The Bike and Other Stories

Second Sunday in Advent

Sun, 6 Dec 2020 23:44:22 CET

Cold. Sun had graced the morning, and with the family I'd walked a Christmas Tree home. But it was time, time for the reckoning. I'd moaned all week about weather and work and reasons not to go out, well, here was the opportunity. True, the clouds were down again and the air dampening by the minute but I had no excuses. The body, if not the bike, needed the attention. I got the layers on, made sure I had all the stuff – bite to eat, juice, tubes, levers, tool, phone, cash, identity documents, one use rubber gloves, you know, the stuff – and no more excuses, left.

Actually felt decent, the wind had turned and was on my tail, pushing me through the silent streets, urging me towards the forest. Arms cold but legs and torso fine, fingers and toes, well fingers and toes are they ever warm on a winter ride? I wondered how many others I would see, this late, this weather, this day.

As I rode, I debated how far I could go. I was late, of course, but had spent much of yesterday muttering about needing a longer one, at least longer than the 30k dashes to which I'd been confined earlier in the week. I was outside now, and things felt different, there was no way I was going down to the bridge, and then back around ebay, whether hammering or spinning, and that was a debate too, I needed to be warm but I didn't particularly want to suffer. Now there's a joke – you want to ride in winter and avoid suffering? That's like telling God you want to be born human but not suffer.

I was kind of getting the pull to head north, through the Siedlung where Jens lives and then back down via the hill. I'd get some distance in in, especially if I returned that way and the wind would be favourable. But, if I was indecisive surely that was a limiting choice, better to head down the Krone to where at the bottom you had choices, like, maybe you would want to do the bridge after all, or something similar. Southward it was, immediately regretted as the wind seemed to head down the rise at the mouth of the Krone, making things, hard. I needed hard.

At the bottom, feeling grim, I fell for the simplest route with the option of a longer return anyway, and promptly got caught on a descent by a guy who almost immediately stood up. Not questioning why as I wanted to ride alone I passed him and pushed on, the steady rhythm of the legs, enough to sweat but not enough to well, suffer. The steady chill of the wind was another matter, hands were not happy but functioning well enough. Just before I hit the hill I heard voices behind and was again overhauled by the same guy, but this time with his colleague in tow. Now I understood why he'd stood up earlier. They passed me, gunning for the hill and I did not feel in any state to do anything about them, even though his colleague, wearing jeans I noted, was already slipping back. Williberg was asserting his authority. I kept pace on the climb, unwilling to suffer, or suffering enough but up top I couldn't help but gain and eventually pass on the undulations below and this time opted to push on, away, quickly. As I did so I noticed the light spraying off the solid water of the lake on the left and realised that was the picture of the day – I'd take it on the way back.

Oh you are coming back this way are you? I questioned myself, a decision seemingly made already by me and for me without my noticing. Hmm.

I kept going, urgent, blindly skipping past Postfenn towards the more brutishly steep but shorter Angerburger Allee. I'd dance up it, right? Wrong, as I turned it was an immediate baulk, and a heavy limbed slog was the method, out the saddle, in, and cars today for some reason passing uncomfortably close. The road bent and steepened, and wind began to course down, threatening to halt me. I've never been stopped on a hill. I've never. I'm getting old. The sky is grey. The clouds are low. The road has flattened. Good. I can rest. There's a car behind, can he pass? No. Better up the pace then. Work. Suffer. Turn the corner and the road is two way and wide, the garage is on the right and I am top of the world, watching the highway traffic stream between Berlin and Spandau. With a decision to make. No decision. Decision made earlier. I'm going back the long way.

I stopped, adjusted my hat the brim of which had been falling forward unrequested and assessed the frozen state of my thumbs before pushing on, wondering for the second time that day if I'd taken the wrong route. There's still time to turn back, I argued but there's a picture to take I'd promised myself. Some driver chose to overtake me at a speed barely quicker than mine as we reached the junction at the bottom, always annoying and in this instance slowed down my turn and then there I was, out the saddle pretend dancing home. Here were the photo angles but the light had gone, the sky thick, the water glum, and the rider needing rhythm out matched the diarist photographer pushed to the hills and the long ride home. Up down round and around gasp for air, tuck on the descent, just keep moving, where is the assistance, in the summer I'd be travelling 10k per hour quicker here, nod to the guy opposite wonder if he is suffering because I am. There's crud caught between the front wheel and the brake again, on this endless damp lumbering drip tank of a debris strewn bike path of a day, heading north, heading home, praying nothing goes wrong because surely I couldn't handle it. Of course you could, it is easy. Don't wanna.

At the top of the Krone it's time to empty the bladder, switch on the lights as long before sun down the darkness has fallen and stretch the leg that has been protesting the heavy weight work of the last 8k or so. Getting older. Don't want to ride with anyone now, as I don't want to compete and want to stop when I need to do so without bugging others. I grab a small stick, shove some of the debris out and then a guy on a mountain bike descends from the trails just ahead of where I've pulled over.

“Is everything well?” quoth he, and of course it is but I have to clean up the bike here and he laughs and says yes he has to give his a good scrub, pointing to the mud and tree debris, well, it's a mountain bike say I, no wonder and he admires my bike and seems to know more about it than I do. The 2006 model? he asks. And yeah, winter, cold, and bike cleaning, part of it right, to be expected? I can only agree then he wishes me a cheery second Sunday of Advent and moves on, and I get to pee.

As I ride off, lights flashing, I think, oh that was Jens, surely. Or not? I'll (probably) never know.

Later that evening, snow hissed then fluttered its kiss on the ground and rooves of Berlin, silenced the traffic and enhanced the children's delighted cries. There'll be no road bike for a couple of days.

Berlin 2018

Hiatus

Tue, 24 Nov 2020 22:49:37 CET

It’s freezing at night, a few degrees above during the day. More importantly perhaps, the asphalt has been damp, continuously, throughout the whole period. Crucially, I just haven't felt like it, whatever else was going on. Plus, the odd break in cloud cover has come at busy moments in, well, what can be called “Real,” life.

We are in Advent after all.

And the Solstice is close.

Maybe I will rejuvenate as the year turns.

Every day though, a couple of kilometres to school and back, watching the red flicker of my daughter's back light easing away down towards the junction where I hope and pray the traffic follows the rules made to protect her, and the lorry drivers remember their blind zones before shunting the steering wheel to the right, before depressing the pedal and pushing on into oblivion.... all while I travel a hundred metres behind with the other girl, who is really too small to trust a correctly observed transit through this admittedly well behaved main road intersection.

It will soon be Christmas Eve – Holy Evening – maybe I will get out that afternoon for the ride to quiet, maybe I will run into Bernd, as I have twice before on this day, he of the sixth place finish in the Tour of Germany, and the children in the secondary school down by the Volkspark, he of the insolent ease riding up the hills of Nikolskoe or bridging gaps that open in any bunch he happens to be part of, he of the convivial company as the winter shadows lengthen at mid-afternoon times and miasma seeps from the strewn snow on the forest sides. Maybe....

Berlin 2018

Lantern Waste

Tue, 27 Oct 2020 21:43:46 CET

Down in the back end of Lantern Waste I was able to steal a moment and listen to silence before the far-off shivering tree tops in the west wind started whining again.

Anniversary

Fri, 23 Oct 2020 16:32:02 CEST

It's been just over a year and over 5000k (not counting city and commuter riding) since I returned to 'serious,' cycling after a long absence, and Ben along with Adrián, showed me the Grunewald loop for my first ride.... I feel so much stronger and fitter now, and have had some brilliant and brilliantly hard moments. Basically, I'm deeply grateful, for the help, the road, the bike, and the landscape.

Berlin 2012

Lambent Pavement

Sat, 10 Oct 2020 18:55:12 CEST

Lambent pavement, soft spray, the kiss of tires through silent streets. Winter's chill at bay.

Berlin 2020

Looking For Jens

Sat, 26 Sep 2020 00:40:33 CEST

It was while out on one of these cold rides that I got to musing first about pedalling, and then second, about what had been the coldest ride of the year, possibly the decade. Possibly ever?

Pedalling was pretty simple really. On my favourite sections of the Krone, the undulating but slightly resisting mostly uphill section coming back just where those two holes are before the speedy bit into Huttenweg I sort of experienced pedalling differently. Instead of pushing up and down I was suddenly turning, gurning maybe, heavy weights around and around and around, a heavy push, a follow through to get around the peak apex... it lasted a couple of minutes and then I couldn't hold it anymore and reverted to a more normal (for me) melange of thrust and follow through and small pull maybe and then spin and then change up a gear again and push and groan at a slower rotation... actually I can look smooth, elegant even, but only when not trying.

I was sweating, but this was a cold day, when the wind bites your face and brittle tree twigs look like they'd slash your board like cheeks open with a glance but to go home you have to do this anyway.

And anyway, it's not as cold as that night ride to Jens. That night when Jens had decided on his madcap scheme to “Everest,” Teufelsberg which meant some hundreds or even thousands was it, summits of Berlin's highest climb, the one that was built by the Trümmerfrauen after the war and features the remnants of a Cold War spy station at the top. So Jens was doing this and we were all invited, and that includes me, to accompany him.

I couldn't go during the day, although I saw some coverage of the event, you know, interview, lone rider against a stark copse of trees background and so forth, and resolved I would go that night and climb a bit with him. Family accepted it, Vincent was away or something, Sascha had to work or something. I was alone, underdressed maybe (but two jackets?) and doing what I never do: setting out after nightfall. In winter and the temperature dropping fast.

By the time I rounded Auerbach, by the S Bahn the road was starting to ice in patches and I was slowing down, nervous, but a guy came by who seemed to know how to ride these streets in these conditions – and whose back light was busted. I tagged on, lending my light as I followed his line through the suddenly unfamiliar corners and had him down as going to the same place as I. Once the road opened I went alongside and mentioned the light and we chatted a bit until he turned, apparently not interested in the antics of one crazy Jens on a seriously frozen night after all.

My tires hissed through the crystallised specks of moisture on the asphalt, some corners already hardening over. Time to be careful. I was in the last stretch down to the base of the climb where I could expect to find our hero Everesting to raise money for charity. I'd do my bit too! It was pitch black as I left the last street light behind, and almost immediately saw a gaggle of lights in a car park to the right, too short a distance to be the climb proper. I kept going, pausing only to adjust the front light from flashing to still so that my eyes could begin to adjust to the lack of light, and although nervous figured to soon arrive at some base camp of sorts.

I didn't. I was down at the gate to the eco farm, way too far. That lit up area must have been it. Nothing else to do but turn the bike and head north again. One could easily disappear here. One fall on the ice and a broken limb, stuck there inert, unconscious maybe – how long would you last in what was now an extreme freeze. And I was already cold because I was scared to move fast on this quick freezing road. And what if there were those far tougher than I, and more criminally minded, who fancied a bike (all lit up in an otherwise pitch black) and a wallet to possess? A police car came slowly into view, headlights wandering the road, I thought he would stop and interview me about what are you up to so crazy in this freezing night, oh Englander. Yes, mad dogs and Englishmen in the hard evening moon looking for imagined cycle events – but wait, slow now, the light gaggle was there again and clearly, actually, this was the base area for this ride. I went over and joined a scraggly crowd of adequately dressed individuals and enquired about the Jens. Oh yes he is there, will descend soon. Minutes passed, that felt like hours and then I overheard oh he's gone home for a break but he should be here soon. I waited on, chatted a little, was I wearing enough asked one fellow who purported to be a cycling naif. Yes was my reply, if I am moving but this stationary stuff.... just then there was a loud clatter by the ingress to the area we stood – a cargo bike over in the ice, the rider groaning on the tarmac. A few of us hastened, hesitantly he rose, we straightened his bike, he joined us, unhurt, but I was seriously cold by then, starting to tremor inside. Enough was enough, I would have to go without greeting the big man this time, as I needed to rescue myself and get home over these very obviously worsening conditions. I knew there was a coffee shop at the top of this road, that might save me, even enable a return to the event, although inwardly I felt done, and knew a hard return home awaited.

