I was not a great cyclist when I was younger.
Coincidentally, I am not a great cyclist now.
But briefly, roundabout my fourteenth year, it did dawn on me that this two wheeled contraption might be a good device with which to see a little more of the world.
My main reason for thinking this was that as one went faster, one might go further.
My childhood was idyllic, full of home cooked food, wooden handmade toys and fresh air. Thus, leisure time would, more often than not, constitute a jolly brisk constitutional.
Free time was a walk, and we had the most wonderful and varied menu to choose from: rolling hills, stately rivers, Georgian lakes and trickling country streams.
Even when we went on holidays, it was to camps in wooded Forestry Commission sites, where wild ponies grazed and squirrels raided the tents.
Then we would start out walking from the tent to range through the ancient forests, happening upon a Rufus Stone, or a reptilliary, or a tree almost as old as the hills.
Today my parents’ favourite walk is to a place where the ghost of a cottage sits.
No-one knows of its existence for much of the year. It was living many years ago, and has long since been demolished.
And once a year, it shows itself. Because someone long dead planted daffodils all around the outside wall of the homestead. And in Springtime its floor is etched in yellow blooms, waving in the breeze.
They were ingenious walk-planners, my parents, and they still are. But I did not appreciate walking as I should have done. I took it for granted, every stunning sight, every enchanted freeze-frame.
Because I felt it all went past rather slowly.
It’s not often I can recall having a thought, let alone a thought I had many years ago. But I looked at the bike one day in my early teens, while I was dressed in flares and tomboy tops, and I remember concluding: if I get on that and pedal, everything will pass me much faster.
So I began to pedal out with my brother Joe for company, through the lanes, past lych-gates and ploughed fields and beckoning barns. And it was good. Really good. The speed, the exhilaration, the freedom were all a heady mix as I widened the distance between myself and home, and still so young. And all under my own steam.
We gained in strength and tenacity, and tried further afield: but one day a puncture put paid to it all.
Joe hit a rock, and we did not altogether recollect how to repair it. He was young, and I never was, and never will, be the sort of person who knows what is going on underneath the bonnet.
We trudged the miles home, bitterly regretting the untamed enthusiasm with which we had put distance between ourselves and our house.
And that did it for me. Bicycles were instruments to be viewed with suspicion and used with extreme caution.
It would only be a few years until a driver’s license made speed possible once more: but the bicycle did have one last rapprochement during my ill-spent youth.
It came at university. My house was a stiff fifteen-minute walk from the campus, and the journey there was downhill all the way.
Of course, one can logically conclude that the journey back was virtually all uphill.
Cheap speed on easy terms, that outward journey. But the the way back from the campus was an arduous business. It required willpower: something which only appears in my life during a Perfect Storm.
And all the conditions for such a phenomenon were simply not present. So this is how I worked it: I left departure for a lecture until the very, very last minute. Sometimes even later.
And then I would hop on the bike and fly like the wind past the little Victorian terraces, through the parochial high street; I would plummet down the hill by the 18th century parish church, and when I got to the bottom there would be enough momentum to propel me to the top of the hill and a level approach to campus.
If I was lucky, there would be just enough time to grab my scores and attempt a haphazard dash into the theatre, where our music department was located. Mission accomplished, but breathlessly.
There really was nothing like that plunge downwards, and then upwards. I felt as if I was jumping on Mr Isaac Newton’s bandwagon, experiencing gravity as it really should be savoured. This was speed, and it was delicious.
On the way back: I got off and pushed. Simple as that.
The car didn’t get punctures as frequently as the bike, and it pushed itself up hills using a spot of petrol and the miracle of internal combustion. I was a speed fiend in my early life and I did not possess motorist manners.
My husband recalls an instant before we met properly, when he was sat in the slow lane of a motorway on his route to work, snailing along. And then, in the fast lane, at some unmentionable speed, I contrived to cannonball past him. I was already at my desk by the time he rolled into the car park of our little newspaper’s offices.
But the advent of children changed everything.
I curbed my speed, Dear Reader, because something intangible formed a new regulator on haste. Nothing like a baby in the back to make you as effective as one of those advanced skills drivers.
These days my love of speed lives a vicarious life, through the filthiest and most disreputable member of the household.
My friends, who double as the dog’s harem, love to sit him at the gate which stands at the entrance to the forest.
They actually count down to his release when they are at their most merciless. The lead stays on while they go from five to one and the dog is a small muscly study of static energy about to blow. He positively crackles.
