Return to "Not London"

What a beautiful day!  The sun was shining, yet it wasn't too warm and, given that I have cycled to and from work the grand total of one time in the last eight or nine months, it was about time that we went on a nice long ride.  Obviously, I'd be plenty fit enough and would be able to pick up exactly where I left off last year. Oh, OK, we didn't cycle all the way to Brighton on a Sunday afternoon (we'll save that for a couple of months' time), but we did have an invitation to visit one of James' colleagues on a boat on the River Lea (another boat - we spent most of yesterday pleasantly pootling up and down from Regent's Park to Little Venice on a different friend's boat!), which meant it made sense to try one of our familiar rides up the Lea Valley and out towards Hertfordshire.

We set off after lunch and wandered without incident down to the river.  As we cycled down Spring Hill, I saw a lady on a bike coming the other way give me a slightly sheepish glance as she got off it and started pushing it up the hill.  I smiled and said, "I'll be doing that on the way back."

Matt's boat is currently in dry dock and his front door is, basically, a ladder, so we (literally) climbed aboard and settled down with Leo the cat for a nice cup of Earl Grey.  The only thing was that Leo decided there were too many legs in his boat and so fled, taking a flying leap off the boat and only making a small crater on landing (our moggy, Ozzy, would have made it look like a meteor had landed).  James then realised that he'd left his bike directly under the kitchen sink outlet, so with the boat being uncharacteristically on land, the outlet was dribbling ominously onto his saddle.

Once we'd set off from Matt's, we carried on up the Lea.  We hadn't gone very far before the path was blocked by a small crowd, gathered by a block of flats.  We soon saw what the fuss was about - it was this heron (dubbed "Harry the Heron" by James - that's James in the foreground) in the first picture.

Apparently, an older gentleman who lives in the flats has been feeding him tuna because he was injured.  Harry's obviously wise to it, as he was watching and waiting from the other side of the river on our way back.  I only had my phone to get pictures with, but I managed to get this second shot of him just before he took off.

The next big surprise we had was that the absolutely terrible section of towpath that was full of potholes and tree roots and other nasties had been resurfaced, said nasties had been removed and new benches installed slightly off the path.  This wondrous thing still had "towpath closed" signs on it, but there was no actual barrier and everyone else seemed to think it was fair game, so we gave it a go - what a difference a year makes!  The most horrible, bone-jarring section of the entire towpath is now the most lovely, smooth and wonderful.

We cycled past Ikea and the bus depot and out into the faux-countryside, punctuated by pylons and sheep.  As we went along, we came across a chap and his two sons (all in full Orthodox Jewish regalia), who were extremely grateful for a spot of technical assistance, although I'm not sure we helped much.  They seemed to have an entire week's shopping with them.  This is important - they crop up again later.

As we got close to Lea Valley Swan and Pike Pool (that sounds like an awesome death match - suffice it to say we didn't see any swans there), we heard what sounded like an enormous lawnmower.  Just by the Swan and Pike Pool there is a car park, presumably so that people can get ringside seats for the aforementioned death match, and on closer inspection it transpired that it was filled with teenage boys doing wheelies on mopeds.  James wisely managed to laugh at them without drawing attention to himself - as I pointed out later, he was an adult male in too much Lycra, so over all it was about six of one and half a dozen of the other.

Not too long after that, we crossed the border into Not London (i.e. went under the M25).  Once we had reached the exit from the river for Waltham Abbey we decided that rather than go into the town, we would stop at the apparently new "Narrow Boat Cafe" we had just passed for some much needed refreshment.  The Narrow Boat Cafe is not on a narrow boat, but the people who run it are lovely, the jacket potato and cake we had were amazing and the prices were reasonable - definitely a place worth knowing about if you're in the area.