Bike dumped outside by the cafe window, inside I gulped as best as I could scalding hot chocolate and attempted to warm from the centre out. This was not frozen outer reaches in a wind, this was serious deep freeze. There was no way I was going back to that mountain, this evening, in fact I wondered if I was getting home on a bike at all, but there seemed to be no other realistic way. Whatever I did I was frozen, surely it was best to be moving? I'd had enough, more cocoa and I'd need to pee on the way; it was time to be moving. Back down through the Siedlung, past the stadium, shuddering, tires hissing, legs seeking to turn, eyes alert to the street light sparks and blinding beam headlights of cars. I opted to ride through the station underpass, instead of the usual extra 500 metres, barely moving, freewheeling through in the hope of some shelter such as there is not from this kind of sheer cold, Even here a couple of station employees admonished me, “better next time walk,” to add to my misery, wearily I agreed “next time,” and waved as I passed avoiding discussion. Once emerged into the city side I found the street not so icy. There'd been a real drop of temperature in the forest compared to the city area this night. I got home, and after a long hot shower sat for a long long time.

Aborted

Fri, 18 Sep 2020 23:04:47 CEST

The moment came, and despite the lowering sky and near frigid temperature I went for it. Mysteriously my back tire was flat, but not so mysteriously as I knew that the valve was dodgy, and so re inflated the tube and it held. My phone was charged but then I remembered I was out of credit. A quick test confirmed this: I could receive calls but not place them. No taxi home today then whatever happened. I could call an ambulance though. Hmm. I had two tubes with me, although did not want to face a road side change in this weather. If I left in a hurry maybe I'd meet Sascha who'd left earlier coming back and join him for a few k. Maybe. About an hour of daylight proper left.

The wind was in my teeth as I worked, out the saddle, then in a tuck attempted aerodynamic shape, but none of it made the journey easier. The sky was lower and was that spitting snow I was feeling? Pushed on, surely if I hustled I'd find Sascha or at least get down to Schwani, but the weather increased and so did a certain nervousness. A couple of potential wrongs are fine, but here presented four.

Potential flat tire owing to not having changed the back tube before leaving. Imminent darkness.
Unable to call home or a taxi (well, that wouldn't have been a factor decades back but times change). Potential weather thickening, quickening. First and fourth especially, offered a depressing combination if such was evoked, as two advanced inexorably.

After about 30 minutes I called it off, and reversed for home, as fast as I reasonably could do so. Win some, lose some, get to ride another day. Saw no sign of Sascha, presumably safe and warm recovering after nifty moments on the hills. Snow attempted to skim my face, the road was hissing damp. Car lights glistened. Decorations were up on the Ku-damm, this first Sunday in Advent.

8th and Broadway (Bikes Borrowed and Stolen)

Mon, 7 Sep 2020 23:22:31 CEST

“But I thought you were only going round the lake?”

Yes, the lake. The mysterious reservoir of Chew Magna, a five mile circuit of mist shrouded, low cloud engulfed spirit house. The taken by fiat ride of the village boys, during the pause before dinner to build an appetite or skip homework in the name of fitness.

Also the first miles of a journey to Weston, or in an alternative direction, Bristol.

I was not a village boy, though I longed to be.

Like the village boys I had gone to Weston that way once, past the northern half of the lake. To meet friends and friends of friends and hang out at the Technical college and pretend I was and aspire to be a student there. To be anything other than the South London escapee who was all too soon to be returned to that environment where he did not wish to be.

When my turn came I too slipped past the lake to West Harptree and carried on down the wavy ribbon road that drove through the flat fields, hinter lands and ribbon villages that adorned the path to college.

This next time though, I wanted Bristol. An action unannounced even to me until I suddenly sought a journey to my birth city and scene of my first eight years, a sign and symbol for all my longing for relief from the (I felt) much too hard vicissitude of that particular South London I lived with.

I borrowed the bike, said my goodbye and see you soon, and left with no pump no tube no knowledge of how to remove a wheel, just went.

Gone.

I’d gone into Chew and turned my back on the lake segment. Instead, on a hunch I followed a sign right, one that claimed Bristol was 11 miles away. I’d ride down there, do a turn and come back. At least I could say I’d visited the city this trip.

The road, a sinewy course of battleship grey tarmac climbed out of the village, with the usual guiding middle stripe, occasional stone farmhouse and drywall couching a spinny of trees, broken farm machinery and posh car. I pedalled further, it generally climbed even as it negotiated dips and valleys. After each descent, I would stand in the saddle and churn up the other side. I sped past a mother and daughter out for a stroll, and gasped and snorted noisily in order to underline my strength for them. Look, see me, how good I am… a last effort, surely now I’d see the city. And I did, working my way up a long slope to a sign and there it was spread below, a miasma strewn glitter pulsing in the thick light of oncoming evensong. How far? I screwed my neck around in order to read the sign. Eleven miles. 11 Miles!? Something wasn’t right - I must have made a false turn or mis-reading something on my way.

I considered going on, down the hill to the welcome below that certainly looked a lot closer than 11 miles but I couldn’t risk a mistake again.

Dusk hovered in the hedges, banked above the lanes. Reluctantly I turned, retraced to Bishop Sutton in the gloaming. On my borrowed bike.

But I thought you were going round the lake….. is all I recall of the telling off I got from the mother of the boy who’s had loaned the bike.

A couple of years later, back in London I scored Vicki’s bike. Vicki was kind of the it girl at school - also “Head Girl” - busty, blonde, American, and talented. She spent much of her spare time in the Art Department, working on textiles. I decided to emulate her - somehow this possibility of staying on after classes were officially over hadn’t occurred to me before she led the way. I would work on my painting or occasionally stained glass, and then later as time progressed we took to going back to her house for more academic studies.

I needed the bike for my commute to a summer job as the tea-boy on an inaccessible building site in Crystal Palace sports centre. No lake to circle instead came a climb and a descent in both directions. The bike was an orange racer with ten gears. The first time I rode up Crystal Palace hill, well, I didn’t. Instead I was forced into the ignominy of walking the steepest section as I had left the bike in the biggest, a sprinter’s say, gear. I learned though, and kept the bike through the summer, only reluctantly surrendering it to its rightful owner as winter adumbrated the turning year.

The third, and the first that stuck, was a Falcon, also orange (or was it gold?), bought in the early eighties from Lou’s shop in Penge for my commute to the Elephant. I learnt to climb hills on it. Crystal Palace, Anerley, Dog Kennel, College Road, Streatham, Sydenham, Denmark, all encountered at various times during those commutes. Over time all eased from leg numbingly hard into smooth and easy, familiar and welcome. Sharp short and demanding, I’d race up them against cars and cyclists alike. Every morning I was greeted with a hill. I got better, went further until this bike, replete with mudguards also rode the evening ten out on the A 21, usually needing about 25 minutes to complete the undulating circuit which while not a top three time was considered a decent outing on that course. It wasn’t Sean Yates who during this period went under 20 minutes, down near Tonbridge. A national record.

I do not remember the eventual demise of this bike, but I did manage to collect some insurance money and augment that with enough to buy a Roy Thame. Light, with butted tubing and removable mudguards this became the fourth bike. One I rode for a while, a regular commute across South London to Avery Hill, then a not so regular commute to the Laban Centre at New Cross as I increasingly opted to take the train in to my musician work at the Centre. Eventually she was stolen. Embarrassingly, left outside a seemingly deserted Penge West station and I think, stolen by the only other customer I saw there that day as I bought my monthly train ticket. Of them all that got away, that is the one I still grieve and hope to replace. More on that see the story “Lou”.

In Holland, naturally I had a borrowed Dutch Bike, an uprightly serene and stately galleon that I propelled, (although at times it propelled me) through the clanging trams and shopping areas of Kralingen to the dance class gigs I then played, to Delfthaven for the long medical I had to have in order to start that gig, or to the Hal 4 in the Waterwerk where I first met Joke. More on her later.

I was stopped once by the police for riding without lights. Luckily I was able to play the innocent foreigner well enough to be let off with a warning although I understood enough Dutch to realise that they were wondering if I was a Dutch guy taking the piss by pretending to be English.

That winter I left from Groningen (where I had no bike but a friend) for Berlin (where I eventually acquired both). The bus to the border crossed endless mist and wet roadways, and when I reached Germany the sky darkened noticeably. I drank acrid coffee, and stared through the rain at the first hills I had seen for several months.

Here I had some no name racer that I never rode far. That I eventually sold before moving to NYC. I recall no bike shops, no rural routes, no flat tires. I don’t remember buying it. I do recall taking it to Cologne on the train. and then onto Rotterdam, where it arrived separately some days after I left to return to Berlin. I recall the light on the Ku-Damm and Kantstr and Kreuzberg. The barking of the dustbin men and the clatter of bins heard but not seen from our balcony. The pillow case pink clouds as the sun rose on the long walk home early morning after the late gigs out. For some reason I rode the bike but little there. In the early eighties it was for me, that kind of time.

8th and Broadway

In New York came the orange Flandria. Procured by the girlfriend when she made the ex boyfriend return it. I had it serviced in a shop on 8th and Broadway where they flatteringly asked if I would be racing next season. My heart leaped at the idea, but my brain busily counted the fiscal reality of getting set up for that. Besides, I had a budding music career to tend.

This bike did some erranding though, from my eyrie on West 10th up to the Graham School on E 63rd or across the Village to NYU Tisch on 2nd ave. Over Westwards to Cunningham regularly one brief Summer. It was under constant threat of being stolen away from me, and eventually was nicked, along with the girl I shared life with then. In both cases the result of my laziness and in-attendance. And something of an echo of how the Roy Thame was stolen, or maybe more apt is that the loss of the Roy Thame adumbrated the loss of the Flandria:

Generally I hooked the bike over my shoulder and hoofed it up the five floors to the apartment door. Generally I locked it on the landing by our front door.

One afternoon I neglected to lock it, but some instinct caused me to check out there just as a guy had it hooked on his shoulder and was disappearing down the second flight of stairs. I tore after him, but he was fast, as fast as I was in pursuit, until without shoes but wearing socks I lost my footing and fell after him, my feet ricocheting on the rubber tread of the pine stairwell. Muffled but loud drumming echoed as I clattered and battered, fell like a skier feet first close to his back as he panicked and threw the bike down and ran the last passage way for the door with my property between us. My heel was bruised for months.

The bike was safe, at least for a few more months until a stupid afternoon. Returning from one errand, but knowing I had another shortly, and understanding that this was dangerous I locked the bike with a weak cable to the fence and climbed the stairs alone.

