Contains the occasional blatant falsehood for the entirely justified goal of telling a more entertaining story.
It’s been a while since I’ve experienced the thrill of falling for a hill. This one is called Peartree Hill,
You may have to squint
and it passes right by my close friend* Roger Daltrey’s house. (*Who do you think this song is about? Listen carefully to the lyrics. That could be anybody.)
"Come back mate, all is forgiven"
Yesterday’s ride started from home, like all my rides except when we’re on holiday, and we never go on holiday. It was a modest 15-mile loop taking full advantage of Bike Privilege.
I have no problem doing the same routes over and over, because rides aren’t just exercise, they’re an engine to daydreams. They can also be a cyclist’s version of pacing when you’re worrying a problem in your head.
For whatever reason, I took a detour from the norm. Just wanted a change I guess.
Peartree is about 2 miles long, not too arduous but reasonably invigorating if you’re so inclined. I was pleasantly surprised to find that I wasn’t suffering at all. While a hill addict may miss the pain, I took it in my stride.
It undoubtedly helped that traffic was
Still, the gradient was bang on brilliant, and I knew that when I got to the top I could get my speed on for the spin home.
Partway up I spied a man by the side of the road who appeared to be throwing rocks at the other side, either out of boredom or cruelty to animals, I’ll never know. There was a motorcycle parked nearby. When I got there I felt the need to ask “Everything OK?”, even though my multitool probably wouldn’t be much help. He said “Yeah, I broke down, waiting to be picked up mate.”
I reflected on my own front tyre, baldly in need of replacement. Still thinking…
I never done you wrong
Roger’s was quiet when I passed.
Had I turned left I could’ve checked to see how Robert Smith of The Cure is coping in that big white house of his.
What do you mean Chaplin’s is closed? (Scroll up to understand this joke)
At the playground on the edge of the village green the sound of children’s games and laughter was silenced by heavy-handed writing.
The wind whistled desolately down the slide
My iPod Shuffle served up Tanita Tikaram’s Yodelling Song. I didn't yodel.
The road to Heathfield was almost lifeless. Heathfield itself is, according to garbled Facebook accounts, a zombie plague pit.
Not zombies, just taking in the air
Back through Burwash, the high street lined with houses far beyond my budget, I was reminded of the largesse of the landed gentry.
Pete Townsend sent pudding but it got lost in the post
I haven’t been thinking too much about how long this is going to last. One day at a time. While the riding is good, we otherwise struggle to comply: we all wanna live the way we like.