science" ought to bridge that last year and a half, if it could. While the keys rattle under my fingertips I think of my notepads and their pages of handwriting, describing strange, fantastical journeys into the unknown: Mordor turning out to be one of the shabbiest camp sites known to Man; Sendar the growing familiarity of Kensington and Chelsea—if only experienced as a commuter; afternoons spent with toy trains and cable cars…and none of it readily transcribed for your perusal and delectation.

I think of the year in which I tried to declutter, my lovely big car with its faux-walnut dashboard and four flat tyres eventually meeting its maker, and my stop-gap motorbike that I sent packing with not a little 'good riddance!', and the year spent instead relying purely on human power. The car I miss, if only for the comfort of its half-leather seats and the way it ate motorways for breakfast—but it was an ailing dinosaur in its owner's modern life that no longer enjoyed motorways nor had cause to take them. The motorbike, my black Honda VFR with the cracked plastic bodywork that I repaired myself, and a cracked exhaust manifold that I didn't, was a hole in the tarmac into which I poured money. It made all the right noises, as every VFR does, noises that today still make the corner of my mouth turn up, but it was too small. The seat was too low, so the footpegs bent my legs so much I couldn't ride 30 miles without it hurting my knees; the seat was the wrong shape, and the wrong angle, which gave me a numb bum, only lessened whenever I slid forwards on the brakes. The windscreen was too low, even in jacked-up position with a spoiler on top, so my helmet was buffeted all the time. Crouching behind the fairing, MotoGP style, is for short people. And so it was that having spent the better part of five years collecting parts, taking a trip up north to a special garage and back, and latterly going wild with socket wrenches, wire brushes in an electric drill, paint, plastic weld and a sledgehammer,—yes, even a sledgehammer, for how else do you panel beat a bent and bashed bash plate back into shape?—the great beast that was my Honda Africa Twin once more took to the road. So long it had sat forlorn in a corner of the garage, reduced to a 200 kilogramme shelf. And how easily it accepted its owner again with a cackle and a joyous roar that scared small animals and no doubt delighted small boys.

Yet I'm getting ahead of myself, for that was mere months ago. The motorbike project in fact nearly never happened at all, because I was enjoying my economy and coming close to decluttering properly, but I couldn't bring myself to cut loose entirely. An Africa Twin is just a machine after all, just a collection of welded metal tubes and outdated, petrol swilling technologies, but it isn't clinical and efficient like a BMW, or brutish and unhinged like a big KTM, nor a bloated facsimile like its successor; it has a genuine heritage and a friendliness coupled with an old-school vibe that makes it very difficult not to like. I decided I should give it a chance, the chance it never had the first time around.

And yet there was a void. In honesty, none really existed. It was a void that should have existed, and one that I successfully argued did exist despite the rather glaringly obvious evidence. At the root of this was our climate: the culmination of too many years' winter cycling in which my fingers quite predictably turned white. As we all know, cold extremities can be ameliorated by a warmer torso, but I can recall only one occasion when this actually happened. I was wearing the fleece mid-layer that I used in winter motorbike trips (no more such trips, either) and I was riding my mountain bike—dear old Annie the Blue Bike, now mothballed for various reasons—and indeed riding up hills in snow, so my torso had extra-extra-special cause to be warm that day. To really stop the cold hands I needed to get out of the wind, say with a fairing, and if I had a fairing I might go faster: a lot faster if it was a full fairing, and if I was going faster I would need suspension. And if I was going faster with suspension I could go further too. Naturally the thing to do was invest in a velomobile.

Am I insane? Probably, but it was an educated insane, after all I'd been cycling recumbent bikes for ten years and was therefore well acclimatised, and I had spent a splendid afternoon in Toronto racing Bluevelo's yellow speed machine along the Waterfront Trail. It was also not without precedent, because another customer of Laid Back Bikes had already acquired his own for use on the other side of the country, and there were twenty other things that made it all seem quite sensible, like having space inside for four or five bags of shopping, and a warm close-fitting foam cover for when it rained. It arrived at the end of 2012, hit the roads in early 2013, acquired its first scratches within a month ("speed scratches"), and its first crack just a couple of weeks ago. And it keeps my hands warm! Lee Wakefield, known these days for being a dab hand with carbon fibre, as well as a seasoned velomobile pilot, reckoned that I was the first woman in the UK to join the ranks. Little old me! And practically a legend in my own time judging by events the past few days.

There comes a time, though, when novelty wears off. One noticeable manifestation of this is probably the theory of Bicycle Acquisition Syndrome, which I explored at length before, and of which the foregoing is perfect evidence. Even so, a new bike is like a new pair of shoes. Grippy soles contrast with the worn in and worn out predecessor's, laces with neatly bound ends, stitching neat and precise. Then before you know it a year has gone by and your shoes—like your bike—are once again literally an extension of your body, where every crease and wear patch is in the perfect place, and nothing is a surprise anymore. Shoes wear out, at least the modern ones made of petroleum and glue, not classic leather shoes that can be resoled or unstitched and mended; Brooks saddles conform to the rider, and a Rohloff hub wears in, not out. We crave originality and variety, because there's always something faster or more comfortable or that carries more…and we buy more bikes. Travelling the same pattern of roads day after day, month in, month out, just to commute to work and back again, isn't novel. It's our own very real Groundhog Day. Naturally, we notice a new pothole here, a filled one there, the repainted stop line at a junction, and we know the exact line to take across a roundabout to avoid a slippery manhole cover. The route becomes rehearsed ad nauseum, much the same traffic, much the same static hazards. Boredom is actually the overriding reason I change my commuting route so often.

You might say then that I mix up my commuting route to reduce my familiarity with it all, to increase the range of sights and sounds and smells along the way, and perversely to increase the number of hazards to which I expose myself. Danger makes for exciting times, which is why people climb skyscrapers using only their thumbs, drive bulldozers backwards on one track while blindfolded, or put their heads in crocodile mouths without a safety crowbar. And danger is of course countered by experience and practice, which informs skill, and skill informs decision making and reaction times. The problem with all of this is that constant wariness of hazards becomes hard work. Someone proficient at racing cars can't race constantly, even taking out the effect of the inability to simply stay awake. Pierre Levegh did remarkably well to race at Le Mans in 1952, single-handedly for over 23 hours; the speed of the cars by the 1990s—and thus the effort required to drive them at pace—saw the rules mandate a maximum of four hours at a time. But I'm only cycling in traffic, aren't I? I'm only going at 10mph, 20mph, maybe 30mph. How is that hard work?