Of course I returned down to that ghastly empty space of mourning where the bike had been. Casting about like a hound searching a spoor, I refused to believe my own memory of how I’d left her, searched for the joke or joker to end this bad dream. Then realising life goes on even if the bike doesn’t live in your hands anymore and that there was no point stopping to report the loss I turned towards 5th ave and resumed the day.

After the debacle of the Roy Thame at Penge West station a couple of years earlier I should have known better. And this time there was no comfort of insurance for the immigrant musician in NYC 1985.

8th and Broadway

The cacophony of drums and shouts and large vehicle traffic, the scurry and hurry of an alienated lonely crowd in haste. The sound of a woman’s voice - quintessentially English - serenely pushes, cleaves, calmly through, nostalgia aching on very vowel.

“To be in England in the summertime, with my love, close to the edge”

The jeep runs the light, hangs left at Astor Place.

Tears….

8th and Broadway

“He hurt me,” she suddenly cried. “He dug his elbow in here,” pointing at her right breast. We stopped, I put my arm around her, soft protective. She whimpered. Suddenly the rage took me. Am I a man? I left her suddenly, ran and kicked out, thumped his head, then turned back. To her. We kept walking, south, and he did also, north. I think.

……………………………………………………………..

At the end of the eighties I was back in London, where another bike I loved and lost was the Dutch bike I bought from Imbert as he moved to the USA. It served me faithfully between Falconer’s studio and various Camden night clubs to my girlfriend’s flat in Hammersmith and Rambert Academy in Richmond, to my rooms in Kennington and the Central London Subud group.

In the late night small hours the exhilaration of coursing down wide monumental Central London streets under the summer half light glow over smooth asphalt was a complete sensation.

Eventually the studio expanded into two locations with the acquisition of the Firehouse studio as Falconer 2 in Kentish Town and I left the bike there as a Taxi for anyone to use between the two locations.

I was heading back to NYC.

I have few memories of the silver steed I briefly had there this time and no idea of how I acquired it. Perhaps a salient moment was when I decided to get involved with the ad hoc racing in Central Park. I tried to grab a wheel, hang on the tails of the first fast group to come by, just as the circuit turned to cross the northern edge - I remember a small rise? - but I couldn’t hold the pace and I thrashed out of the saddle to get back in as the group parted then closed again to absorb and circumvent smaller family groups out pleasure riding. I nearly sideswiped someone as we thrashed on. “What are you guys doing?” screamed a voice from behind and I knew I had been a culprit. I had terrorised a small child perhaps, or nearly smacked a father busy with his brood.

I was dangerous! Not fit, not tuned, not ready.

I lent it to a friend from England, who turned the handle bars and ruined the ride position for me who had no tools available to fix it and then it went to a mutual friend in Brooklyn who described nearly ramming parked cars while tottering along astride the beast.

Her working days were over.

There was one other, again silver, a too small for me that I bought for my eldest daughter that I later commandeered to commute from the East Village to the Cunningham Studio in Westbeth. My knees near scraping the bars I would sprint buses on ninth street or totter with a guitar on my back along Bleecker Street. Occasionally I tried riding uptown but that was when I discovered just how gridlocked NYC had become. No urban warrior and my daughter also disinterested we hung up the wheels in the basement until we moved to Berlin

Bikes now?

Well first there are the workhorses - aluminium a battered old tanks with panniers and racks, an old steel single speed that in its heyday was a more than decent track machine, the children’s bikes and the two carbon framed road machines that I drive through Grunewald on my thrice weekly quest for fitness and food for the heart. More later….

Berlin 2020

Shadow Hare

Fri, 4 Sep 2020 22:21:43 CEST

I’m flagging, I need a hare.

Don’t worry one will come.

I don’t see one.

Then I will do it.

Said my shadow.

I will lay down in front of you and unflagging match your pace, echo your cadence even as you speed up and catch me and seek to go by me I will leg sapping and mind numbing match you stroke for stroke until we are home.

But wait - what do we do when I have to turn and come back down, the light glaring in my eyes?

Then I will chase you, teeth bared.

End Summer

Thu, 3 Sep 2020 21:18:27 CEST

Rode home at dusk, a balmy warm summer evening, past a garden party spilling out onto the road, the feeling of endless summer everywhere. A few more turnings on then I glanced at the sky to see the first ragged V formation of birds wheeling towards the south-west.

Berlin 2018

Post Stroke Muse

Sun, 30 Aug 2020 21:11:50 CEST

On the bike earlier when the weather was grey and the wind stiff enough to make me want to get off and check the machinery because I was sure it is was not working properly, I had moments of questioning why I was there at all.

Later in the warmth of recovery it all made sense again.

One aspect is that the fitness level contributed to my body's handling of the stroke in October.

I'm now feeling close to where I was, physically.

I still feel like an observer as some functions are being remapped neurologically, but basically it is all there. I don't feel close to being exploded into a thousand particles of inchoate energy and light anymore, as I was in the days and sometimes weeks after it happened..

A gift is a new enthusiasm to play guitar. And from the relief of survival flows a drive to be purposeful. In those earlier scattered exploded moments I was able to formulate the reasons I should be back here, so I seek to honour that intention.

2016 February Berlin

To The Bridge Yet Again

Sun, 30 Aug 2020 00:48:27 CEST

Went down to the bridge, did all the little hills, the 10%, the 8%, saw what you don't want to see which is an accident, nursed my gammy right leg, saw a tree work vehicle at rest, passed many many cyclists ranging from smooth and fast training roadies (I hung out in the wheels for a few k) to family groups wobbling down the Krone...

Brief Encounter

Fri, 28 Aug 2020 18:54:16 CEST

Just got burned by a guy on a TT bike, well, I stayed with him long enough to see him pull over up the road and puke, presumably from the effort. I kept going. Best ride for a very long time.

Another day in Grunewald

Mon, 24 Aug 2020 18:58:22 CEST

18 May 2020

Another day in Grunewald when my legs sort of felt apart but managed to structure themselves again for the return, err, leg. The roads were busy, proper warm sun brought loads out, including serried ranks of hipsters who were heading to a rave on the normally tranquil Lindwerder island. Also, as I rounded Postfennn and Angerburgerallee I could hear the crowd roar at Olympia Stadion, the last game of the football season. Me, I kept going, solitary, churning pedals.

3rd September 2020

A grey slab of sky picks out the dark flecks in the cobbles. Autumn is nigh.

Jacket

Thu, 20 Aug 2020 21:28:53 CEST

Back in Berlin after a week without bike. Saturday afternoon. Twenty degrees, clouds, showers. Rain jacket stuffed in back – no, rain jacket on back. Get warm first. Sweat, jacket clings to the skin. Harder than anticipated, glad not to be talking. What is wrong with me, do I have a cold?

Down at the bottom, stop, stretch the gammy leg, remove the jacket, pee, decision about where next.

Decision made – bridge – remount.

Gotta move on. Breeze is cold, I am not working so hard but am making steady progress into a wind, monitoring the leg, the chest, spinning, I'm back, back in Berlin, back on the bike, finding my way. Clouds grey overhead. Keep moving, I don't need the jacket. Or do I? No, I'm turning to the houses, the first low hills, taking the corners well, nimble progress, up and away, down again, the little patch of off-road and then the second batch of hill, a long shallow drag just enough to test the legs before descending to the little roundabout that marks the bottom of Moorlake proper. I do those pretty well, the 8%, the Russian church, the walkers, the cars. I'm not gonna scare any other riders but it seems, cautiously, like it might be a good day after all. Cold still.

Bridge. Sunshine. Pictures for Facebook. Back on bike, along by the water, careful of the walkers and family cyclists now, keep turning pedals but stay alert past the cafe/restaurant/coffee stop/toilet we never use and hit the 10% at a decent pace and remarkably, keep going. No traffic, can zig zag, making decent pace, glad I went alone, no one to disabuse me of my fantasies.... but I'm smooth and still able to work once up there and the road gets eaten by my wheels and I'm alright down the highway and the bit where you really need to speed with the traffic if you want to turn with the traffic and I'm first at the light and up towards the forest but the sky is starting to spit and sure enough the spit becomes a shower but I want to get back to the bench where I stopped before before stopping to adjust anything although it is thickening maybe. Maybe. Maybe yes. Keep working forward. Through the rain.

At the the bench and stretch. Again. Don jacket although under the trees maybe I won't need it. Immediately sweat but ride anyway, back up the Krone, past the two little holes, over the ruggedly ribbed section, through Huttenweg and accelerate up the little slope before hitting the patch for an “endspurt,” that I don't really have but I sort of vaguely stand up anyway and the rain has stopped but I keep the jacket on not sure if I am sweating or have a cold or whatever, doesn't matter now, stay alert, cross the main roads and slip downhill towards home, another ride booked, another step in the holding the body well task, now in hand. Sleep later.

The Bonk

Fri, 14 Aug 2020 23:12:26 CEST

That CTC (Cyclists Touring Club) run suggested by Lou was my first excursion into the Kent Weald, On a freezing foggy day of low visibility and hands sealed to the bars by iced windchill at a 15kh pace appropriate for “sightseeing,” we left the meeting place at an I just couldn't ride that slow pace. Not on such a day as my circulation both blood and foot on pedal about seized up. I could see the hedges and not much more.

I tried to enjoy.

Eventually I found the courage to explain my predicament to our no doubt very decent guide and leader. I couldn't hack it, please don't be offended but I need to get home at a decent I mean faster pace and be warmer as I go, yes I know the way (I didn't but I could follow signs and needed to move move move).

A few days later, back in the shop I told Lou, and begrudgingly perhaps, he opened the door to the Club Run. Hence I found myself early one Sunday morning in tepid Spring sunshine somewhere in Bromley at what I learned to be a standard meeting point with the lads straddling their two wheeled steeds and me more or less having the right gear. Mudguards yes, not sporty perhaps but considerate of my fellows, tights maybe, I do not recall how cold it may have been, and this being the nineteen seventies my “bonk bag,” a loosely based on the professional's “musette” shoulder bag in which I carried my spare tube (I was on pressures not tubulars, if you had the latter then your spare was tied up under the saddle with an old toe strap) and indeed, theoretically my Bonk rations. I also, of course, had a bottle full of water sat in the cage on the downtube.

“Alright, shall we get this moving then?” called some wag in mock authoritarian tones and with similarly mock grumbling our feet found pedals, nimbly kicking into the straps, some clicking if they had cleats as well, all bending at some point to tighten the strap as we went two abreast, out of London, dropping down the scarp to begin the long opposing dip into Kent and the Weald. Frost rose from the grassy fields and surrounding hedgerows, we had the lanes to ourselves. It was Sunday morning; sensible people were still asleep! Legs working, some sporadic conversation and I could feel the first hills push back at me, and loved it.

We pressed on, curving past spring flower loaded lanes as only Britain can provide, past copses, thickets, quiet farm houses, moisture laden verdant fields. The first real climb entered under our wheels and as we pointed upwards a couple of older riders, including our mouthy friend began to slip back. “This is where I fall off lads,” quoth he, his barrel torso rolling, some sweat starting to appear. I felt fine, willing the pace on even, wanting to test my strength further. The ride regrouped at the top, and we descended into some village somewhere that had an open cafe. Bikes casually slung against each other and a wall, no locks required, we adjourned. To my surprise my legs were almost stiff, but I wasn't hungry, which I thought a good thing as I had enough for a coffee and a biscuit, no more. I couldn't have faced the carbo-loading my compatriots were doing at that point, my adrenalin was too active.

