20 December. Nearly the shortest day
After tomorrow everything gets better.
Daylight wise. Not in any other sense, as announcement after announcement from London bites away at my well being. I haven't ridden for ten days because.....well because I keep finding reasons weather related or just life related that would never stand up to scrutiny but allow me to weasel away from the bike and eat another biscuit.
Last night I decided I would just have to get out on the bike. It has been too long. I didn't say anything to anyone including myself. I didn't want to commit. I thought if I did I would find a reason to do something else. I just crept up on this one.
Breakfast over, still not thinking about the ride but just following the habits and muscle memory of preparing to ride. Pulling on the bib tights and finding my overshoes, whilst all the time promising myself I don't have to do this if I don't want to. Just stay in the present moment.
Not thinking about how cold it is today, how wet it has been for days, how muddy and slippery those twisting, hilly lanes will be. Through the front door and still not thinking ahead. Turn the pedals. Watch the sky darkening and then a pulse of rain, heavy on my shoulders but gone as quickly as it arrived with blue sky behind. This is better. Now I am pleased I made the effort, especially arriving at the top of the hill where the legs spin more easily and the breath comes more slowly.
I remember how much I enjoy this. The simple act of passing through a landscape, even a winter one with hedges shrunken by the rain, black sticks and withered brambles, a lane strewn with thorns and gravel and everywhere mud glistening, reflecting the low solstice sun.
Some hills are hard and I fight for every yard, breath rattling, nose streaming, out of the saddle, hating the pain and effort. Some hills pass easily as my mind wanders, thinking those thoughts that solitary cyclists think, the insights that evaporate once you are home, the re telling of stories, the re imagining of things that have passed. The thing is, that 'hard' or 'easy' is not about gradient but the state of mind. I find myself at the top of some hills with no memory of how I got there, spinning and not thinking. Other summits come hard. The gradient is the same.
It is a pastel sky today. Like a child with a set of crayons, streaks of colour on a pale water washed background. The air is clear, scraped clean by the rain, and I can see the colours with a brilliance that belies the usual winter dullness and reminds me spring is coming. I read yesterday that crows, ravens and jackdaws celebrate the solstice with mad aerial dances, spinning and tumbling, presumably happy that longer and better days are to come. I don't see any crows or any other corvids today. I guess they have been listening to the Prime Minister too. Clever birds crows.
I can see Perranporth now and it is all downhill from here, sneaking into the town from the back and arriving on the beach. Catapulted from a solitary wet world of lane and hedge and sweeping views to families out with dogs on the beach, people walking, shops open and in the distance the roar of the surf half a mile away across wet sands and salty puddles.
I don't feed the 'seagulls' and repress my teacherly instinct to correct the sign, for these are gulls not 'seagulls'. The 'seagull' name is not in the bird guides. There are no gulls anyway, presumably as depressed as the crows by the continuing corona crisis, worried that there may be no pasties or chips to steal this summer. Maybe they could eat the fish that no one will be catching soon.
On and on now following the long uphill through Perrancombe, the Christmas lights on display in the big houses lining the lane is impressive. This has been the year for Christmas light displays; our desire to get beyond the fear and anxiety, to roar our defiance with electricity and bulbs.
More not thinking about the hill, clicking down the gears, mind elsewhere counting all the shades of green in the hedgerows and looking for signs of spring. Daffodils are emerging ...and snowdrops. Nature is no respecter of rules. I am in St Agnes with no memory of how I got here, surprised when I look down to see I am still in the big cog on the front. I don't remember clicking onto it. The scenery moves slowly as I pass through it, changing as the angles change, fresh vistas. I cannot remember now why it has taken me so long to get back on the bike. I plan some big routes for the rest of the week, calculating how much I can get away with before domestic duties are required of me. I like this cycling thing. I want to do this every day.
Home arrives too soon. I wanted more but there is always tomorrow.
Except that tomorrow is gales and rain again.
The Sunday papers are not full of good news. But I don't mind. I have found my peace today and when alone in the Cornish lanes I hope the virus cannot stalk me.