It's hard work because other people make it hard work. Until the UK, or, in the possible interests of posterity, Scotland and 'the rest of the UK' makes it convenient to bicycle everywhere without the constant danger posed by drivers who think they own the road, or who think they can drive better and with greater precision than they actually can, it's going to stay hard work. There are so many angles one can take on this subject that one day I shall construct a massive family tree of everything that makes cycling hard work and why. Government hand-wringing, silo working, red top newspapers, sloppy journalism, sloppy science, biased court judgements, poorly upheld legislation, Police disinterest, influence of television 'stars', individual superiority complexes, social classes, social networking, and a general economic apathy are all in there to one degree or another.

It's hard work staying on top of things.

And frankly, one day not so very long ago I reached a point where nearly every moment I was seemingly subject to all manner of hazards—I would challenge any everyday cyclist of any ability to name a week in which nothing of note happened to them while they were on the road—and it became too much to bear.

After today's commute I'm beginning to wonder why I keep cycling.

The short answer is it keeps me going. The longer answer is that infernal combustion every day would cost too much and smells horrible, and would erode the first reason further. I was given my first bike when I was very young and the longest I've ever gone without riding a bike was 6 months. Today, and you might be surprised by this—I was too—I realised that I've finally stopped enjoying cycling in Edinburgh. I'm an engineer to my core: I love my bikes; and I try to help people feel that love for their own bikes. Yet each of mine is dangerously close to becoming little more than a means to an end. Far too quickly I'm coming to understand why people don't want to cycle, and I don't want to become one of those people. I shouldn't have to; I shouldn't be made to.

Because I'm fed up; of drivers overtaking me too closely, or undertaking me just to gain five seconds, or pulling U-turns in front of me without consideration of my speed, or shouting abuse at me just for existing. I'm fed up of poor driving standards that ignore conditions, like traction, or visibility, or gradient, or an ability to accelerate, and standards that are seemingly based on the driver's comparison with their performance during the previous five minutes. I'm fed up of the narcissistic me-me-me, me-first! attitude that pervades driving nowadays, in which traffic lights and roundabouts are to be beaten, rather than respected. I'm fed up of being polite on the road, and in return getting none of the human respect I would like. I can get no respect far more easily simply by not caring how I ride my bike.

I'm fed up of our city's roads that are being repeatedly destroyed by buses and lorries and not repaired properly, or even engineered properly. I'm fed up of road repairs that aren't remotely fit for purpose and that shake my bike to pieces.

I'm fed up with our city's pretensions to being supportive of cycling. That it treats me, and everyone else using human power, as though we were whizzing about on micro-scooters, weaving madly amongst pedestrians without a care, and able and happy to jump off on a whim. That it repairs only the roads that carry the most and the largest vehicles, and leaves the quieter, preferable routes to rack and ruin. I'm fed up of useful cut-throughs being 'repaired' to prevent their use by cyclists, forcing us to reconfigure our routes to include more dangerous areas requiring manoeuvres that we were only too happy to avoid before. I can't help wondering how many people, pounding the treadmill or spinning nowhere fast in a gym of an evening, were once busy cycling on the road but had that enthusiasm burned out of them.

I will probably cycle to work tomorrow. The fresh air will do me good, as will a bit of exercise, but my mood is damaged.

People do sometimes give up, opting for a safer, perhaps quieter, indeed less exciting life. But like a broken record, I did cycle to work tomorrow. I think tomorrow was Wednesday, but I might be wrong. I remember commuting on my motorbike the day after that, because it has presence: it's big and tall, and has huge round headlights and a loud horn (not Stebel Nautilus loud, but pretty good nonetheless). That day I enjoyed presiding o'er all the land, and I was surely satisfied as the plebs moved aside courteously as I approached with a rumble. In fact, such behaviour may have had rather more to do with feeling remarkably unwell that evening, necessitating my filtering past traffic like a mad woman while trying valiantly to hold down my lunch amidst a soaring body temperature. And unless I'm Laia Sanz, which I'm not, riding my motorbike is how to get less fit rather than more, and so I cycled the next day. Having been unwell, then, and thoroughly tired, I decided to take the quietest possible route home. Distance becomes a little less relevant when you plod instead of sprint, and I pottered along beside the trams, and around the houses, and sneaked in and out of cycle-type infrastructure,—nothing so grandiose as real custom-designed, all-singing-all-dancing European-level infrastructure I would add, for This is Edinburgh™—making my way home one of the many ways I knew how.

Issues? Yeah, we've got issues, and Edinburgh knows it. The Edinburgh Festival of Cycling was borne in 2013 out of Kim Harding's frustration that our leaders weren't doing enough about meeting the target they'd set themselves (a signatory to The Charter of Brussels, committing to achieve so-many-percent of trips being made by bicycle by 2020). EdFoC featured a varied selection of events, from films to talks to rides, all day things, evening things, overnight things. Strictly speaking, it wasn't the first bikey festival. We'd already had two or more years of the Bicycle Film Festival, largely the product of the energetic Maggie Wynn, and way before that there had been what we dubbed the First Edinburgh International Human Power Festival—ostensibly for recumbent riders, which lasted just for one day. There was never a Second EIHPF, more's the pity. Happily, thanks to the passage of time in which the city gained Laid Back Bikes, that's almost a regular event these days. With the EdFoC now in its second year and happening this very week, interesting stuff is organised: interesting stuff is going on.

One of the first events was the prosaically named Women's Cycle Forum. Apparently the first of its kind in the UK, possibly even the first of its kind. Lots of women ride bikes, lots more men do. Men—in the most general, biological sense—are imbued with a magical substance that helps them shrug off danger more easily than Women, in the most general, biological sense. The more of the magical substance Men have, the more they like to fight each other, and then it makes them go bald. It's often lots of men who attend rafts of workshops and meetings whose discussion points include Why More Women Should Ride Bikes and How To Make It Happen. Well, Men, sorry, but your gender agenda kinda sucks. I went along on a drizzly Saturday evening, badly underestimating how long it would take to ride to the venue in town, not helped by the main cycle route through the Meadows unexpectedly swarming with people wearing serious faces and hi-viz vests that said "Security": sufficiently serious that I cheerily ignored the first half before diverting back onto the roads, thus taking a great Commonwealth Games Baton Relay-avoiding dogleg that wasted valuable minutes; I arrived late and the meeting had already started, Sally Hinchcliffe mid-paragraph in introducing the panel. I'm not entirely sure that I didn't miss the first speaker. I poured myself into a seat near the back, next to a little girl busy making bracelets from tiny elastic bands, and tried to look demure despite generating my own weather by this time, hardly grateful for my decision to wear my crumpled baggy shorts (complete with cat hairs) over my lycra shorts, as if that would look more presentable than simply opting to have velomobile-strength thighs on display. Perhaps fewer people cycled to the event than drove or bussed or walked, although there was quite a range of bikes locked to the railings outside; perhaps fewer people had quite the dislike of bicycle saddles that do I, and were consequently more than happy to cycle in a dress; certainly there was a great absence of black lycra.