When we left my legs protested, but I soon conquered my natural laziness as we began to climb again, a short burst that turned into flatter territory.There was some discussion of routes until someone declared for all, “We're gonna go up such and such a hill,” a name I have now long forgotten, but not the slope that was leg sappingly steep and stubbornly convex as the horizon stayed away and the group split into sweating and cursing riders who couldn't hold the pace of the first few, one of whom, Rafe, I'd exchanged a few words with earlier. A few years older than myself, with experience in his eyes and scrawny legs I could see him bouncing side to side, sometimes leading the group or sitting just behind... I slowly let go and fell into a kind of no mans land between groups, still others scattered grumbling far behind, the front pulling away, this road rising against you forever, the slopes to the side beckoning you down if you failed, legs stilled and unbalanced, slowly toppling away, sun blinking through trees and sweat refracted eyes....

My first taste of real climbing.

Suddenly, finally, I crested the summit, and with the frontrunners waited for the panting ride to regroup. I emptied my water bottle. I also checked my bag for food, although I already knew there was nothing. No matter, we were heading home now.

As later I learnt happens often with these kinds of excursions, the group began to disintegrate once it arrived at the homebound roads. Some turned east towards alternative routes, others dropped off elsewhere or surged ahead or went where ever, I don't know, but unexpectedly I found myself with Rafe as we headed for the bottom of Reigate Hill. We talked a little, I moaned about my abilities, fishing for compliments and hit pay dirt in that I was reminded that I was the second group up the climb earlier. Not bad. We pedalled on in silence. My legs finally began to tire after the distance... but his did not. He seemed to surge, then surge again, but he wasn't, it was my legs weakening, as an emptiness streamed into my body rendering me almost translucent with lack of vigour, I stood up in the saddle once again to catch his wheel, but his legs, trenchant, monotonously kept turning the cranks whereas mine, now starting to tremble, did not. To my horror, he, remorseless, disappeared up the road.

I was alone.

The bike had had enough of me, and let me know definitively by hauling hard on my legs with each pedal stroke, dragging my seat deeper into an already sharpened saddle. Also my arms refused to absorb any more of the road chatter that now was able to shake my entire being. I had to get off.

Pulling over I could barely lift my leg over the cross bar, but somehow managed and let the bike drop. I dropped too, into a grassy verge and spreadeagled gazed at the sky. I'll be alright in a minute, I just need a pause.

Another cyclist rode by, cheerily called something about “That's the good life, take it easy,”. I weakly raised my arm to wave and croak a greeting, but he was gone.

The trees blocked the sun, the grass grew on, minutes that felt like hours passed and I knew I'd probably recuperated as much as possible. Trembling, I brought the bike to the curb, straddled and pressed a wobbling leg into a toestrap. My jelly legs and will urged the pedals to turn, turn again, turn, as I ached my way up the ever steepening road, at a speed almost certainly slower than the slighted CTC ride of a few weeks ago. I was truly bonked.

The Bonk. Hitting the wall. Bike legend. Notoriety. Basically Glycogen loss, blood sugar loss, a crushing emptiness that requires instant carbohydrate loading i.e. eating, to recover. I was 25k from home. Maybe more. I had no food. I had no money. A little bit of legs. How much Will?

I fought for the hill, grappling with every section gained, thinking that I could freewheel down, down into Croydon, maybe get some recovery there, but by the time the road tilted in the right direction my body was on fire again just from sitting on the bike.... I stopped briefly, wobbled to a man trimming a hedge in front of a small suburban terrace house and begged for water. He gave me a strange look but took my bottle and reemerged with the precious liquid. I demurred to ask for food, I could see the confused, maybe less than welcoming countenance of my unwilling benefactor....

Somehow I made it through Croydon, and the only other detail I remember is asking a bus driver if I could get on. I must have paused, waited at the bus stop, in vain of course, as bikes are not allowed on buses, however Sunday empty they are.

When I saw Rafe a few weeks later, I got up the courage and asked him. “Why did you leave me stranded the other day?”

“Oh, I thought 'he knows what he is doing,' and just kept pushing on...”

“Oh...” I had no reply. I must have liked looking like I knew what I was doing.

I've never bonked again, although I've come close. Always take enough food and liquid for the ride, and some cash as well. When that weakness tanks down into your legs, fuel up!

Rain Jacket

Sat, 8 Aug 2020 00:37:46 CEST

Today was a peculiar day. Rain clouds scudded across the sun, showers then brilliant light penetrated the foliage and presented itself as I attempted to spin the pedals, nursing a not so strong right leg whilst teaching the left to involve itself again.

I say 'again,' because I realised as I was out, yesterday I think it was, that I had to use my legs differently. I threw the question, as I rode, out to the road, to the forest slipping by, to the glowering clouds. “How?”. Or, “In what way?”. And an answer came, in memories of riding decades before, of “Lead with your left. Like you did before.”

It was a music thing, see. Or a music for dance thing. Connecting movement phrases to simple rhythm, the pulse in my leg, setting up a pulse, riding tempo, and deliberately counting with “one,” on the left leg, as the leader, particularly on four and eight count. Even numbered phrases. Threes are interesting. I try them shifting weight across the legs, thrusting an alternative 'one', wondering if somehow, this can help me be faster. Especially going up hill.

Uphill. A village. In Somerset. The flap of sails on beached dinghies, the endless chatter of spinnaker in the steady sea breeze, evoked by the wind in the shoulders of the rain jacket Vincent gave me a few weeks ago, claiming it was too big, that it would fit my scrawny frame better. Reluctantly I concede he is right.

I told you it was a peculiar day. I've been riding in dreams for days. Struggling to stay awake on descents and stay fast on the flat. Humidity will do that. Today by contrast was less logy and enervated. The wind called for action, the clouds above responded, how could I not try? Ride in the present! I sprinted some, nursed the leg other moments, sulked, enjoyed the bluster and meandered my thoughts. Back to fixing the legs.

I used to go faster when I was younger. And not just because I was younger. Stuff has shifted in my body. Football injuries. Hours hunched over badly set up pianos and conga drums reaching for synths. And a stroke. All have left their marks.

So somehow today, a small miracle as I remembered how to ride with both legs, even engaging the left and resting the right.

Today then, I went out, I reversed the route only partly because of the breeze, as I thought about balance. Rain drops occasionally spattered, and the wind was cool, an autumnal August chill. I kept the jacket on, and the shoulders flapped vigorously in the stiff head wind that reminded me of the sea at Uphill, near Weston-super-Mare where we sometimes holidayed when I was small. A relative had access to a caravan, and my family was able to grab a week or two of that access. Days on the beach, when not climbing the steep hill to the old church that dominated the village skyline, or walking the dikes and marshland to the cliff peninsula of Brean Down. And the Donkey rides that waited there.

I had to stop again, stretch the leg. A few desultory mosquitos tried to swarm me. I took a draw from my bottle, organic apple juice and some chokeberry mixed in there as well. It didn't take much to right the leg, but its persistent misbehaviour is concerning. It's not like the strength isn't there, so it's a tendon issue. Maybe. Time to revisit osteopathy. Time to call the bike fit guy. Maybe the saddle needs to go up, or a shoe cleat adjusted. The moody sky threw down a few more droplets. I didn't reach for the camera, as I often do, and kept the jacket on. The sound of childhood holidays accompanied my not fully satisfied push north, the pedals turning the wheels as I sought to forget my legs for a few minutes and just fly, synthesised with the machine, elevated from the quotidian to be alive in the welcome muscular pain of the present. Nobody passed me, I avoided the small but troublesome potholes on the second rise, dealt with some massive delivery lorry that emerged from the trail to the city ammunition dump, and found I had enough in me to make a nice “end spurt,”as my German colleagues say.

An Adventure With Instnct

Thu, 30 Jul 2020 00:05:15 CEST

I did all the hard climbing at Nikolskoe (that can be a brutal series if you make the effort) and got on the final descent which can be very fast and I often try and make it so, except there is a blind curve halfway down and you do have to stay alert. However I'd decided I'd earned a fast drop, yet…. my fingers were reluctant, feathering the brakes, staying alert. After some inner debate I gave up the struggle and let the hands do their thing, and sure enough as I rounded there was a big white barrier across more than half of the road. Well, I thought, now I know why I wasn't scampering, but even so I pushed on as I'd already spotted the gap in the fence and figured it to be a small diversion. Not so - after some 10 metres or less the road ended - the tarmac disappeared and what was left was builders earth and pebbles and further down a couple of workmen. So of course, given I'd come slow enough I was able to turn the bike, completely reverse the gear profile and start climbing back up again, a kilometre earlier than expected. If I'd come down at 50kph as intended I'd possibly been in some serious trouble, certainly a fright. The first ride in a week, and relatively long and hard and hilly. Fading badly at the end, at 58k I was done, dogged it home.

Remembrance

Fri, 17 Jul 2020 23:17:11 CEST

11/11 is the appropriate day to visit the Commonwealth War Graves Berlin 1939-45 War Cemetery. Rain, wind, darkness, an occasional shaft of sunlight. Sadness at the stupidity of young lives eliminated before they'd even really started the journey. Just long enough to make mistakes, probably not long enough to start putting them right. Anger that there are still plenty who'd willingly send them out again. Afterwards, I turned the bike towards Grunewald, pedalled furiously down the Havelchaussee, destroyed the hill. Deeply grateful to be able to ride these roads. To live. Bike needs cleaning.

Rain soon scudded across my back, or was it clouds, between sharp slashes of watery sun. The weather angels had mixed messages. The intention though vague, was strong enough within: I was going to the Friedhof for Britischer Soldaten. I hardened myself but also weighed in that I could turn in a couple of blocks and create a circle home and be fine with that the weather held me back. Somehow it felt light enough for that moment to pass, and I consoled myself with the idea that if it was still shitty the S Bahnhof would suffice as a goal. By the time I was closer I was tougher: the Friedhof had to come first, whatever else. I could turn directly for home from there if needed, no need to get on the HavelChaussee and all that stuff. I turned north instead of south on the Krone, passing the quiet houses, no other cyclists until Heerstr when a chap surprised me from behind. Somehow he stayed around until the road that leads to Olympia Stadion. There he turned, and I wondered why he'd go up by the site of the 1933 Olympics today of all days. Maybe a short cut to home I had no idea of. Alone then I warmed to the task, legs rhythmic, mouth lolled open, thoughts stayed, waiting for arrival, travelling on alert instincts.

I'd first thought only to stand near the gate, astride the bike, maybe remove my helm and stay quiet for a while in respectful memory. As I'd done before. But the green slope in pulled and the light metal latch was easy under my gloved hand and I walked up, guiding the bike from the rear as one does, slowly entering the silence and the watching trees. Slowly something still entered me, even as I wandered and took pictures and wondered about those men and boys who lay there, some four thousand of them, lives cut short, obliterated seemingly in service to a great cause, but also in thrall to the endless stupidity of humanity. For I was angry as I teared up in that aching loss, angry at the lost chances. It didn't matter if they would have turned as a bad lot or a good egg, either way, the issue was that they never had the chance to make that choice. Who was the executioner, who has the right to remove this life and this opportunity from us? Surely war is murder is suicide? Who are we to send anyone into the unknown like this?