We started on our merry way back, refuelled but a little tired nonetheless.  As we got back towards the Swan and Pike Pool (who knew what a pivotal place this would be?) we saw our old friends the Jewish family coming the other way with, if it were possible, even more shopping than they had had the last time we saw them.  We met them just next to a lock on a section of towpath which is raised from the road on the other side of it, so it's like a bit of a ridge, and it isn't very wide.  The father and the elder son came straight past us, but the younger lad, probably about 12, either hadn't seen me or wasn't able to control his bike that well.  I was on the lock side of the path and he was heading straight for me.  I had nowhere to go.  I'm not sure which of the three elements of his terror (the fear of hurting himself, the fear of hurting me and the fear of what his father might say if he hit me) was the strongest, but whichever it was, it was enough to stop him from catapulting me into the lock.  My instinctive and entirely inappropriate reaction - to scream "Jesus Christ!" extremely loudly.

As we got back to the bus depot, we could hear some loud barking.  It was just after a section of towpath I point blank refuse to cycle along due to lack of any barrier between it and the river and the fact that it's only about six inches wide (I may be exaggerating slightly).  James doesn't mind it, so he had dismounted while waiting for me at the other end.  When I got there, it became apparent that the barking was coming from two very big dogs, who seemed to be trying to guard something.  Seeing as how they were loose on the towpath, it wasn't abundantly clear what they wanted to guard, nor was it evident that they actually knew each other, but guarding was what they were doing, and barking at us (with a little growling) was how they were set on doing it.  Since neither of us was on a bike at the time, it was mildly unnerving, but we managed to get back on our bikes and set off.  Two minutes later, we heard them barking at the next set of hapless cyclists who passed their way.

When we reached the point where we leave the river, I saw the lady who had walked up Spring Hill as we were coming down it, probably on her way back from her outing.  I had been contemplating trying to cycle up that hill, but I sealed my fate when she smiled at me and I said, "I'm about to walk up it now."  To be fair, I did cycle a little way up, but that proved to be my undoing, as once I'd got into bottom gear, I then couldn't get out of it again - my old foe, gear trouble, had foiled me again and we had to stop to take a look at it.  I had to stay on the largest front ring (once we'd got the chain onto it) for the rest of the journey.  As we passed through Stamford Hill on the way home, we came across a flock of people-movers.  None of them had any idea where they were going or how to use their indicators, but we managed to get through somehow.

This evening, we went for a post-ride Turkish meal.  It was delicious as ever (Flame on Green Lanes), but for the first time in the five or six years since the smoking ban was introduced, I actually saw someone light up a cigarette in a restaurant.  The "lady" in question had the offending object taken off her by the waiter and all was well, apart from my lungs - they'd enjoyed the fresh air today, but were rudely reacquainted with the city all too soon.

What do you get if you cross a bike and a washing machine?

No, it's not a spin cycle.  I was talking to my Mum on the phone the other day and somehow a story from my Dad's childhood that he'd told me years ago popped into my head and made me start laughing all over again.  To put this in context, my father is the son of an engineer.  He has three older brothers who are all very close in age to him and each other, and one quite a lot younger brother.  The brother nearest to my Dad's age is Uncle Simon (to me, obviously - he's just Simon to my Dad), the gap being just a couple of years.

When my Dad was about ten and Uncle Simon was about twelve, and they had been living in the US for a few years already, they thought the most fantastic thing in the world they could get hold of would be a motorbike.  They didn't have any cash and weren't old enough to drive, but they were enterprising enough (Uncle Simon) and scientifically-minded enough (my Dad) to have a go at making an electric motorbike.  Yes, that's right, a ten-year-old and a twelve-year-old making a motorbike.  Kids - don't try this at home.  Or at least, if you do, don't blame me.  Or sue me.

I can hear the cogs whirring from here: just how did these two young enterprising engineers make a motorbike? Well, it was quite simple, really. They got hold of a normal, average pedal cycle and an old washing machine motor and mounted the latter onto the former.  I'm led to believe that there may have been a little tinkering about and then the contraption was ready for its inaugural test run.

One of the brothers (I'm not sure which) got on the "motorbike" and fired her up.  He set off down the driveway of their parents' house and the two were amazed at both the fact that the thing actually worked and how fast it would go.  It was incredibly fast, a feat of youth engineering, and it made it almost until the end of the driveway....

....and then the plug pulled out of the socket.

Yes, my enterprising uncle and my "daredevil" Dad had either forgotten to take account of, or had simply decided that they didn't care about, the fact that plugging the washing machine motor into the mains would somewhat limit the range of their vehicle.

