Boris Bajic
Guest
Every Monday I ride about 10 miles across the Malvern Hills to do some voluntary work. It was misty, wet and cold this morning. The bicycles were hanging behind a pair of comfortable, warm, dry cars. Massive dilemma.... Do I drive?
I went for the geared road bike. All the way up the Malverns I was regretting the choice. There were rivers along the roadside and heavy rain. Cars were passing a tad closer than I'd have invited them to.
On descents, regret turned into controlled terror. There's a section where the ShellGrip has worn away in patches on a sharp downhill bend. A Transit was sitting on my rear tyre as I held the centre of the lane at 25mph, wishing I had the courage to brake down to 15 but fearing a bump from behind.
I was amazed on arriving to see that I'd hit 38mph somewhere.... I felt way too scared to do that. In a puerile way, I was pleased with myself.
It was more of the same on the way home. Worried on the climbs, scared witless on the descents and being whipped past by drivers who can have had little idea of how the road appeared through my eyes.
(It was in many ways evocative of my wetter days as a motorcycle courier, splashing up the Cromwell Road with my visor lifted to prevent misting. Aaah.... Those were surely the days.)
Home now... toes warm and hot tea in belly.
Do I regret taking the bike? No.
Am I slightly cross about the drivers who tested my resolve with their intimate overtaking? No.
Do I feel way younger than I have any right to feel? I do.
Not something I want to do every day, but that was a fabulously intense 20-mile return trip.
I went for the geared road bike. All the way up the Malverns I was regretting the choice. There were rivers along the roadside and heavy rain. Cars were passing a tad closer than I'd have invited them to.
On descents, regret turned into controlled terror. There's a section where the ShellGrip has worn away in patches on a sharp downhill bend. A Transit was sitting on my rear tyre as I held the centre of the lane at 25mph, wishing I had the courage to brake down to 15 but fearing a bump from behind.
I was amazed on arriving to see that I'd hit 38mph somewhere.... I felt way too scared to do that. In a puerile way, I was pleased with myself.
It was more of the same on the way home. Worried on the climbs, scared witless on the descents and being whipped past by drivers who can have had little idea of how the road appeared through my eyes.
(It was in many ways evocative of my wetter days as a motorcycle courier, splashing up the Cromwell Road with my visor lifted to prevent misting. Aaah.... Those were surely the days.)
Home now... toes warm and hot tea in belly.
Do I regret taking the bike? No.
Am I slightly cross about the drivers who tested my resolve with their intimate overtaking? No.
Do I feel way younger than I have any right to feel? I do.
Not something I want to do every day, but that was a fabulously intense 20-mile return trip.