I put the camera away, signed the visitors book, picked up the bike and heavily, furious through my tears retraced my steps to the road. I thrust the left pedal down, and a surge of energy shivered my body. I crashed the second stroke and the bike sprang as I sprinted to the Havelchaussee. Unexpected sunshine cut the trees and tarmac that still glistened as I sped down the descent into the forest roads and the hill we all call “Willy”, owing to the phallic tower that is a legacy of Imperial Prussia's days of Empire and celebration of Emperor Wilhelm first or second or third – it barely matters in the overall arc of history, and history's wars. Does it? The hill sank beneath me, slunk into the valleys and gullies either side, the ponds shivering as I passed. I calmed at the summit, panting a little, then pushed on for near another couple of hours, steady, vigorous, stable, at peace with myself and the road, deeply grateful for the privilege of being able to do so.

Climbing Like Contador

Thu, 9 Jul 2020 21:59:46 CEST

A damp day, but cleared enough to ride. I'd been ill all week, acid dyspepsia or a cold or both or under the weatherness, whatever it was time to clear the sloth out of my body and at least, try.

There are pretty backstreets to bring you to S Bahn and the Krone, where everything starts in earnest. By the time I get there, I like to feel good, like I want to ride. Today, as I spun, rounding pot holes, looking right for speeding traffic (there's only the occasional car) I looked to my body for signals, to answer me, yes, this is the right thing to be doing at this moment. Go for it. At the same time I could feel the sickness circulating, my stomach radiating grumpiness. Stop disturbing me.

Head thick with snot, I evacuated a few times, snorting right and left, spitting into the wind with bikie expertise only it wasn't, because as I passed the elegant old church on elegant Bismarckallee I spat, only the wind took the snot and phlegm and detritus and flobbed it on my shoulder or in my stubble, and there I was sweeping it away with these little half gloves also known as track mitts and feeling vaguely embarrassed and disgusted, I did not want to be spotted by the elegant denizens of Grunewald, peering out from the picture windows in their villas.

Something about this episode woke me up, and after this I found I was liking the bike again, enjoying sweeping the corners, sprinting down and up the little rise before the S bahn and then out the saddle swaying my weight to grab some tempo up the Krone itself, a nice tail wind, my upper body finally warmed, legs pumping, warm internally if not on the skin...

It's Autumn, but this was a winter ride in spirit if not temperature or clothing choice. I glugged my juice, kept an eye on the lowering rain clouds, upped the tempo so theoretically I could get some sort of distance done in the hour before sunset and any worsening weather came.

Around by Inselstr there was a lamp on in the forest, also the bridge and the short but steepest slopes of the evening.

I'd been watching a video earlier: “Climb like Contador,” and figured to put my education into action. Up I got, weight forward, slinging side by side, I was going to dance up. To a degree I did, but winded by the top of this little hillock I knew I was no Contador however improved my technique was. Houses shuttered and hunkered, this is a rich corner of Berlin where the houses start with the retired chief of Police and end reputedly with Brangelina (when that was an item?) around the back. I rounded the exclusive circle, thought of stopping for pictures at an abandoned gate with lake behind, but didn't bother. The light had been special on the bridge and I had shot off a couple there for the Facebook. The body was feeling better, maybe sloughing some vestiges of a sodden week away.

No Contador but I conquered the rise into Wannsee, switching my lights on as I passed into the forest, shot off some video as I went hoping to communicate something of the gathering lush gloom of the glistening wet evening but it was a hollow exercise.

The wind was in my face now and I was spinning at 28kmh where on the same stretch coming down I'd been 34kmh no problem,.

Passed a couple of roadies, exchanged curt nods, fingers raised perfunctorily on handle bars, grim work countenance maintained. I got to Halensee, where unexpected evening sun ricocheted off flats and office windows and I stopped to point the camera again.

It was a winter ride in spirit, mostly because it had the kind of peace dropping relaxed tempo high enough to keep warm but not involved with other guys type of feel. Introversion starts to overtake the bike community, even in September.

The ride was over, the sun down as I arrived home, but I hope to at least repeat tomorrow, and knock the crap out of my system.

Competitive Interlude

Fri, 3 Jul 2020 22:17:57 CEST

He was on one of the smaller hills when I spotted him, working, but not hard enough as I overhauled him on the false flat after the climb. I actually slowed a little there and he decided to latch on, which I thought was fine although I gradually upped the pace into the valley and then the next, longer hill. I figured the peak would sort us out; either he was faking and resting and would come round me there, or, well, I didn't expect much else. I hit the lower slopes fast, and found that I still had good legs, and setting a steady tempo figured he'd sprint round soon enough. Halfway up I got out the saddle and started hammering, and still he clung there, not coming through, not saying anything, not going away.

I freewheeled the descent, to see if he'd get impatient. He didn't, so I decided to attack at the bottom, sprinting out of the curve, figuring I'd drop him there as I was now annoyed at my silent not quite partner. He held on. I stopped the attack as I was starting to gasp anyway, but decided to keep the pace steadily high, grinding away into the wind, figuring he'd be there till one of us turned. He wouldn't work. I kept speeding up incrementally, often a recipe for dragging someone to a finish line only to see them sprint past. I figured I'd blow up on the last slope anyway, that is a series of short vicious little mounds that'll break your heart if you don't respect them.

I slowed a little, so did he, I turned to see him, he kept his eyes firmly on the road. The road roamed ahead, a dark challenge under the trees, and then suddenly - he was gone. Just like that. I turned to check again, and he was already metres behind. I worried a little for him as his exit was so spectacular. After a few more pedal strokes I looked again. Yes, he was still on the bike, still moving, in fact out the saddle - all was well. I stood up myself, waved, then sprinted the last little hummock alone, heading towards the long straight track of the Krone and home.

The Krone

Wed, 24 Jun 2020 23:21:10 CEST

Oh you mad slither of a road, summer laden with bikies and family cyclists and skaters and runners and walkers, Even through the winter you bear a core group of hard experienced faces on bicycles most days and times. Except when the ice is down hard. Then the tarmac remains a rink long after the roads that cars frequent have thawed. Because cars do not traverse you. For you, Krone, are a bike path, broad and long, sweeping down between the Avus speedway (that leaves Berlin via the old Dreilinden checkpoint by the ebay building) and the forest. You are the flux of many a cycling adventure.

Kingston

Fri, 19 Jun 2020 23:25:51 CEST

…oh, that's enough. Look back and there I am twenty or twenty two years or thereabouts and a bike rider and have just gone off course riding a 25 mile TT somewhere in Surrey, somewhere, so no chance of a time, decent or otherwise and anyway, I am on an A road, the one that points towards Kingston……

Early one morning just as the sun was rising only the weather was grey I set off across Croydon towards Surrey intent on riding a 25 mile TT I'd paid the Fiver for and was therefore entered in. I was tired, hadn't slept well as I was nervous, and early mornings are not my forte. I probably hadn't eaten enough although I'd made an effort to load up the calories for the upcoming effort to drain. I had a sandwich stashed in my bonk bag. Feeling stretched and unsure I somehow got to the start and made my depart time. Still long before any civilised hour of breakfast on a Sunday in the Home Counties.

The starter held my bike vertical. I was clipped in, the straps tightly down and the timer counted me out. I was away, looking for marshals on this strange course, looking for the egress onto the A road, there he was, gesturing this way, no that, was I supposed to get on the A road south here, no, go around the roundabout, head north, I understood, I dillied, dallied, took the plunge and went around descending the ramp to the north side and put my head down and worked. Not too fast, but a rhythm, a stretch but leave enough for the turn and the second half, it's a long way, keep turning the cranks, head down, ride on the drops. Not entirely sure of the route I was hoping to catch somebody, or indeed to be caught soon. Maybe my minute man would be fast and experienced and as he rounded I would see his number And so it was. I heard the crease of tires on the asphalt and at one with his steed, body low, still, steely, trenchantly churning he came past. I kept my head down, set to let him go and keep my rhythm - and then I noticed his number. Far lower than mine. He had started many minutes earlier than I had. I was off course. Of course. Dejected but not surprised as it had been the kind of morning, I sat up.

Where was I? On an A road, south west of London, deep in Surrey, steered presumably towards Leatherhead or Ewell or Surbiton or indeed possibly Kingston. The latter being where my father lived. I decided I'd go up there. Hopefully they'd be home, and somebody, at least one of the small ones, would be up. I needed something to come out of this little debacle other than sore legs.

Time stopped, as she passed three ribbons through her hands.

I am in Berlin, writing this, tired from a ride, still buzzed, still sore. I am in late 1970s Surrey on a steel frame. I am watching the 2012 Olympic Road Race, a drone spirit bird lowered above the suburban asphalt poured into the screen, even as I am some hundreds of miles away from the action.

Time picks up the slack in the reins and unravels. I tack between grey laned highways and the dappled lambent roads of the London Olympics Road Race decades later. In the late seventies I am in in a period when only the eccentric ride bicycles, but I am looking down the time slope unknown to the future: which is a mass of athletes on carbon frames.

My world has exploded outwards, multi sighted and timeless. A moment. Moments. Spread around the universe and normal rules are being bent.

I'm on a steel frame, and my back is bent, riding a wind into London. I am watching on television, in Berlin, the same suburbs slip by, that I rode then, alone. Where now more than a million gather, cheer, pedal on their way....

Race over, I head out to the Krone.

For now here is the middle of this thing: I am in Berlin, and I am watching this race in Surrey and thinking that I rode there 30 years ago and that my father is no longer alive and therefore no longer there. Also, that I was an animateur of that riding scene when it was really relatively covert in England, but now in these dappled lanes and suburban byways it is really very apparent. A done thing. And my father is gone but bought me the bike I ride now. So still here, closer even

We pound around Grunewald, will this body back into shape, rejoice in speed, remember him and the others who went on this year. It's a long ache sometimes, the Havelchausee, but also celebratory, as spirits come, travel with for a while, then speed away on another plane. Because yes, I have felt, seen even, spirits and shapes, shades of old friends and colleagues on those hills. They visit a last goodbye on me, in a habitat they never knew me in. They dance on the slopes above my head in the valley, a last and first ride, and my taste of their freedom in the next world, is their gift back to me.

So as I watched that Olympic race, I felt the coming together of these threads in my life, childhood adolescence, my father, my bike riding, the British bike riding scene coming to fruition. In a certain moment I knew how they connected but I don't now.

I’ve still got the number on the bike. I get my head down, look for the signs on this northbound road, and work. I’ll find my way home.

The Girls Win Again

Sun, 14 Jun 2020 23:21:54 CEST

It had been a week. The usual teaching plus more plus illness had seen to that.

First the penultimate hearing of this music and dance or music analysis and dance or music appreciation for dancers or whatever this course is I have purportedly been teaching, of which the most successful moments have consisted of walking and listening to city sounds and moving in silence when in the studio - also great conversation on work, why work, why we started to work, where we want our work to go.

Then class playing, and a slow accretion of energy and instruments over at the Marameo studio accrued over three days, as I travelled the music gathered and waited in place.

For the group motion workshop last night, when a core of music, rose and embraced the room, energy coruscating between leaders (women) participants (mostly men) and music makers (women and men) including one of my daughters in full embrace of the process in graceful action.