We had long, and not so long, introductions from eight highly relevant women. Sue Abbot, who looks like Miriam Margoyles, spoke about having a criminal record for refusing to wear a bike helmet in Australia; Rachel Aldred covered cycle campaigning; Sara Dorman covered 'not cycle campaigning' but getting involved in it anyway; Sally Guyer talked about making nice clothes for cycling in and looking good in; a fresh-faced Claire Connachan was 'fecking knackered' from just finishing a 40-miler with her girl group, Belles on Bikes. Polly Jarman spoke of her work helping young children to learn to cycle; Jo Holtan introduced the Cycle Hack movement for crowdsourcing ideas to improve bike routes; and Jayne Rodgers spoke with feeling about working with disabled people and getting the right bike, trike or quad for them to carry on cycling. Then it was onto group discussions, quick-fire to thrash out burning issues, ways to deal with them and ways to solve them: brainstorm meets cycle hack, if you like. My group was led by Sara, talking a mile a minute and simultaneously writing on the made-for-writing-on red paper tablecloth. Sally joined us, our discussion ranging from too-close overtaking to making street corners sharper to normalisation and destigmatisation to management system methodologies, each of us taking turns to draw diagrams and scribble thoughts, but all pointing towards a general desire for cycling to be safer, dammit.

 photo IMAG0563_zpsc319ddbb.jpg And in fact from the feedback from each of the groups—probably fifty people altogether, covering all kinds of people and all kinds of ages and abilities—the overwhelming desire was exactly that: safer cycling. Not faster cycling, not cheaper cycling, or even more stylish cycling. Safer. Just get the bloody motorists off our backs, but don't you dare corral us into some piece of shit segregation that leaves no room to move and no room for three dimensions. With the thought that cycle chic didn't necessarily mean floaty skirts and Dutch-style bikes with wicker baskets and flowers and little dogs, I took my baggy shorts off for the ride home. No bunching of material, no seams to sit on this time, just a second skin. And on my hips technically a third, because they're Endura mountain bike shorts.

 photo DSC_9333_2sm_zpsdf728f66.jpg Back to my preferred office the next morning for Ligfiets Zondag. Last year my velomobile was, not entirely unexpectedly, a hit, so I rode my usual bike instead this time. To be honest, one can only take so many questions ('How fast does it go?', 'Does it have an engine in there?' 'Where did you get it?' 'How much did that cost?' 'Can I have a go?' 'Can you go up hills?' 'Can I have a go please?' 'Can I have a sit in it?' and so on and so on) and I wasn't particularly minded to field them all again. Besides, a relaxing bike ride to the coast, Cramond and Silverknowes Promenade in this case, is the type of event that starts out specialist and over time becomes diluted, for all the best reasons really, by people riding whatever bike they want to bring.  photo DSC_9334_2sm_zps57eec44e.jpg It becomes 'an outing'. And so we had people on recumbent bikes, like Angelo and Ally still buzzing from their expedition across Canada last year, people like Hannah and John riding trikes or towing trailers, people like Kim using cargo bikes, and people I didn't know at all on their remarkably undeviant bikes. And…, I should have expected it really, losing count after about the third time I was asked where the big red streamlined speed machine was.

 photo DSC_9336_2sm_zps03a1443b.jpg After an early lunch of egg and cheese and bacon, and then an hour or two spent riding up and down the Prom trying different bikes, or playing fetch with John's dog and its slightly soggy tennis ball, or sitting in the sunshine and chatting, I was late leaving! I was later leaving than I even originally planned, too, forgetting that France is one hour ahead of us, and therefore four o'clock in the afternoon there is three o'clock here. And the 2014 24 Heures du Mans was 45 minutes away from finishing. I missed it.

But the ride home along the Roseburn path, bursting with green, was quiet and warm and pleasant. With Angelo and Ally alongside it was a ride full of happy conversation, and my earlier rant faded. It could almost have been written by someone else.

December 30, 2012

The measure of a life

The returning reader is probably an increasingly rare breed in this particular little corner of the blogosphere. In fact, in years past I railed against my adoption of the term blog because mine bore no such relevance. 'It's a diary!', she opined, before suddenly closing the door on it forever. And now with the hoary old tale of not having enough time, or enough inspiration, or enough worldly nous, or more likely, enough enthusiasm to sit and write something, goodness knows I'm trying to do exactly that again.

Where did the hell did my enthusiasm go? What happened to the collective who actually tuned in once a month to stay the challenge of a thousand, perhaps ten thousand, words? I guess most of them had better things to do, and besides, no-one sits around a bonfire that's reduced itself to smouldering embers in order to get warm. I suspect this place needs the proverbial slosh of paraffin. I recently came across the notion of ego depletion, in the context of Why You're Not Getting On At Work, How You Can Boost Your Productivity, and How Not To Get Fired, or some such headline worthy of Yahoo! news. I haven't wrapped my head around the whole psyche of the depleted individual, except that important decision making takes energy, and the more you do it the more you'll need to recharge at some point. That some individuals will succumb to the easiest route—the least difficult option, which is probably to avoid making any sort of decision at all—is inevitable. There is a school of thought which says that a certain amount of giving in is in fact helpful towards not giving in the rest of the time. However, for those the individuals who have found themselves thoroughly depleted, how do they recharge? And what made them susceptible in the first place?

I'm reminded of the analysis that separates people into extroverts and introverts, and by extension illustrates how those people tick when amongst company and when alone. Are the opportunities to recharge themselves more difficult to come by these days for the introverts? Once it was a magical electrical snake of a thing called the telegraph, then the telephone, then the television, and now you can choose from a hundred social networks that push stuff relentlessly into your computer, your phone, into your eyeballs. We live in hyper-connected times with no off switch. Well, there is, but press it and the rest of the world won't wait for you. One case might be the office-based introverts (with lots of people) who need the quiet of being alone (without lots of people) but get lonely doing so and so seek out social circles, as long as they're not too social. But because they prefer to be alone they don't feel driven—indeed, capable—to contribute as much as the more extrovert, and as a result they feel awkward about not fitting in, so they practice not fitting in. I suspect the truth is closer to the introverted individuals and extroverted individuals each wishing they could be more like the other.