The way my Dad remembers it, the intention was to prove that they could make the motorbike work in the hope that they could somehow acquire a battery pack capable of making it go.  Whether they had considered that to obtain a similar speed from battery power, they would need a 120V A/C source, I am not certain.

If you'd like to hear more hilariously funny stories like this (I confess, I flatter myself), please feel free to make a donation to British Heart Foundation by clicking the button at the top right of this page!

Now is (still) the winter of our discontent

There are lots of things I like about winter.  For a start, it has Christmas and New Year's Eve and My Birthday.  It's the time of presents and cosy open fires, snuggly jumpers and hot chocolate, bright winter sunshine and snowflakes that stay on your nose and eyelashes.  However, I think that it's entirely possible to have too much of a good thing, especially when there are quite a lot of bad things that go with the good.

Let's start with those eyelash-freezing snowflakes of doom.  We're still getting them.  It's freaking April!  Now, I'm not a fair weather cyclist - I've cycled in the freezing cold, in pelting rain and sweltering heat during my incredibly short cycling career, but I draw the line at snow.  Cycling in snow, even if it isn't settling, is silly.

One of the problems with cycling in snow is visibility - all those innocent-looking little white floaty bits do rather get in the way of looking where you're going, which leads to the next wintry thing that feeds my discontent - the state of the roads, and the potholes you can't see in the snow.  When I started cycling around this time last year, there were a fair few potholes on the roads, but you'd probably think of them more as mild indentations or slight undulations.  We had just had a winter, there had been some snow (although not as much as this year) and none of the five councils and authorities whose roads I habitually travel on was shouting particularly loudly about having loads of cash to spare.  This year, however, it's a different story.  There's still no money, we had loads of snow (and are still having it) and, this year, the roads are in a terrible state of disrepair.  Months and months of sporadic bad weather coupled with the lack of budget for repairs have turned London's thoroughfares into a disaster for cyclists, an accident (or probably several) waiting to happen.

In my little corner of London, Harringay (in the borough of Haringey - not at all confusing), we seem to have a pothole champion in Councillor Karen Alexander, who spent more than ought to have been necessary of her Easter break cycling up and down the roads to find all the more significant potholes in the hope that some of a mystery pothole-eliminating budget that has suddenly appeared on Haringey Council's books might be spent on fixing the roads in our neck of the woods.  While neighbouring Islington has spent the winter sprucing up a whole load of roads around Newington Green, Haringey seems to have been in hibernation, with the road surfaces getting worse and worse, not at all helped by the liberal sprinkling of unnecessary speed bumps throughout the area, with dents appearing where lorries over the weight limit and speeding cars land when they go down the hills.  The whole thing is made even worse by the Council's predilection for making shonky repairs which only last five minutes, rather than doing the job properly.

One of the most unpopular (with everyone but cyclists, and even with some cyclists) things that Boris Johnson has done as Mayor of London is to propose and, to a certain extent, implement a number of measures intended to increase the number of cyclists in London, to offer more cycling opportunities for everyone and to improve the cycling experience for bike riders.  There is nothing particularly wrong with the vast majority of his schemes - some are a bit half-arsed, some a bit pricey and others just a bit too shiny without any substance, but he has raised the profile of cycling in London (undoubtedly helped along by Sir Wiggo, the Olympics and the Paralympics) and encouraged more and more people to take it up as a method of transport, a leisure activity and/or a sport.  However, I can't help but feel that his unbounded enthusiasm, his endearing nonsensical foppish speeches and his (our) cash might be better placed in improving the roads for everyone.  This might see cyclists feeling the greatest benefit of all road-users (no more potholes, better sign-posting, clearer cycle lanes (and the elimination of dangerous or unnecessary ones)), while pedestrians and drivers have the double bonus of the better roads and the safer, happier cyclists that come with them.

If I were Boris (which, thank the Lord, I'm not), I would be redirecting whatever cash I'm spending on cycling initiatives so that it's spent on improving and maintaining the capital's roads to an acceptable standard, at least as a starting point, but I fear that BoJo is trying to unicycle backwards while blindfold before he's ready to take his stabilisers off his Chopper.  Obviously, it's not going to do anything to stop some cyclists from jumping lights or riding on pavements, but I fear it might take James' idea of installing neck height trip wires to accompany red traffic lights to do anything about that sort of thing.