Music is always there, waiting for an invitation, waiting for the antennae to be raised again, the receiver left open, the egress enabled.

But the organisational stress in every sphere had been overwhelming along with my cold or flu or whatever that had risen as the week progressed, as the weather thickened, each day grey and heavy, the sky opening buckets and dropping water on the burgeoning drains of Berlin, tides backed up, ponding everywhere, deep puddles that became lakes..

Still the rain fell, and still the pressure lay sunken, a soggy sullen presence malingering in every corner. Berlin squelched on, as did I, lucky many times - the last train home before the station was closed by rising water, the student cancelling as exhaustion drove me to bed.

At the close of Saturday evening then, tired but fulfilled, my girl by my side next to a pile of musical instruments I overpaid a taxi home and fell gratefully into my chair, as she took herself into bed and quickly slipped to sleep.

Sunday then, became an opportunity to seize, as sunshine broke for a few minutes and clouds lumbered by without precipitation. I had no idea how much energy I had, on the tails of the week's extra expenditure truncated by sickness but it was time to go. Tentative at first, wiping away spats of rain drops and noting the wind I arrived at the Krone, which was busy enough with riders to encourage. I got out the saddle on that first little rise and cautiously started to work. Nobody went by me, but I'd resolved not to chase anyway.

A little further up, when I'd settled into a comfortable rhythm a woman did go by, hard, training obviously, tucked in a Time Trial position, a study in aerodynamic focus, lithe light and skinny, like my girl who danced last night and indeed, rides a bike very quickly. Even if I hadn't resolved not to chase I would never have dared disturb that concentration by suddenly clunking gears and snorting behind her.

Next though, came a small group, and as they passed I decided that I'd be saving energy for later and still moving faster if I joined, whilst still feeling my way into the ride. I didn't work, just sat in, and of our two leaders, one seemed a lot smoother than the other. Another woman I noted. She led us a quick chase and pretty soon we were coming up on the first girl, but they left her out front, and the pace stayed high, but as long as I concentrated on keeping the gap tight I was fine. I found myself behind the front two, wondering where the others had gone. Before we reached Havelchaussee I made my decision: I was turning, whether they went that way or straight ahead. But they went my way and the pace stayed steady, down into the valley where, being heavier I could have passed easily but kept my ride conservative as earlier when I'd let a gap show it had been quite hard sprinting back on, and well, I had been ill all week. Best to keep something. But then there was the van, sat in front of us at a stolid 30k only less because he was stuck behind a slow cyclist and for some reason wouldn't pass. The girls got together on the front and started discussing, they were training, wanted the pace before the hill. We guys, I think down to three, at that point seemed to be content to wait, conserve some energy...

The girls had had enough and sprinted around on a semi-blind bend with enough room to accommodate and set off towards Willi (the hill) and of course a few minutes later as the pace of the cyclist in front of the van faltered on the lower slope the driver suddenly found the space to get by without hassle and the hill lay open for us as well. I figured at that point to drop contact and let the others go by but realised halfway up that I was gaining again, and with a sprint put them behind me on the peak.

But it wasn't until minutes later that I saw the girls as they sat up and waited for one of the men from the original group, who must have been training with them.

Perhaps they hated me by then, but I still wouldn't take the front, and the same thing happened on Postfenn as on Willi– I waved them ahead and still came back on everyone except the girls who'd skimmed up, light as on wings and happy. At this point I turned as I had another hill to do, and then Willi once again and a long slog through the thickening weather stopping only to stretch out a gammy lag once before getting home just as the clouds threw down again.

December

Sun, 14 Jun 2020 23:06:25 CEST

To the girl who turned me over at the top of the HavelChaussee - well done, I wouldn't have stayed away even if I'd known you were coming. To the guy who sat behind all the way up then jumped me on the descent only to wheelsuck you all the way round - I hope you made him suffer on the next climb! See you all soon.

Christmas Eve

Sun, 14 Jun 2020 22:15:14 CEST

I took the bike down to the bridge and just a few metres from the old east/west border found a quiet spot where the water held an endless conversation with the wind and there was no other sound, before I turned to the 10% incline that is quite enough for me these days thank you and then passed the Russian church in Nikolskoe that played out a version of "ding dong merrily on high" on its silvery tinkle bell as I sweated by, and on through quiet streets and warm lit houses full of family reunion, and felt that this crazy year had finally tilted and we slide now to the next.

Dopplegänger in Circular Time

Fri, 5 Jun 2020 23:43:29 CEST

And I stood in the hospital grounds and looked up at that old room so that the one who was there before could stare down at me and know that he would leave when the right time came.....

Children

Fri, 29 May 2020 23:33:48 CEST

The next day I followed the almost stalled traffic around Auerbach behind the small maybe five year old boy and his father exposed to oncoming vehicles around the blind bend. Yes, an astonishing sight, a special trust even here in Berlin, even on the entrance to one of the well known bike and skater car free promenades known to all local drivers.

Father and son speeding down the Krone. Boy about fifteen, dad working on the front. Me, riding parallel, wasn't going to pass up observing this or conceding distance. Easy, right?

At a certain moment I see father and son pull over, ready to go north again. I realise they are doing the same run as I do with my daughter – home to Havelchausee and back. Twenty K, say.

At Schwani I was fast but not as fast as the guy on the Pinarello who snuck up on me on the rise and although I comfortably rode in front again through the circle of houses – Schwani is an island of resplendent villas, some privately owned some institute - well at the bottom we sped, easy spinning but not hanging around and over the bridge by the cobble stones a boy calls, walking with his parents “quicker, quicker” and I hear an amused snort behind me and I raise my arm in jocular salute but I do not gas it anymore as I am comfortably fast and he comes up beside me and laughs “that was fun, as if we weren't already working enough,” but then he does forge ahead for a while, I keep him in view and pass again at the lights, “it's green,” I call in case he hasn't noticed as he greedily swigs but I didn't see him again....

up and away then, the leg holds up, past the two holes, past the gravel turning point car park at Huttenweg where, I feel, one must always watch, sprint the small rise into endspurt territory, yeah some rain but what of it, but it's enough

the city streets are calm, newly washed beaming in the unexpected sun. A young mother pushing the pram is singing “London Bridge is Falling Down,”, and peace has dropped, the mayhem of the road and young lives striving hidden behind shuttered houses and the last drops of evensong light before the darkness envelopes again.

To The Bridge Again.

Fri, 29 May 2020 20:30:41 CEST

It's been a while - months even - since I've ridden these roads. To the (spy) bridge. And back. Can't say that much has changed, least of all the rider. Maybe some thicker tree growth. Unless you reckon that the hills have inclined and elongated a little bit, or more than a smidgen. They have you know.

Ascension Day

Thu, 21 May 2020 18:58:11 CEST

I did not ride today, but here is a story from this holiday a few years back.

Also known as Church Day, Father's Day, Men's Day, Thursday and a lone public holiday in the middle of the Berlin Working Week although the children remain off school until Monday. Meaning a crowded forest and lake hinterland to the city.

So a couple of us, it was supposed to be three but a colleague swore off citing the pressures of work (ah that wonderfully international internet respects no divinity), took off around lunchtime hoping to get a slightly longer ride in. To mark our gender indicated day. Only as it turned out my ride partner had to get back by 1600 anyway, to meet sundry diverse family obligations. So it goes with families.

A lot of the usual routes were mad crowded. Families, courting couples, Bikies, Sunday Drivers, and large groups of drunk young men swarmed every street of suburban Berlin and the forest. We got down to Wannsee and the crowds thinned considerably at Moorlake as the slopes are just too steep for most. Of course we did get blocked a couple of times by Porsches and the like cruising at a steady 20kmh. Potsdam city centre was car heavy and cyclist/walker poor, the Russian styled village of Alexandrowka the opposite, and then it was time for the rugged bike path mixed with smooth but heavily trafficked road tarmac as we climbed towards Krampnitz. Which is a lovely piece of road once you get there. Flowing and scenic. All busy with bikes but fewer cars.

At this point my ride partner, despite being time constrained suggested that we skip the coming car heavy but direct Kladowerdamm and look for the Mauerweg instead. 'Fine,' I thought, although I had a good idea what the Mauerweg would be like, 'I am not the one time constrained and would be quite glad if we did find a decently quiet alternative'. To bring us to the inevitably busy main road ahead.

A little bit of side street sprinting and asking, and we did find our way to the path, a trail for cycling that marks where the old border stood all those years. It's a mess when it comes to taking a road bike, but ideal family riding. Narrow tarmac alternates with cobbles and genuine pavé, gravel and earth marks out stretches that flow or buckle past playgrounds and ice cafes and at one point it even turns into a beach as a particular house seems to have the rights almost all the way to the water front. We chatted with cheerful people along the way, checking we were on the right route, and cheered with more than tipsy Crusty Goth styled youths as we passed through their serried ranks. All good natured. One memorable descent of decent tarmac winding through trees and blind corners emerging into green vistas looking across towards Teufelsberg and Berlin and then we we hit the main roads again, all too soon. Or not soon enough after the cruddy surfaces and narrow alleys we had just endured as time was starting to press, and we had to hammer out the last kilometres back to the city proper and a parting of ways. I elected to take the slightly longer but more familiar quiet route home as he continued on the highway. I fancied doing a bit more, but felt it was still too crowded out. Time to slouch towards home and a long recovery.

May 18th 2019

Mon, 18 May 2020 11:35:09 CEST

Another day in Grunewald when my legs sort of fell apart but managed to structure themselves again for the return, err, leg. The roads were busy, proper warm sun brought loads out, including serried ranks of hipsters who were heading to a rave on the normally tranquil Lindwerder island. Also, as I rounded Postfennn and Angerburgerallee I could hear the crowd roar at Olympia Stadion, the last game of the football season. Me, I kept going, solitary, churning pedals.

My Ride Partner

Thu, 14 May 2020 22:58:04 CEST

When he isn't yammering he is hammering. Either way I am working! The trick is to get him talking at the right time, and then on a topic you do not feel really enjoined to follow or have expertise on. For example I can zone when he is talking about his gearing or the gloves he got on ebay. Buys me precious seconds of downtime and recovery before the next effort. And as long as I am still there with him I can usually get by him, or keep him back, with a sprint – the hilltop, a traffic light threatening to red (he will always run it however far behind me he is) and the last Endspurt at Auerbach.

The weather has been a downer. Overcast, cold, damp, windy, and none of it from the tail. Grind along, check the speedo for comfort find you’ve been traveling even slower than you thought.

So it's good to have a yammerer to hand sometimes..... although I hate when I take off on a hill, leaving him far behind stranded like a beached whale, sweat pouring from my screaming legs and lungs protesting – but it is all worth it because I've dropped him but no... here he is, easing beside me again and yammering as he does so!

Oh but he can be a wheel to follow, like a magnet, up and upwards again, skulking through the almost solid wind of Brandenburg, its endless argument finally shutting everything else up as we turn and head for home again. There's a sparkle, a welcoming dance even in the car headlights above as we travel under the bridge at Auerbach, drive past the villas and soft streets of the suburbs, now pulling on a rope, the rope of home and feeling it's good that it is done.