Decision making paralysis? Possibly. I may have had a lot on my mind. Try finding a lump next to your breast.

It comes when you least expect it, quite honestly. Suffice to say, I now have some quite big and rather red scars that weren't there two months ago, and spending several nights massively propped up in bed on cushions and pillows is ridiculously uncomfortable, and not terribly conducive to one's beauty sleep. In the last four months I've had so many blood tests that I've lost count, and I think I must have been tested for every medical condition ever discovered, including anaemia (which as an athletic sort of girl I was pleased to find I don't have, though that means my inability to climb on Friday afternoons must be dietary instead). The CT radiographer of course wouldn't even rule out my being pregnant. I really don't think I am, and I said as much to her. Actually the conversation may have involved a few more specifics than that. Mind you, the chance would be a fine thing. The Shoogly Peg definitely is, though, which is just fab.

August 28, 2011

One day I feel I'm ahead of the wheel

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

14.28. Back to idle writing on the train. This time it's the Lightning that's tucked away, but right at the other end of the train. Turns out that the quiet coach is next to the power car - presumably First Class doesn't have to put up with the whoosing, but is also first to crash into anything when southbound. I still think the Mk4 carriages are overly stiffly sprung.

It's kind of nice not having that tight an itinerary, aside from the Shildon bit. But I'm beginning to think that I'm finding it increasingly hard to improvise in situations, or rather that I can cope perfectly well but prefer to be as well-informed as possible. Perhaps trains are a bit of an exception because timing is critical and any delays from time spent thinking, like trying to get a bike onboard, are not acceptable.

I've sort of gone to town with supplies, as I've packed a towel, my hairdryer, shampoo, about four top layers but on bottom only the Endura bike shorts I'm wearing and my lightweight 'desert' trousers. I ought to have included my lycra tights ... perhaps some leg warmers might be available in Cycle Heaven.

I need to find out why the train lurches every so often, as though the driver dabs the brakes and then floors it again. It rather mucks up my handwriting. Timing, it's about three or four minutes between lurches but not totally predictable. Just coming into Morpeth and there's almost no wind whatsoever, and the wind farm isn't doing any business today. My stolen half-window seat is only good until Newcastle so I'm sort of watching the world slip by like a hawk; a hawk who's half-asleep perhaps; a hawk with a GPS unit. The orange brick barn in the middle of fields has collapsed a bit more some last time too - now both walls of the nearer half have gone. The roof's rafters are still there though. Gosh, this bit of track is really bumpy and lurching, and we're only doing 105mph. Through Dudley and Brunswick Village ... they really do like their bricks here. Ok, time to pack up a bit.

21.16. Predictably, no-one arrived for the seat, so I was able to stretch out diagonally at least. It's hard to concentrate to write when someone's mobile phone is playing a slightly honky-tonk rendition of The Entertainer, with a small mistake in it, round and round and round. And round again for good measure. Surely no-one can be that desperate to call someone.

We arrived at York and I spent some time looking at all the bikes parked, and taking the odd photo. I then went to Cycle Heaven and looked at Birdys and Bromptons, thought about buying the third edition of Bicycle Design by Mike Burrows, but didn't: it's not all that different from my first edition, except he wrote about recumbents more. I did get Mike Carden's new book about his Scotland tour. A bit better written, more narrative. Then I got checked in and stowed the bike in the usual place, then went out for food. Since I was on foot I thought I'd stop by Jessops and the other camera shops but every one of them was shut! In the end I wandered back to get a pizza, noticing an enormous motor trike passing by, and chatted to the Turkish guy serving me in the kebab/burger/pizza place. On reflection, a smaller pizza would've been enough—this 13 incher has done me tea and supper and I've drunk about two litres of water: BBQ chicken is good but more sweet than sour, and not enough peppers. Bacon is nicely crunchy. I've spent the evening watching Film4; I came in halfway through a film about secret agent children (weird, especially at half volume so the dialogue didn't really work), then Fool's Gold, which was fun but very silly. And Donald Pleasance is a good actor but here he really looked a bit lost.

21.33 and that phone is still ringing, and that pizza was just too big.

22.02 and almost to the hour, The Entertainer has realised his audience—Mr iPod and Mrs Earplugs—isn't interested and has stopped playing. Hurrah! Now I can read my book properly.

Thursday, August 25, 2011

13.03. Sitting on the steps outside Shildon railway museum, near the children's sandpit, and seven mums with about eight children. The sun is shining but was raining in York when I left. I thought York to Darlington would be a Class 185 but turned out to be a XC Voyager, so at least I knew what to do with the bike. Plenty of seats at 10.00 too! Then onto a Class 142 rail-bus thing of concertina doors and two carriages with tip-up seats. I had a quick ride around Shildon—not a big place—looking for a shop that sold OS maps, but nothing doing. Not even a supermarket here. I don't think Shildon gets too many recumbent bikes either. There didn't seem to be any bike parking at all here, but I managed to get things stowed in a Staff Only cleaners' cupboard. I took my camera and bag, but didn't need any GPS—but wish I'd taken my sunglasses, which it seems I've already scratched today. So, the sandpit is doing a roaring trade, the sun is lovely, and I have a little under two and a half hours before my train back to York. I'm in absolutely no hurry.

20.04. I enjoyed the museum, almost immensely. I actually spent a lot of time looking at the books and DVDs before the exhibits, but decided not to buy any—but The Waverley Route and The A4s' Final Years were tempting, though not at £20 each. I sort of saved the best 'til last and photographed the APT-E and DP1 together, in a sort of 'the future' pose. And Henrietta Brompton is very close in colour to the latter. In the end, I bought a little Rail Art picture and a mug.

By the time I was waiting for my train I'd decided that while architecturally 'nice', Shildon is also full of neds. On the platform, a group of five who delighted in taking a shortcut across the tracks several times. The bike was an extreme curiosity. I got to Darlington easily enough and then found no-one to unlock the luggage door of the Class 91 DVT. A platform person eventually came to help but I had to make a fuss. I spent the 30 minutes standing in the vestibule of First Class rather than wander the entire length of the train for my seat. I was off and running quickly once at York with an East Coast person waiting to unlock the door. I pottered over to Jessops but after all that they didn't have the lens case I needed. The good news is that the new air-padded strap from Calumet works great.