Dancing in the Dark

OK, so not dancing, but cycling.  Same, same but different, no?  Well, let me tell you that with headwinds and crosswinds more suited to an Olympic sailing race, riding my bike last evening was not dissimilar to a paso doble.

I mentioned a couple of posts ago that one of the reasons I didn't start cycling again sooner after my ankle injury was that last year I didn't get around to learning to cycle in the dark.  Being able to cycle in the dark is key skill if you live in the UK, want to cycle to and, crucially, from work in the winter and you have a job that finishes after 3.30 p.m., which I do.  On one occasion last summer, I left it a little bit late to set off home and it was a bit dusky by the time I arrived, but that was the extent of my nighttime escapades.

I had a grand plan for how I was going to earn my "cycling in the dark" stripes this year.  I was going to have a few weeks of cycle commuting, a few weekend bike trips and then I was going to get James to come with me on a bike ride in the dark so that I would have someone to hold my hand, as it were, for that first outing.

It didn't quite go according to plan, though.  As you know, yesterday was my first cycle of the season and I got my things together and started unfolding my bike outside the office at about 7.10 p.m.  I knew it wasn't going to be properly dark until about 8 p.m., so as long as I got myself in gear (groan!), I would be home before dark.  However, I wasn't planning on one of my colleagues leaving the building at the same time as me and stopping to have a chat while I was putting the Beeblemobile (oh, yes, it has a name now) back together, which slowed me down immensely.  Add in dropping a few things, my fingers being too cold and my general incompetence, and it was gone 7.30 p.m. by the time I was ready to go.  I had a choice - I could carry on as I was and cycle home and hope I was nippy enough not to have to do too much in the dark, or I could dismantle the bike again, put it back in the office, get changed and take the train.  I couldn't be bothered with faffing about, so I decided to cycle.

James had called me when he had got home to warn me about the very strong headwinds and crosswinds, but I hadn't reckoned on how much they would slow me down.  I also realised, almost immediately, that I was seriously tired from the morning's efforts, which also slowed me down.  So, by the time I'd got about a third of the way home, it was pretty much dark.  Luckily, I was prepared for every eventuality and had my trusty fluorescent orange jacket and enough lights for a small Christmas tree.

There are some advantages to cycling in the dark.  No-one can see you crying with fear, for one.  Another is that, unlike in daylight, you can tell categorically when a vehicle is behind you because you can see the light from its headlights washing over you - it's a bit spooky really, like an alien spacecraft coming to get you, but useful nonetheless.  There are, however, myriad disadvantages, too.  One of the main ones is other cyclists.  Other cyclists with no lights.  Other cyclists wearing road coloured clothes.  Other cyclists with no lights and road coloured clothes.  Other cyclists with no lights and road coloured clothes and road coloured bikes who seem to think it's OK to try to overtake you on the inside at a junction and then turn left in front of you.  You get the picture.  Another issue is potholes.  I wrote yesterday about the enormous pothole I encountered in the morning (which has now been duly reported to the council) - I found probably a dozen more on the way home last night, all of which could have caused me to come a cropper had I hit them at a different angle or speed, or not seen them in time to avoid them.  It seems that there are more potholes on the "towards home" side of the road on my route than on the "towards work" side.

I also really missed cycling through the park last night, not least because it helps avoid a horrible long, slow hill.  When I got to Shoreditch Park, it was still light enough that I felt safe, and it's a very open space with few places for bogeymen to hide, so I whizzed through without much thought.  Finsbury Park, on the other hand, is large, has lots of trees and buildings and things, and has a reputation for not being particularly pleasant after dark (unless you're in a group of twenty British Military Fitness addicts with an ex-army man at the head, in which case, it still might not be pleasant, but you do tend to feel safe!) - this meant that I had to cycle alongside the park down Green Lanes and turn into Endymion Road, which I'd never done on a bike before, never mind in the dark.  It was all going swimmingly until I decided to turn right early to avoid the dreaded mini-roundabout and realised too late that there's a no right turn restriction where I needed to do a right turn.  There being no safe place to get back on my bike, I had to walk a few hundred metres up the hill to start cycling again and make my way home, tired, scared, very cold and just a little bit pleased with myself.