Intentions

Fri, 8 May 2020 01:52:51 CEST

With the temperature hovering around freezing and a steady wind from the East, bright winter noon sun falling westwards glaring back at me on my course – I knew it wouldn't be easy. Still, work has to be done, and with the threat of more serious snow in the coming days it had to be done now. How much – as yet I didn't know, but I did understand as I passed by Auerbach that I needed to turn north and look for some hills. Traffic was up. Sunday Drivers out, of course, on a Sunday. I tried some red light running myself, with mixed results. The first time I was able to create space for an oncoming cyclist crossing Heerstr by the S Bahn, the second time at Olympia stadium was not successful, with a justifiably irate driver sounding his horn as I hurriedly pulled up metres past the line. Pace was steady, the wind friendly enough and the layers I had on maintained my inner temperature adequately. I formulated the route in my head, and resolved to work hardest when climbing, taking time off in between. Down into Grunewald then, noting that many had come come out for a Sunday stroll in the sun and that the roads were unexpectedly – after the gaunt emptiness of the overcast week days of last week... crowded. I swung right, made off towards the Angerburger and the first hillock of the day, short but brutish and rendered more complex by close passing sleepy auto-drivers and the like. I attacked, or at least shadow boxed my way up, enough that I arrived panting at the crest and was still driven on down the narrow road out, by cars behind – and my desire to show off my fitness level to the strolling pensioners in a Kiez which has the highest average age in Berlin – an age level I am swiftly joining. One down, more to go, I descended Am Postfenn into the sun again, cap brim dipped, greeting brothers and sisters doing the ascent on the opposite side of the road, and this time, swung left at the bottom. More greetings, more hustle, don't forget to pull on the bottle, are you warm enough, too warm, you're not passing anyone, nobody's passing you.... Willi! The hill! My enemy!! Out the saddle, show him today, but as ever, it's a normal climb. Coming this way it sub-divides – the first section is shallow and I attack out the saddle, as do many, the second part I sit and rev on a low gear, like, umm, Chris Froome maybe, or hopefully at least like me in control, that is not weaving all over the road, maybe upping the tempo at the end, sprinting even to catch whoever before enjoying what is one of faster descents ever found on marsh and sand foundation pancake flat Berlin. Further up and further in – I hit the bottom and again remember to knock it off a bit but maintain what I hope is a crisp and even tempo past the strolling lovers and ageing married couples, the skipping children, the lone wanderers, the abandoned to Sunday rest pipe laying building roadworks area that looms by the lake, the car park where the divers congregate in summer, and up the stiff little slopes at the end of the run by the lake, remembering to dig in a bit here, pushing down to Schwani, through the lights, the sparkling lake light spraying off the moored dinghies, hitting the climb hard and arriving at the top void of strength, pedals barely turning, free wheeling past some of Berlin's richest housing and gawking Sunday strollers, completing the circle and feeling fine, start the reverse journey home. I could feel the call of the short way – up the Krone, as yet unridden today, with plenty of fast moving asphalt and no doubt, wheels to follow or be followed by.... but now, I took the leftward direction, stayed on the Havelchaussee as I hadn't done Am Postfenn going up yet and that was a lack. Still, I felt some reluctance, and whether coincidentally or not the sun disappeared behind troubling banked clouds for a few minutes and the wind was definitively not helping at this point. Also my leg was suddenly stiffening, that had been behaving well, maybe because I had been the pacesetter and had chosen light spinning much of the way. I kept going anyway, forgot to check if the guy I'd seen fixing a puncture was still at the car park entrance, then found myself at the bottom of Willi having a miniature blow up. Speed dropped, and I was crawling at hitherto unknown slow levels, still steady, but wondering if I was due more suffering than I had bargained for. To the right the valley, ahead the road, I stuck my head down and crawled, crested, descended, the leg somehow torquing in an unpleasant way, a cramp maybe, but I resolved – made the intention - to get to the top of Am Postfenn and then climb off and stretch, wait, do whatever needed doing.... I ground out the last section, somehow the leg settled enough but I climbed off anyway and got it up on the convenient brick wall that had provided this service many times before, slugged juice gratefully and watched a little for whatever was next.

The young man cycled towards me, on an old steel bike, one hand on the bars the other clutching a small phone. Could I tell him how to get to Messe-Sud. It's the other direction I gravely informed him, about three kilometres and turn right. That wasn't so bad, he offered, and I agreed. He thanked me, and proffered his hand, and I gladly took it. Although I had no chance to remove my glove first and felt remiss that he'd had contact with the receptacle of my slime and sweat of the last hour. I hoped he hadn't noticed the damp material. Here maybe the shadow on my ride earlier, that slowing, had paid off.

I could have ridden further down that way with him but felt no need, and I'd already made my intention – my “niyat” (Arabic) as he might have said – to hustle the last kilometres before the bridge. All bets off after then.....

Alf Engers

Fri, 1 May 2020 01:17:38 CEST

A Tuesday evening in the 1970s, dark, and I'm coming back from a gathering, high on good feeling. I've also got a rhythm going, hurtling through the curves, but I'm aware of the car behind me, and I can feel his interest. Fuck it, I'm going so well, he can wait. I'm staying in the middle, holding my pace. Another day I might have slipped in left a bit, necessitating a slight drop in speed, giving him the room to go through. I'm on a good day though, gonna keep that for now. There's a passing space up ahead, near the Three Tuns pub where Bowie used to do his thing, anyway. Sure enough, as I get there and the road widens, the engine revs behind and I can almost feel the foot on the accelerator. I'm waiting, and yes, he comes up and the passenger window opens. Here we go. I'm anticipating the abuse, perhaps flob or ejected object. South London, on a bike at 2200, what else do you expect. I brace. It wouldn't be the first time, for example when I was spat on at the Old Kent Road.

“Hey, you're flying like Alf Engers” he roars in full on approval, and then the car is gone, up the High Street, towards Penge. I shiver, although a warm glow courses around my being, and it's not all sweat from the effort. I've just been paid one of the biggest compliments possible in the bike world in GB at that time. Alf Engers, the King, Time Trial record holder, a being of supernatural strength and stamina, crushing all comers on his drilled out filed down feather light steed. Me in the same sentence?

Battered

Thu, 30 Apr 2020 17:02:14 CEST

Powered up all the little hills and stuff today. Wasn't going well in general, a lot of wind, but the slopes seemed there for the taking. Paying the price now.

Modular

Sat, 25 Apr 2020 22:07:46 CEST

Like most cyclists I think, I see my routes as modular... they consist of various sections I can piece together in various orders in order to achieve various aims. For example, I want hills, or I need distance or to avoid traffic. This also means, at least sometimes, now that I know these roads well, I can go on instinct, feeling the state of the road ahead vis a vis my own needs and purposes. You know, if I need elevation I head to Schaeferberg or Angerburger, or to spin and cover distance I return via eBay, if I want all of it I go around the Lake via Krampnitz, maybe returning via Willi. Etc.

I often read books that way. But then, I rarely read fiction.

Sometimes though, it is important to cleave to an intention made back in the house. Once on the road ideas and wishes pull.... turn this way, stay out longer, make it shorter, sprint on the hills, freewheel down... but where is or was the conscious decision? Made at home an hour ago, or now, received in the moment with the clarity only a road warrior can have? I drifted from what this para is supposed to be about – honouring intention. Whether it was a favourable feeling or not to complete a certain circuit is secondary – what mattered was a consistency of purpose. Make a decision, any of those roads will bring you forward. Then best to stick with it.

The Other Side of the Lake

Sat, 25 Apr 2020 22:05:06 CEST

I was out cycling round the other side of the lake today, being beaten up by Ben who it must be noted, is actually training for an event. When I could look up, the sun and water and farmsteads and pasture land was indeed, beautiful, but the road was… hard.

Crested The Rise

Mon, 20 Apr 2020 23:00:40 CEST

I crested this particular rise on the border line of London, facing south, for the first time. The land exploded, a copious spread of yellow, green, the lane like the old straight track shimmering with the call of the scudding clouds on the blue sky at the horizon. My chest also exploded, whether from exertion or from resonating with the beauty, it didn't matter. The bike pulled me forward, sure with intention.

The First Ride after a Stroke.

Sun, 19 Apr 2020 22:06:07 CEST

As soon as possible, maybe days after being allowed home, I took the road bike downstairs, and slung a leg over the saddle. With care and caution I mounted and balanced – at last I knew I could still do it. I turned the steed to the right, slipped up the pavement towards the bike path by the main road, head into the wind. But I wasn’t riding yet, no, patience was required, and weary already I dropped down the drag of the closest side street, changed a few gears, pedalled 500 metres, passed the small playground closest to our house where our children had played many summers and shakily took myself home, sneaking the bike up the stairs back to its seemingly now undisturbed position. Later though, I came clean and messaged my wife that I had done this.

I couldn't stand the rehab. I was given a week or two later – board games, ball games, waiting between tests and events.... the gym was good, made so by flirtatious and helpful assistants who recognised my wish to do it right and to move as soon as possible... but, after a week I made some excuse and took the afternoon off. I felt like a patient there, and I refused to become that. It was all around me – broken misconnected bodies and brains, I did what I could to help, conversations here and there but I was too fragile myself. I was in danger of going down.

The weather was clear, if Berlin grey and I turned once again to the bike path. This time I was going to Schwani. I'd packed the phone, the bonk rations, the emergency repair kit. This was for real.

I don't remember much about the detail of this ride except I felt solid. Unlike the day after my release when I'd insisted on walking home from the doctor's surgery. Then the world had narrowed to a tunnel, one step following another, only one pace whether crossing a road or navigating the busy high street, up the hill, past the mosque, the Russian church, home, to slump grateful and triumphantly knackered at the kitchen table.

Today I was on earth, the forest passed me, the autobahn and railway slipped and flowed away to the left. So far so good. I remembered the little slope at Schwani, got up it no problem, already half way home as I turned and steadily if slow and alone pushed back over the long missed Krone.

I posted note of my success on social media, and was chastised for going alone by a couple of sensible friends. They had a point. But I had to do it, my will was to get back. For the family if not myself.

The Black Rider

Sun, 19 Apr 2020 21:52:26 CEST

There was a dark rider pursuing me, down the hill, gaining, spitting as he came on his black wheels, clutching a scroll for some reason. As he closed he called.

“I have your name here.”

“Who, mine? No, I made a deal.”

The shadow was beside me, just in view, attempting to pass on the left.

“Your name is here. You are supposed to come with me.”

“It's not time yet. I made a deal. I have things to do, other lives to safeguard. Go away,“

He looked perplexed, less self assured all of a sudden.

“Go back and check,” I told him.

Suddenly he was gone. The slope at Schwani beckoned. The sun’s light jumped from the lake to the remnants of Versailles wall to the placards and signs at the top that describe the history of this corner. I completed the circle at the end, gladly descended back towards where he had materialised and now was nothing, not even an emotional shroud in the air. It was Spring and I was in Berlin, heading for home.

Sunday Feb 16th 2020

Fri, 17 Apr 2020 01:52:52 CEST

This morning I felt heavy inside and disgruntled, kipped a bit sideways by work -a gig at a free moving dance workshop - the night before, and logy. Sleep hadn’t lifted everything and breakfast had possibly contributed to the weight. Came a break in the weather and a time of the day when I could choose: sleep more, or ride. Nobody from the regular riders I knew fancied it but the weather was warm and the sun, albeit watery, putting in an appearance. I knew the light would be beautiful out there. I could take some pictures.