Looking at the OS map I thought I could see the sewage works north of the station, that was Art Deco styled, so I went round the block onto the A19 and then onto the Ouse cycle and footpath (NCN65 I think). I followed it—cattle grids and everything—beyond the ring road and although I smelled it, I didn't see it. It turned out that it was a filter bed and not a sewage works at all. So I went a bit further before joining the A19 again to bomb into town. I paused to photograph a 'Deco cinema, but there are lots of them and the like. Back at the hostel I had a long chat with Aussie guy Duncan, who was about to steal my bed, and then met another Brompton rider who I saw yesterday evening. I ended up getting a load of pasta and salad from the supermarket, rather than more pizza or other junk food, but kept the side up with more chocolate milk. Feeling a bit headachey so I'm calling it a day.

Friday, August 26, 2011

16.37. Today ought to have been 'my' day, for ambling and enjoying and I'm somehow feeling bummed out. It took me ages to get ready to go, then on and off with layers and waterproofs. A quick ride down the road to photograph another Art Deco cinema and then out for the A64 cycle path to Tadcaster. It might be fairly flat and direct but it's bloody scary with 70mph traffic a few metres away with only a metre-wide strip of grass separating road and path. I had to work hard not to sprint along at 21mph or more as I planned to do more than just to Tadcaster and back. The rain came on and basically got steadier.

I spent some time in Cyclesense. I decided to buy some legwarmers (in a thrilling 'extra-large' size) and then looked at Moultons and Bike Fridays. The Pashley Moultons seemed entirely too small for me, while the Bike Friday Pocket Sport with drop bars and telescopic seat tube actually fitted me well. Not that I really want a Bike Friday sort of machine. Would I end up using one in preference to the Brompton? I already know from experience that it stows in places where the Dahon-sized Birdy doesn't, and that was why I bought the Brompton in the first place. Besides, I can't see any unsuspended small-wheeled bike being that much better in Edinburgh than the Brompton. After finishing there, I asked if there was anywhere I could eat my sandwiches out of the rain, and they let me use their kitchen, and made me a cup of tea. I chatted at some length with one of their mechanics who was having lunch. I didn't want to outstay my welcome and left in a bit of a hurry. Again it seemed to take ages packing my panniers and then I realised my back light was missing. I'd ridden a few yards and turned back but there was no sign of it. Nothing for it but to leave, so I started retracing my steps along the crappy bike path. I didn't see my light anywhere. I think my extra bungee must've tripped the release catch on the bracket.

I tried to divert to the quieter path marked on the map, and I did find it, but it was a path across a field and not biking territory. I eventually took the Copmanthorpe turning, to Acaster Malbis and Naburn. I 'photted' the bike on the swing bridge, and noted that they'd painted the bridge all grey; it was rust coloured last time. Then it was a simple matter of following the Velovision route to the race course and back into town, for about 25 miles. Not that far and yet I felt quite tired, and my knee was twinging at about 20 miles. At least I wasn't cold, as I'd put on the leg warmers about five minutes down the road from the shop.

Back in the hostel I was all set to wash my hair but the shower only did cold water, and as I fiddled with the handle it turned in a way it wasn't meant to and then wouldn't turn off. It did once I'd turned it a bit more, but I'd had enough by then. I'm thinking about teatime and what to have. More pizza? It never occurred to me to buy anything while I was out.

Quite frankly, if my train home had been at 16.00, I would've gladly taken it. I've sort of enjoyed myself and sort of not. I've met several 'nice' people, all fleetingly like ships in the night. No-one else seems to have shared a need to chat or for company. And so I carry on my merry, singular way.

Here's a thought. A Bike Friday uses ISO406 wheels, so generally the same sort of machine as my Dahon was. And I got rid of the Dahon because I didn't like its riding position anymore (although BFs are made to measure). It folded to largely the same size as the BF, but didn't pack into a suitcase. A Birdy has the full suspension, and folds to about the same as the Dahon. A non-folding Birdy is kind of what a Moulton ought to be like. And what niche is one of them meant to fill? Not folding, because I have a Brompton. Not longer distance comfort, like today, because I have the recumbent bikes. The Bike Friday did feel impressively rigid. If I was without Annie, what would I use in winter when it snows? If I was doing passenger trains—busy stuff in cities—then the Brompton would win hands down. Do I need a (B+1)? That is perhaps the real question.

21.15. Having read a good chunk of A Bit Scott-ish, it's nice, in a schadenfreudey kind of way, to know that I wasn't the only B&Ber ever to have a bad experience. I had pizza for tea: ham and pineapple as a trust failsafe option, from Chico's a bit further down the road. Almost half the price, half the service, two-thirds as good food as the kebab place. A bit thin, but nice enough though.

Tomorrow's plan is to be up by 8.00 and out before 9.00 with enough time to photograph the other Art Deco buildings I saw in town, and the windmill on the far side of the station. I meant to do that today but ended up on the wrong side of town, but I've marked it as a waypoint in the GPS. Dumbass gave up the ghost in 2009, so maybe I should call this one Dumbass 2, or Divvy, or maybe Dropkick... No, too daggy. The dorm seems quiet this evening: me, the guy with the cratered face who I think is Scandinavian and who never did tell me his name, and maybe one other judging by the luggage, perhaps the Egyptian guy from yesterday whose name I did learn and immediately forgot.

I jumped on a computer for half an hour yesterday to check stuff; I think it was long enough and I wasn't going to pay more for the privilege given my luddite status of non-interconnectedness. Time does fly when you're writing e-mails. I'll head over to Cramond once I'm home tomorrow and see if anyone is around, and if it's not raining. Nearly ten pages of notepad since Wednesday: I must have too much spare time.

Saturday, August 27, 2011

13.16 and Berwick-upon-Tweed is a little way behind and back to bumpy, twisty track. Had a generally lovely morning. I was up early and out to photograph those buildings, and then wandered to York Minster. I took some photo of the outside, then locked the bike and went inside to listen to the organ. Some odd pieces being played: discordant and textured. I looked at the stained glass for a while, and might've mouthed the word 'wow' once or twice. Then out to see the windmill, marooned on its little hill amongst houses. Back at the station, I took the opportunity to make sure the platform staff know I needed the train's luggage compartment open, and then the train was delayed because of engineering restrictions a block or two south. So I chatted with a couple of Australian people and a guy from East Coast, so there were no problems in the end. After all that!

I'm now relaxing at a vacant table so there's plenty of legroom compared with being wedged in before. What are tall people meant to do? Sit and suffer? Or drive cars perhaps? Huh, and motion sickness beckons now, less than ten minutes of writing, but I did read a lot earlier on. Yuck. Cramond later? Time to find out.