In One Piece

Today was the day.  I had very little sleep last night.  I was completely terrified of all of the awful things that were obviously going to happen to me on my way to work this morning.  James had gently suggested going to the park at the weekend to ease me back into the saddle, but through laziness and having too many other things to do, it never quite happened, so I had decided to be brave and just cycle to work, completely cold, having not cycled since last summer.

There were so many unknowns.  Would I remember how to ride a bike (i.e. is the old adage actually true)?  Would all of the traffic in the world suddenly descend on the strip of North London I had to negotiate?  Would all my road sense have escaped me?  Would my still slightly dodgy ankle hold up?  And, most importantly, would my padded trousers still fit?

I woke up this morning actually feeling quite sick.  I remember that feeling from the first time I cycled to work last year and from every exam I've ever taken.  However, I had cannily prepared everything the night before and it was going to take more effort to fish my work clothes, purse and other bits out of my panniers and put stuff back in my handbag than it would be to just put on my carefully laid out cycling gear and get on with it.

First up, the trousers were fine.  They're stretchy.  They were never really going to be that much of an issue.  The traffic was also considerably better than I had anticipated, probably because it's the school Easter holidays, so a lot of people are off work or away for the next couple of weeks.  The first minor disaster was that (again, probably because of the holidays), someone was very inconsiderately parked in the parking space we normally take off from.  I got over it, eventually.  And so it was that I got back on my bike and I rode it.  I was slightly wobbly for the first ten seconds, but the saying is apparently true - you don't forget how to ride a bike.  I was going so well on that first stretch that I even managed to spot and call out to James about an absolutely enormous pothole that had recently appeared - it was so big, you could probably fit several pots and possibly a few kettles in it.

I negotiated the right turn at the mini-roundabout without any trouble and made my way up the long slow hill to the entrance to Finsbury Park.  Then I stopped.  I was puffed.  Not a lot, but it was a very cold morning and the sudden rush of cold air into my lungs was actually making them hurt.  A lot.  I don't think my lungs have ever felt quite like that before, and I'm hoping they won't ever again.  It only lasted a minute or so, though, and I was back on my way.

Before long, we came up behind two buses at a bus stop.  This was where my road sense was to be tested.  The rear of the two buses indicated and pulled out, but the front one was still there, indicating into the kerb.  Then it started to edge forwards and out into the road, still indicating to the kerb.  I decided to overtake it, but gave it as wide a berth as possible, so that the driver could see me and just in case he decided to pull out without indicating.  I nearly bailed out of cycling round the dreaded Newington Green, but I gathered myself together and managed a textbook traversing.

It wasn't until we got to Shoreditch Park that I felt the first twinge in that dodgy ankle.  We stopped for a moment so I could wiggle it about a bit, and it seemed (and still seems) fine.  The rest of the journey was remarkably uneventful (only a van driver trying to reverse across a junction because he'd gone the wrong way - he had the good grace to look mortified that he'd got in our way and pulled onto the pavement to let us through - and a cyclist coming across a junction on a red light nearly flattening James, although James was blissfully oblivious!)

So, I made it.  I'm in one piece.  James even said that I was cycling better than I was at the end of my stint last year - I put this down to the fact that I now observe roads (when I'm a pedestrian or on the bus or whatever) as a cyclist, always learning and seeing new things to watch out for.  Now I just have to get home...

Team Beeble Power

Yesterday was exceptionally exciting.  I received in the mail my London to Brighton Ride Guide with all the information about this year's L2B.  As if that wasn't exciting enough, I received another two today.  Yes, all the same, all addressed to yours truly.  Clearly, British Heart Foundation are as excited as I am about having me participate in this year's ride.

So, it seems, it's GAME ON.  This means I'm going to have to actually get back on my bike, and soon.  As I write this at about 6.40 pm, the sun has just set and it still wouldn't be possible for me to cycle home from work (I'm not yet stupid enough to try riding in the dark) but I have a secret weapon - the clocks go forward this weekend, so I'll be back on my bike before you know it.