I cornered Auerbach and decided to turn North, chasing down a guy in yellow and knowing the wind would be behind me at least for a while and I’d had enough of battling it already. He turned just before I caught him, never mind, at least I had a head of steam up and momentum, spinning pedals and breathing in rhythm. I felt I was doing alright but then a car closely tailed by a fast boy over took and pulled away ahead, I watched him in all his joy vim and vigour and panache dance out the saddle, around the car and felt with him in his beauty as he danced. Soon he was gone but I was alive, awake, shedding skins as I sweated. The wind stayed kind. On Postfenn as I descended I was greeted with warm smiles and waves from comrades ascending, everyone out who could be to catch the weather and rejoice in the sudden community of these moments. Light skidded from the water across the denuded spiky forest but I decided not to stop, to savour the moments, to capture the images later.

A mistake actually as the light shuddered down in the advancing cold gloaming and the views faded all too fast. The one beach I stopped at was littered with cars and somehow cluttered. The road pulled on, now into a stiff head wind and up a drag to get me out of the valley back to the Krone. Here, mercifully. I could turn again, pick up the tail and work my way North, across the city West and home, heavy legged and light hearted.

Basso Profundo

Fri, 17 Apr 2020 01:41:59 CEST

NYC 1986 (approximate)..

It had been a while – years even– since I'd ridden a bike with any intention of being speedy, or of being seen as such, but I was in NYC, on an old battered Flandria, retrieved by a girlfriend from her ex boyfriend for me. A bike I liked and felt better on than I should have, given its weight. Or my strength.

I was on my way to the Graham School, and fancied sprinting. Taking out a few slowed cars. Uphill. And I'd hang a smooth left at the top instead of waiting subserviently, waiting for the cars to clear, the lights to change.

I danced on the pedals, or rather, honked, and found I didn't quite have the power I'd expected as the road steepened. I was on the outside, left of two or three lanes of disgruntled New York SUV guiding drivers totally unused to cocky European cyclists, and indeed intolerant of anything resembling weaker users in the savannah like mayhem of Manhattan traffic.

He leaned down from the high black tinted window of his high black vehicle. His voice, an insane basso profundo that seemed to make the skyscrapers vibrate around us. “You,” he told me, “you are going to die”. The window rolled up and he was gone.

The White Rider

Wed, 15 Apr 2020 18:37:36 CEST

So yeah, I hit the Krone already feeling decent but there's a guy there comes up behind me swooping around while I am checking out the guy in the full world champion kit (I kid you not) that I am flying by. Anyway, of course I grab the wheel of swoopy guy and we ride two-up all the way down, and he means business and piles it on and I try to match until he turns.

Which I am almost relieved about as I press on down towards Glienecke Bridge (where U2 pilot Gary Powers crossed back into the West) because I want a break as I am intent on doing the hills. I get around the whole circuit including the nasty 10% and 8% mounds, and my average is still looking great and I'm feeling good when…….,

…there's this soggy feeling behind, as I try and fly up the last drag, and yes, I have a flat, a slow leakage of air that has finally resulted in a saggy slowdown, and not in a very good place. Everybody I passed on the way a few seconds before is now coming by, the old ladies asking if I need help and so forth, some of the bikies flying past with a sort of schadenfreude atmosphere about them. At this point I refuse all offers. Wheel comes off smoothly, and I even manage to locate the culprit in the cover - a small sharp triangle of white glass. A couple more bikies come by and ask if everything is ok, I smile and thank them politely, and reassemble the bike. I'm feeling good, but shit, my pump isn't working well. Lever down, no good, lever up, not much better. Eventually work out which way it is supposed to be, after hammering away both options, but it's hard work getting even some minimal pressure going, and I'm fed up, I want to be moving. Then I see, coming up the drag, an almost angelic rider in all white waving hello, so I call him over and ask for a pump. Which he has (of course) and it's a pocket rocket, and it's great. By this time I've managed to mangle the valve, but the rocket glides smoothly into position and with a few thrusts I'm at maybe 85 or 100 psi (say 6bar)…. the valve has jammed open and I'm worried about riding off with it so, but the guy on the white Pinarello with the matching Sidi white shoes is eager to resume training, and assuring me 'everything will be fine,' in his Berlin accent, sprints off with purpose up the hill. I look at my contrastingly dirty - black in fact - hands and knees, pick up my bits and follow suit, turning the big gear to get going and feel the adrenalin stimulate a good pace. The bike is weird and spongy but oddly comfortable as I descend over chopped up tarmac before picking the main road towards the Krone and home. I'm still feeling fast, although I'm aware of lost impetus. The tube makes it. I've yet to ever complete that particular course as planned, something always happens. Maybe today.

Lou

Tue, 14 Apr 2020 20:20:44 CEST

I still think of Lou sometimes. He sold me a bike, when I was about to start a job near the Elephant, while I was living in Penge. For the commute. Of course the bike bug soon bit deeper than mere utility riding and I started going further and faster, as one does, and even entered a time trial or two while using that machine, replete with mudguards. Eventually it was stolen, as often bikes are, and I upgraded to a racing machine. Without mudguards. A Roy Thame that I still mourn the loss of. It was stolen. More of that later.

I thought of Lou today, when I rode up that 10% (that Vincent says is actually steeper) down by Moorlake.

Simply, for example, one day I headed out to Westerham via Saltbox Hill (about 11%) for the first time, at his suggestion. Next time in the shop I told him.

"..and then I hit that hill! I nearly stopped dead,".

"You got up it right?" he asked, quickly interrupting.

"Yes,".

"Good, that's all that counts," he replied, in a tone that was somehow reassuring and approving. I'd achieved something. Later in life Saltbox Hill became nothing.

Anyway, so today that 10% wasn't so hard actually, and I went up pretty smoothly and even had some breath at the summit and pushed on easily. But on a hard day I always say to myself that I have never let a hill beat me since I first started riding properly, listening to the stuff that Lou would tell me.

Lou was also the one who told me about the A 20, where I soon found everyone who rode trained when there was no time or imagination to go somewhere else. It was also the local ten mile TT route, and relatively fast although much of it was a drag up to the roundabout where everyone turned unless going on a real ride, balanced by descending that same drag back towards town.

Long after I first hit Saltbox Hill I had given up commuting and was a struggling wannabe guitarist and had maybe started dance accompaniment I'm not sure but I was still cycling seriously when I got a call to play on an album. There was a catch though, in that first I had to learn the music, and much of it I had no idea how to play. For example the Brazilian classic Desifinado. A feel I had no empathy for. The Leader, Salmen, was happy to rehearse me, and we spent a couple of sessions down at his house in Tunbridge Well where he masterfully danced his clarinet like bubbling lark song around my plodding literal accompaniment and dropped chords. It's coming together he quietly said, looking a little doleful as I headed back to the station and the London bound train.

One Sunday then, I knew I had nothing on, so I got on the bike and headed out with the possibility of doing a long one dangling in front of me in the grey air. Or maybe a short one and some guitar playing. Hmmm.

I got on the A road and the legs were pumping well enough and I was going well and I was pondering my fate or dreaming away and indeed debating whether to make the turn at the roundabout or carry on for a proper one when a skinny guy a few years older than me overhauled with insolent ease and cocked his head and said, "it's alright mate, I can see you are not trying". Bloody was, but let that go. Either he downed or I upped but we got talking and then to my horror I saw he was not wearing toeclips. Not only had I been overhauled but I'd been done by a guy who wasn't even wearing bike shoes as I knew them. All thoughts of planning my route gone now, I was going where this guy was, and attempting to glean his secrets. "Yeah, they're clipless mate," he cryptically observed as we turned at the roundabout, and started down the quick stretch, the fields coursing by on the left, traffic slipstream on our right and a couple more riders behind as things got pacy. The line strung out. With me hanging out on the front.

These days I understand what was going on. He was good, ergo connected and had somehow scored himself a set of the very first "clipless" shoes as we know them today…. that "click in" directly to a custom pedal and require no strap to remain attached and stable even through the roughest of sprints or climbs. Back then I'd never heard of such a thing. Clips and straps we all used. A rough metal groove that placed the sole on a pedal bar, strapped down tight when in real action. And make sure you remembered to unstrap before hitting a traffic light or you'd be in for a nasty fall trying to pull your foot out. As far as I was concerned that day this guy was riding without anything beyond a pair of shoes on his feet.

I hammered on, I remember a headwind, keeping the pace high, hoping to drop somebody, hoping somebody would come round and help, hoping…. and then another rider who'd I assumed been siting three or four places back flew past. An attack! A classic road race attack. I sprung out the saddle to try and catch his wheel but he was gone. My legs were gone. Nobody came on to help. Perhaps they couldn't either. I was buzzing though. That was fun.

We said our various goodbyes and I headed home only to find Salmen sitting patiently with his clarinet across his knees waiting for my return, so we could rehearse. I'd completely forgotten our date, and my muscles felt all wrong for playing. Heavy, clumsy, the fingers of a dullard, And those damn voicings I did not understand. I felt like the guy on the clipless pedals had really been sent though, to make sure I got back in time. To London where I'd arranged to meet Salmen, instead of Tunbridge Wells where I'd thought him safely ensconced. I'd even considered dropping in to get a cuppa tea at his place before starting back.

This thing with the muscles being wrong was starting to bother me. I'd take the bike to Laban sometimes, after I'd started playing there, hurtling along Brockley Rise and New Cross as fast as I could, sprinting with the traffic and generally making sure I arrived a trembling sweaty distracted, unfocused in fact, musician. Who felt distant from the groove.

I took the train more. I started riding to the station to buy a monthly ticket, and this turned out to be a big error as I was careless about how I left the bike there and one day I emerged after a particularly frustrating wait while the clerk sorted himself out to find the bike stolen.

A few weeks later, a friend approached me. Had I heard what happened to Lou? I hadn't, I'd stopped going in the shop. Perhaps I'd buy another bike, although maybe it was time to focus on the music more seriously. Give something up.

Lou had got done on the A20 by a lorry. No, properly done. He wasn't getting up. Lou was now riding in the next life.

I didn't replace the Roy Thame, and despite owning a few bikes here and there while in Berlin and NYC did not resume serious training until 2011, in Berlin. Getting back was partly at my father's behest, but more about that later. It was hard though. Really hard. But I've never yet not ridden up a hill when I've been out on a bike.

Easter

Fri, 10 Apr 2020 19:37:58 CEST

This Easter --with the shroud of Corona over everything, is different. The sun is out, a broad Berlin welcome to Spring and so are the Berliners. The Krone bike path is full, where normally at this time of year it is empty. Here is what I wrote two years ago:

The rain had reduced to occasional showers and even the sun had made an appearance so I stole out of the house to ride. My body wanted the work. South west as often, through the forest, into the wind, and then the hills. A battling ride as they say. Down by the old spy bridge the water was choppy. I saw few people, except the odd mad cyclist and the usual dog walkers. There was a definite sense of the country starting to pause, a collective inhalation and settling back into a favourite chair. Easter was almost ready, the quiet starting to permeate. I detoured around the empty roads of the industrial estate that would be teeming on a work day with commercial vehicles and then back, up through the forest, towards my repose and indeed, favourite chair.

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Tue, 4 Feb 2020 19:39:58 CET

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