Postscript.
I made it to Cramond in a fairly efficient half an hour or thereabouts, but as I rather suspected all along, the group had been and gone. I sat at a bench to eat the remaining half of my cereal bar before taking to the promenade again and wending my way home. Although the bike ride calmed my stomach a bit, it only suppressed the nausea, and a day and a half later I'm still not feeling right unless I'm either eating or working out. All in perfect time for my return to work, too!

A few minutes on the internet revealed that the film with the secret agent children on karts was apparently Catch That Kid, from 2004. I'd never heard of it either. And according to ChrisCooper on RailUK, the lurching or jolting that I've noticed on the Class 91 trains is probably related to the automatic speed controller and the application of the rheostatic braking system. I shall need to have my GPS recording a journey and then later annotating the speed profile with the occurrences of the jolts, but that's for another day.

August 11, 2011

All along our days

For far too long, it seems, I've been staring at a blank piece of paper with no particular inspiration to write. That's not to say that I've not written anything at all, but as someone who takes an active stance against both the endless commentary of microblogging and the rather relentless accumulation of what Mr Zuckerberg rather zealously describes as "friends", and yet who subsequently poked her nose into the whizbang new replacement that xkcd so accurately termed "Not FB!", the more short paragraphs, or even shorter one-liners, that I dash off there through such convenience the more it rankles that I'm serving a network in precisely the manner I never intended, and even worse, not spending time here. Here is where I'm supposed to write about stuff: the music I listen to, the trips I make, the thoughts I have. And yet it's that convenience of not writing a lot that is half the attraction. Of course, both this site and New Social Network are of the same parent so my allegience is already misplaced; but my time and my energies are drawn in other directions too much.

Progressive rock, as a genre, was tied strongly to the new technology of the day, and sought to combine musical styles in new, unthought of ways, through the raw talent of hairy young men. But to carry on performing 30 or 40 years later the product of those early years is not properly progressive, as much as it may pay the bills. It's regressive rock, Mister Emerson. Music evolves even within bands, but other artists of the time made a conscious effort then and now to change as much as possible and to always look forwards, experimenting constantly with influences both personal and prevailing, which is why Wendy Carlos tried out reinterpretations of classical pieces and moved onto microtonal composition and ambient records and scores, and why Rush has taken itself from bluesy hard rock to full blown sword-and-sorcery prog to intertwined sythesiser rhythm heaven to grunge and back to hard rock. More than ever, and perhaps not entirely unconnected with one too many setbacks, I'm becoming aware that I'm not the progressive, forward thinking, forward living creature I want to be, ought to be. It's as though I'm stuck in the past, somewhere, whence my life ... stopped. Sometimes it feels like I've been a passenger, slightly disconnected from the world around me and forever mindful of what once was, as though I haven't achieved all the grand plans in my head while the rest of me makes a good enough go of everything. One might be forgiven for thinking that has all the signs of a mind and body always busy doing and being, never taking enough time to reflect; a whirlwind of ideas never fully realised and filed away in the corners of the memory, or yet another notepad and sketchbook.

My day to day thoughts are no longer full to overflowing with a singular goal, and perhaps that's the problem. I can write, if I put my mind to it, and if I have something to write about. And therein lies the paradoxical beauty of constructing entire paragraphs about it.

I ought to be writing about the ongoing task that is the repair of the rusting piece of junk in my garage that serves as a reminder of both a more foolish and cheap me and the event that still haunts me two and a half years later. At the same time the more recent stablemate, old enough practically to be its Mother, has never properly settled in, forever sounding just a little too notchy on the downshift; unappealingly loud to the idle, with a muffled raucousness in neutral; it's the whisper of a clonk when taking a handful of front brake. The increasing eagerness to ride after taking so very long for that confidence to return is being tested sorely when one is always afraid that something else will go wrong. Gentle and infrequent commutes in the dry and the wet cannot build confidence in a rider, nor of her steed. The project to return the big machine to the road has become a black hole of time, money, enthusiasm, and misplaced ratchet straps. I fear that only when the lazy twin finally coughs into life after sleeping so soundly will that spark return. Meanwhile I carry on raiding the parts counters, electronic and bricks-and-mortar, and chip away at the work that remains. By the vice a new pair of those massive forks sits shiny and reassembled, gaiters scrubbed clean, stanchions polished, while the patient sits ever longer propped on its hydraulic jack and, canted over slightly because its fairing frame is twisted, its huge innocent eyes look forlornly towards the workbench.

I ought to be writing -- indeed I made a plan, subsequently ignored -- about trips across to Glasgow to explore the canal and the railways and the River Kelvin, and to meet friends for lunches and a 30 mile cycle here and there. To take the train through lands unknown, to stations rarely tried; the girl with wheels awaits alone the company her counterparts provide. A social gathering certainly, with a participant at once athletic and effusive, yet tired and shrinking. "Friends" is perhaps the wrong word in this particular case, or at the very least perhaps, not the best word; while "acquaintance" fits the situation, to me it still carries a more impersonal overtone than I feel is desirable. At any rate, a guiding hand to what is still a relatively new community will inevitably mean more exposure to newcomers who, with the occasional exception, by definition one doesn't know. Forever welcoming and meeting becomes taxing to those whose energies are recharged in quiet. But simultaneously the sheer need for small doses of that company is a driver that I find difficult to ignore and also difficult to act upon.