I think I'm going to have to explain the title of this post.  This year, James and I are actually in the same team for the ride - not that we weren't on the same side last year, but we had each entered through our work teams, whereas this year I had a priority entry because you lovely people helped me to raise so much money for British Heart Foundation last year and I was able to invite James to join my team.  "But why that name?" I hear you cry.  Well, you'll probably remember that this time last year when I was just taking baby steps on the bike, I was a newly-wed.  All my life, people have called me by my initials, "BB", occasionally getting clever and branching out into "B to the B", "Double-B" and the really horrendous "B-Squared", but then I got married and had different initials and no-one, including my husband, knew what to call me any more.  We weren't even back off our honeymoon before James had changed my name, seemingly indelibly, to "Beeble". So, Beeble I am and I suppose Beeble I forever shall be.  I cringe a lot when anyone else calls me Beeble, though, so please don't try this at home.  It is for this reason that James and I shall be riding our bikes and fundraising for British Heart Foundation under the imaginatively crafted moniker "TEAM BEEBLE POWER".  You can find our JustGiving page by clicking the link on the right hand side of the page, or by going to www.justgiving.com/BeeblePower.

I'll be back shortly with more stories of my cycling endeavours, so watch this space!

It's just like riding a bike!

Well hello again!  Long time no see, read, hear, whatever.  I have some very exciting news to share - since I managed to raise quite a lot of money for British Heart Foundation by doing the London to Brighton Bike Ride in 2012, the very nice people there have decided to give me a priority entry into this year's event.  So, as my birthday present to myself (last Thursday, in case you're wondering when you should have sent the card!) I entered the 2013 L2B.  This year I have my own team, which consists of me and James.  Our team name is "Beeble Power".  It's probably best not to ask.  On Sunday, 16 June, we will be setting off, hopefully at 7 a.m. if we get our preferred start time, to cycle all the way from one city to another, 50-odd miles of saddle-soreness, hills and ice cream (especially the ice cream).

So, I bet you're wondering just how much this novice cyclist has come on since last year's event.  Well, I'm sorry to say, virtually not at all.  I did carry on cycling a bit after the London to Brighton, mainly to and from work, but in September I managed to tear a ligament in my ankle by doing that most extreme of sports: walking along the street.  Therefore, until very recently, my physical activity has been somewhat limited (read: non-existent) and, as a result, my cycling has not improved.  The other issue I've faced since my ankle has got a bit better is the time of year.  It gets dark very, very early in the winter (in case you hadn't noticed) and that means that I have three options: (a) cycle to work and then cycle home in the dark (terrifying); (b) cycle to work and then deal with getting my bike home on the train (annoying); and (c) don't bother with the cycling (unproductive, but the path of least resistance, nonetheless).  To be fair, my cycling legs have still been turning as I've been able to do a bit on the turbo trainer, but it's not quite as exhilarating as the real thing.

While I'm trotting out the excuses, today's is the best of all - the weather!  I only ventured out twice today, once to church and once to get a kebab (classy), and there was no way on earth either James or I would have even contemplated cycling today, based on those experiences - the combination of cold, wet, wind, skidding cars and rubbish road surfaces seems to preclude cycling as a sensible mode of transport.  However, we did see a total of four hardy souls attempting it.  Two of them were (considering they were cycling in a blizzard) relatively sensible, with hi-viz jackets, helmets, lights, the works.  The other two were what can only be described as morons.  Both were riding at dusk wearing road-coloured clothes and, while a lot of pedestrians were taking the clearer, less slippery path by walking down the middle of the road, the cyclists/morons were - get this - riding on the pavement.

Perhaps my friend Nick (thanks, Nick) has it right - "there's no such thing as bad weather, only inappropriate bicycles".

Now all I need is for all this snow to go away, for the nights to draw out and for the interminable DIY project that is my bedroom to be finished and I'll be able to get into proper training.  This year I'm determined not to be beaten by all the hills, so I plan to do a lot more hill training prior to the event.

Once I'm able to actually cycle anywhere, I'll start posting more frequently, so watch this space!