There are a few things in life that I consider to be Dark Arts. Crochet is one of them (it is, effectively, knitting with one stick, which is very odd); another is cooking anything which involves both sweet fruits and meat (duck à l'orange - why would you do that?). I now have another such item to add to my list - the Dark Art of the Right Hand Turn.
Yesterday, we went out in the afternoon for a cycling session. The plan had been that we would forego our usual bike-wheeling stroll to the park in favour of starting to cycle on Wightman Road, which is the fairly busy road that crosses the end of our street. Being Sunday afternoon, it wasn't that busy, but it was sufficiently busier than it had been in the morning that thought of beginning our session by cycling on it (with cars and everything) made me feel rather ill. So, we wheeled our velocipedes to Harringay Station, walked across to the other side of the railway and got into the saddle. It was at this point that I discovered that at the end of our previous session I had stopped in a ridiculously high gear and it was going to be impossible for me to get going on the slight incline out of the station entrance. That meant that I had to ride my bike like one of those "hobby horse" contraptions you used to see in history text books until I got to the end of the road.
After the left turn out of the station, there's a sweeping downhill run. I managed this without too much of a problem and dealt with being overtaken by a car for the first time on a proper road. I knew that we were headed to the park, so I was all ready to take the left hand turn at the upcoming mini-roundabout. "Remember to signal. Remember to signal. Oh, hang on, James has gone straight over the roundabout and is shouting at me to do the same." The real words that I uttered at this point were somewhat different from those cited here. I made it over the roundabout, wondered what James was up to, springing all these new things on me like that, and then realised he was signalling to turn right. Yes, right. Well, I didn't really have a choice, did I? I checked there wasn't anything coming, said a prayer, and launched myself across the road and into the side road. I did wobble quite a lot. And swore. A lot. And nearly cried (but didn't - progress indeed). Then James pulled in half way up the hill and stopped - I followed suit and then shouted at him viciously (of which I am incredibly ashamed, and for which I am eternally sorry). The problem was that I was mentally prepared for the route to the park, not some random other route - lesson learnt, expect the unexpected. No-one expects the Spanish Inquisition.
We retraced our steps back to the mini-roundabout. It didn't take me much brainpower to work out that to get to the park I was now going to have to repeat my right hand turn at the mini-roundabout. I just about made it. Once we got to the park, we decided to do a lap and then see what else we wanted to do. It was very, very busy. If you drive to the park, you have to park along the road in the area that cars are allowed in. Everyone wants to park in the section between the entrance and the cafe. No-one wants to park in the section on the other side of the park entrance. The result is that twice as many cars as will fit between the entrance and the cafe are trying to park in that section, and this leads their drivers to do some frankly bizarre things, most of which they probably wouldn't dream of doing on a "real" road. As a novice cyclist, this is hell. Doors opening without warning. Cars pulling out without indicating. Pedestrians walking out from between cars without looking. Reversing, everyone reversing. A dude in a Homburg doing a 97-point turn in an enormous car that was as long as the road is wide (though at least he let me through!). All this in a 150m-200m stretch of road.
After fighting my way through that carnage and seeing James speeding off into the distance (he'd got luckier than me with the traffic), I got caught up at the zebra crossing. About halfway round, we came across a football tournament that seemed like a fun family day out. The problem was that everyone was watching the football and not their children. There were three unsupervised two-year-olds having some kind of rudimentary relay race from one side of the road to the other, and nothing was going to stop them - not the oodles of cyclists belting up and down, nor the masses of marathoners oblivious to the world outside their earphones. We had no choice but to stop and wait for the children to complete their competition. I think I may have made a loud statement about how good it would be if parents kept an eye on their children. They were sitting with their parents on our second lap.
At the end of our first lap, we considered going along Parkland Walk, but the unusual appearance of Mr Sunshine and the Sunday afternoon vibe (that well known jazz duo) would have made it unbearably busy, so we decided on another lap of the park. That lap was largely uneventful. My main achievement is actually being able to hold a conversation with James while riding two abreast, the bulk of which is not made up of hissed expletives. I can now look over my shoulder without really thinking about it too much (and, perhaps more importantly, without swerving or falling off!) - this is quite a major achievement, as it means I know what's behind me. I may not expect the Spanish Inquisition, but I could see them coming.
After a quick burst of speed work around the flat area I first rode on (I had to try my higher gears, apparently), James decided he needed some emergency chips, so we went to the cafe to get some. We also had more of the yummy almond and cherry flapjack that we'd had on the previous visit - the cafe's now down to one piece left!
I had mentioned to James the previous day that I thought I was ready for my saddle to be raised a bit. He had said I would know when it was the right time, and I was really beginning to feel that I needed it to go up, so up it went by about half an inch - what a difference! Much smoother riding, and I am no longer a baby cyclist!
When we left the park, we cycled back the way we came (or, rather, by the direct route that I had thought we were going to take!), so I had to deal with the right hand turn at the mini-roundabout again. One of the couple of cyclists in front of us had already got off to walk, citing the "bigness" of the hill as his excuse. I took three attempts to get going at the mini-roundabout, but when I did, I got round, with difficulty. At about that point, I started to rue my decision not to give Wightman Road a go at the beginning of our outing. However, my right hand turns still need a lot of practice, and I'll need one of those to get off Wightman Road...
If you would like to sponsor one of my right hand turns, please click the donations button on the right hand side of the page!
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