Inasmuch as today I'm lacking inspiration, we'll finish with a joke. Actually we won't, not because I have no joke to tell, which is in fact true, but because these were the toe-curlingly cringeworthy words of a lecturer whose name I would have to look up, and, sounding not a million miles away from Seven of Nine's flat instruction, "Fun will now commence", which I intend never, ever to use. The need to put something down on paper however began several days ago but was prompted today by the desire to put into words some thoughts on one of the loveliest pieces of music I've ever heard. It's not another damn prog thing, is it, I hear you ask? Yes, it is, although strictly it isn't Yes. After the first Relayer tour in 1975 the band faffed around for a time, each member working on a solo project. Alan White made Ramshackled, Patrick Moraz made I, Steve Howe made Beginnings, Chris Squire released his tour de force, Fish Out Of Water, but unsurprisingly it was Jon Anderson who stole the show with the beautiful Olias of Sunhillow. Although radioio and laut.fm tend to play one or another individual song from Olias, to me the album only works as the whole. Anderson may or may not have had help from Vangelis, and may have been completely out of his mind with the concept and the harmonies, but his outlook on life -- then as now -- of the sharing of love and happiness was so carefully wrought that the narrative often becomes another musical instrument in the production. It's the textures of the music I find so appealing: unlike Wakeman, Anderson didn't simply wheel in the old Mellotron for the flutes and violins we all know and love; his toned sounds were mostly the gentlest synthetic kind with a flute-meets-string-meets-oboe, along with his trusty acoustic guitar and beloved harp, and only occasionally did he bring in the rasp of a Moog on sawtooth with the filter cranked up. Anderson layered percussion upon multitracked chants of himself in the vein of We Have Heaven, with accents of glockenspiel and bell trees, all wrapped up in lots of echo. But it's the melodies themselves that are so absolutely gorgeous. Late in the album, Moon Ra segues into Chords, into Song of Search, and the exposed flutey string plays a simple, slow, slightly ethereal line, accompanied by a just-audible stethoscope heartbeat. Bum ... ba bum ... bum ... ba bum. The quiet of the piece is in such contrast to, and so well timed after, the rousing climactic Solid Space and the majesty of Moon Ra and Chords that one is caught in sudden reflection while the music washes over and around. The last minute and a half of the album is a reprise of sorts, with just the sparsest of arrangements that finally bade the listener goodbye as though the music was floating to the sky itself.

June 29, 2011

In bright unbroken beams

Saturday, June 25, 2011

12.06. I've been on the ECML lots of times, on Class 91 electrics, HSTs and Voyagers, and today takes the biscuit. It's cramped here in coach B for anyone with long legs and the ride is stiffly sprung and harshly damped, which means my handwriting is all over the place. Mind you, this is the Edinburgh to Newcastle section, which is always slow and bumpy and twisting. I even had to change seat because my booked seat was so tight as to wedge my kneecaps hard up against the one in front. It's also very stuffy in here, in the quiet coach, and not all that quiet. Just passing Morpeth now. My GPS has recorded an average speed of 95.1mph over 107 miles, and 123mph top speed.

I still feel sure I've forgotten to bring something, but I never did make a 'going away' list. I checked with next door for feeding the wee ones, so that's ok at least. The Brompton is wedged into a luggage bay, not as much space as on a Voyager, but it's ok. I slung the lock around it to be safer, but I'm at the power car end so it's less populous on the station platform. I did scout around the back-to-back seats but they're full of bulkheads or too narrow or have boxes marked "Danger" and "Risk of Electrocution" taking up the space. Man, it's really stuffy in here.

Dave says he'll come to this evening ride if he's there in time, so I might at least have some company, though I think everyone probably knows him. It should be fun, though, as I haven't seen Peter since the last time I was at the show. I'm not really sure why I keep going -- I'm not unaware of new bikes, but I also don't need another one (yet), and I don't need more clothes or more tools.

12.25 and Newcastle. At least this time there seems to be a fairly strong forum presence planned, if they hang around for Sunday; I've booked Monday off for travelling home, so I'll be doing that fairly early. It's interesting how you hear the 'whoosh' of the power car as it energises itself before the train moves off. Ok, another 80 miles to go and maybe time for some proper speed! I'm obviously in too deep already, noticing where goods yards used to be, sidings, old embankments ... it's all ever so slightly ridiculous. But it also reminds me of how much our railways have gone to the dogs, and the roads. We'll be into York about 13.30 so there should be plenty of time to get to my hostel and dump some stuff before visiting the museum. I might -- ooh, this train really jerks as it changes gear -- spend a bit of time seeing York more, and maybe see if I can buy a decent case for my telephoto lens.

Heh. There's a Dad in the seat near me who's just been told off by his seven year-old daughter for letting his iPhone start playing music far too loudly. Twice. Lots of disapproving looks, not just from me! 12.38 and Durham, and we still haven't gone more than 123mph. Driver must be conservative today.

Just gone 13.00 and speeding out of Darlington to Northallerton. I've just noticed that the old train shed at Darlington South Junction still has its little turntable.

Sunday, June 26, 2011

14.16. Well then, I had a nice wander around the National Railway Museum yesterday afternoon, once I was installed in the hostel, which took a while. It was really quite busy. I took lots of probably not very good photos, and then walked back to the hostel to get my bike and collect my bikey stuff. I pottered over to the show, and rode up and down, before eventually finding Peter and a bunch of Velovisioners, and then the yACF contingent arrived as well -- all doing the pub ride! I saw Tony and Joan and TJ, and it was good to see them again. Once at the pub I bumped into Charlotte and Julian who somehow hadn't spotted me earlier (I must've been on the wrong bike), plus Kim and Adam and others. Dinner, which was a big veggie burger with chips and coleslaw, took ages as they had so many orders but it was excellent food. I chatted with Peter, Sue, Mr Sue, Dylan, and Dave who'd just arrived. It was beginning to get dark about 21.45 but we didn't set off until gone 22.00, though no problem as I'd brought lights anyway, and rode back into town along the cycle path through Bishopthorpe and over to the racecourse.

It was good catching up with people. I chatted longer with Dylan before creeping back into the hostel without turning on the light. It was a very hot night and I eventually slept only on and off, plus I needed my earplugs which I'd also thoughtfully brought with me. The man in the top bunk was snoring like a trooper, poor guy.

I was up again at 8.15 and had a lovely breakfast of cornflakes, a croissant with peanut butter and some orange juice. I ambled into town for the show and then over to Charlotte and Julian's tent to say hello and have a cup of tea. I never had tea with milk that came out of a squeezy tube before. So it was about 9.30 and already t-shirt and shorts weather, but I'd brought layers with me just in case, because it always rains at York during the show (except the very first time when I went with Liz, and when it tried to thunder and ended up being roasting hot). And so far, it's roasting hot here! I wandered around the trade tents afterwards with Tony who was camped nearby, and we had a long and interesting conversation about everything under the sun. I did buy a second headlight in the end, although the shoes and socks were all in 'common' sizes so there was very little to fit me. After that I was kind of done by about 11.00, but I wandered around some more anyway.

I chatted to Tony, Joan, TJ and Kim in the food tent and then bought a big hotdog for lunch. It came out of a caravan but actually it was very good. Gosh, it's so warm today! They left and I finished my hotdog, then I went back to Tony's tent and met Adam again. While we were chatting there a guy from Edinburgh came over to us -- he wasn't from yACF or any other forum I knew of, but he was interested in my bike because he was tall too. So then I had a longish chat with him! I didn't bring any sunglasses or a hat and the sun is intense. But so far I'm not burned so that's ok. Dave just called so maybe I'll catch up later on. I can see a huge queue for the ice cream van that's parked up a little way from here. I cannot believe the weather -- it was trying to rain when I cycled down to Waverley. Actually I'm feeling a bit heady right now, and I'm not sure what's best to do, but some riding might be better than sitting like a sea lion on the the rocks.

There are lots of Bromptons around, I saw an Easy Racers Ti-Rush, Lee's brought his Fujin, and there's a Greenspeed tandem; then there are Dawes Galaxies, the odd Litespeed and all kinds of tourers. I also met Nick Lobnitz from Carry Freedom, so I spoke to him for a while about the Paper Bicycle. Decent guy, and a good simple bike.

Hmm, it's interesting how it's now mid-afternoon and I've defaulted to writing and sitting by myself. It's not unpleasant, mind you, except for the heat. It's only a shame that the silence is broken by so many little petrol generators for the burger vans.

16.23. Well I wanted good weather and I got it. This afternoon I think the sun's got to me -- the sweat is pouring off me (mmm, nice!) and I'm feeling headachey and wobbly. I took myself to the supermarket down the road to buy bananas and chocolate milk because I remember what A told me two years ago when I was in the same condition ("eat this, and drink a ton of water"). So I've had one and a half bananas -- they're a good size too -- and I've drunk everything in my water bottle, so fingers crossed. The shop was closing at 16.00, which I couldn't believe, so there was no time or presence of mind to buy paracetamol or a towel or a hat. If I'd only brought my Buff I could have soaked it in cold water. And I'm too cheap to buy another Buff, because goodness knows there's enough choice of them here today. I really need a lie down, to be honest. Dave is off somewhere, Tony's in his tent for a siesta and a plunk, and I wish I didn't get so affected by things like this. The chocolate milk is very good, even though it's Tesco and therefore I don't like it.

It's been a mixed day, really, it started nice and people gradually dispersed. I could have wandered around York but I didn't.

17.03 and I'm feeling a bit better, as long as the sun doesn't get too much. I seem to have acquired rather red legs and arms, in a rather typical cyclist manner. It's still so warm! The show is mostly tidying up now. There are rumours abound that this show is going to be the last one, even more so than the one before, and the one before that.

22.00. I spent the early evening with Tony, Kim, Marj and her family at their caravan and was fed cake. Dave came along later on. I talked to them for a while before the family left for town to get a meal; the rest of us talked a bit longer and footered around in the sun ... but I had to get into the shade because I was cooking and I felt pretty rubbish. Tony came over to chat and I suddenly felt ready to cry from the heat and exhaustion. Fortunately I got over it. We finally left about 18.30; Tony and Kim left for their tents and Dave and I went to find something for dinner. I had a quick change into more normal clothes, and thought I was looking a bit red. Just down the road was a take away, so we ordered pizzas (nice and safe, ham and pineapple for me and about the right size). We eventually ate them at the river side, sitting on the wall with my feet dangling. I would've liked to have my feet in the water but it was a bit manky, plus there were lots of ducks and geese to peck at me. We had a long conversation about cycling and trains and stuff.

I'm sitting here on my bed with my Buff finally soaked in cold water and draped over my forehead. Ahhh! So, an interesting day, not the best for heat and health, but ok. At least I can do more night riding now. When I got back to the hostel the others weren't around yet so I put the light on. I am BRIGHT RED. It was never meant to be so sunny or warm -- I had my cotton 3/4s, my long sleeved HH top and my Goretex jacket with me in my bag because I was sure it was going to rain or be cold. Nothing of the sort, just heatstroke. Mmm, I'm trying to finish my chocolate milk before going to bed; feeling hot and full, and my Buff is dripping cold water on me! So to tomorrow, and an easy start.

Monday, June 27, 2011

11.23. I've just caught my train home. The coach is lovely, the weather is lovely, the temperature in here is lovely, everything's lovely. I was expecting a Class 91 electric at 10.32, and I'm actually onboard a Voyager at 11.18 -- running just a touch late. I'm in the quiet coach on this formation, right at the back, with loads and loads of leg room and little Henrietta Brompton is living on the not-busy-at-all rearmost luggage rack.

I went for a wander over to York Minster to get some photographs and to generally enjoy the place. I set off from there for the station about 10.00, and fairly whizzed along the road. I bumped into Tony on the station concourse so we had another long chat! At that point an Australian cyclist turned up, all sunburned nose and scalp, with a Revolution touring bike and a bike bag for his flight. We talked to him for a bit, he left for his airport train, and then we resumed our own, to talk about wildlife photography. It was a nice, final, chance meeting.

I also had a long chat at breakfast time with a couple from Dunoon who'd been at the show as well. He, a teacher, immediately recognised my engineering interests, and they went so far as to offer me a cup of tea and a bed if I was ever over that way and drookit! Otherwise, the hostel itself was quite businessy, in a way, not as homely or bohemian as Oban was, or indeed mad Carole's place. I took some pics of the grand insides before I left and some of the outside. Apart from dying from the heat, it's been not too bad a trip -- but then adventures always suck when you're having them. What I am looking forward to is seeing the wee ones again.

12.33. The train is still running about 45 minutes late. They said it was to do with problems with lineside equipment near Tamworth, and they hinted at further problems. Great! The quiet coach filled up at Newcastle with the Ibiza bunch, all suntans and overly-blonde hair and mobile phones not set to silent. Mind you, there is precious little reception here and the coach (or DVT I suppose) is completely GPS-proof, so I have no idea how fast we're going. The train guard did acknowledge this fact, with a knowing yet weary smile, when I asked him earlier.

Postscript. The journey back to Edinburgh was as quick as it was uneventful, and true to expectations it was raining when I pedalled out of Waverley Station. But after a mile of Princes St and a stop to buy a birthday card the drizzle was no match for my sunburned arms and legs, as I peeled off Goretex for Helly Hansen and then just my t-shirt for the hilly ride homewards. Through the door and after a quick change of clothes I was out again to buy a present for my next door neighbour, then I was lifting kitchen floor tiles to clear up a little reminder that I wasn't the only one who'd felt unwell during the weekend. With the tiles disinfected and hosed down I then set to repairing the bag of cat food which had been sliced open and cut to ribbons by claws unknown, and then retired to the garage to drill holes in Velma the VFR's windscreen to fit a spoiler.

And then with a dinner of huge slabs of lasagne inside me, I had very long, very enjoyable, hot shower. Maps were put away, batteries were recharged and photographs were pored over. And so, happily, to bed.