Taut, trembling, protesting, he can barely stand the anticipation. And then they let go, and he shoots, like a bullet out of a gun, up a nearly vertical rampart and down, away out of sight, to ditch some serious kinetic energy in the way he does best. Worry some squirrels, hassle a few muntjacks. And all at frantic speed.
It is an immensely satisfying sight. But these days, life has come full circle, and I watch him as I walk.
Someone is still watching the world fly by. But I like to stand and stare.
Kate Shrewsday 
Cycling: cheap, efficient and fun… in the right weather.
I didn’t learn to drive until I was 26. As a student nurse in Oxford the trip between the hospitals was just about manageable by bus, but much better on a bike.
I too had a ‘down hill out, uphill home’ type journey, especially for the first year after qualifying when I worked a the Radcliffe Infirmary in town and lived up the hill in Headington. But my approach differed from yours: I was determined never to get off the bike on the way home, and I never did. (One motivating factor behind this was avoiding a flasher who approached my friend as she walked up the hill after a late shift)…. There were various routes to try… for those who know Oxford, there was Headington Hill, Divinity Road and Jackstraws Lane, to name a few. Some were longer and slower, some were short and sharp, but which ever I chose there was always a lovely sense of achievement at the top.
Ah, flashers…the cheap alternative to a personal trainer. Think of the hundreds of pounds you must have saved.
For not getting off, you have my undying admiration. I never was very good at persevering:-)
And unless I am much mistaken, your other half shares your passion for two wheels, no engine….
His screen name gives him away: Cyclomaniac. 🙂
your memory is so clear.
absolutely amazing how you’ve kept each thought so crisp and new.
amazing skill you have in the details, which like speed, take the right execution (often at the last minute).
Thanks Theue:-) My husband would tell you my memory is terrible: but when one recalls these lovely moments from one’s past each detail is etched there, ready to collect. It is so enjoyable going back. I wonder if that is why the very old sometimes lose short term memory but can hold on to the evocative places they have been in their past?
An admission: I used to belong to a cycling club. Our weekends were exciting and we ate up the miles; a long line of us on country roads. The cry from the rear ‘Petrol!’ turned the line into single file. A truck always accompanied us: who knew when someone would sustain an injury. The truck came in useful for those who had flats – they climbed aboard, found and patched the offending hole, while the truck kept them in contact with the pack. The “drum ups” were used to check equipment, after a hot brew and sandwiches, then off we went again. A whole weekend of cycling in fresh country air – marvelous. Oh, and not getting off for the hills. That’s what gears were for 🙂
Thank you for another trip down memory lane, which is more of a road by now 😀
Different modes of transport with different speeds of our lives… Sometimes I miss the days I rode the bus to university. It gave me time to sit and read and ponder and reflect. Now I drive everywhere and time is less free. Maybe I’ll take the bus again and see if it slows me down…
Oooh, you are clever, Zoe- you summed up in ten words what I took 1000 to say…thanks for such a perceptive comment. Parts of my life are still very fast but I have the luxury of Stand and Stare time regularly.
The bus is a wonderful experience: someone else in the driving seat, fighting the battles, and we get to sit and contemplate. I may head for a bus soon too after that reminder….
Liz, now I’m irrevocably impressed. A cycling club: you make it actually sound so attractive. Seductive, even…and gears! Why didn’t I think of that? Maybe this is the perfect way to escape your pesky noisy neighbour…..
Actually, Kate, I’d like to tell the pesky noisy neighbour to “get on his bike”. I doubt he could, though, he wheezes just walking DOWN the stairs.
If I could find a way to cycle and write at the same time… Recording’s no good, all that puffing and panting, you know 😉
You read my mind. Someone needs to invent a bike with a capsule office included.
Lovely reading.
Bikes and horses don’t like me much …
No, I’m with you there. Cars love me though. When the kids trundle off to college I shall be buying a very fast car indeed…
Lovely blog, kate. I too love speed, but slower is better for the heart!
As I get older, I find there is magic in slow. One has time to appreciate the more
wondrous sides of life, because one is not speeding past so very quickly.
Walking in the forest, we used to be overtaken by mountain bikers, who were rejoicing in their speeds, but we could never understand what they saw in the forest.
We used to catch deer by surprise, see plovers on the heath. We could enjoy the new freshness of spring and the lush riches of autumn, – all because we took our time.
Even with Morse these days, I love to find someone who wants to go slow, so that I can share the experience of sending slow and relaxed.
Love Dad
We’re slow and proud, now, Dad:-)
A lovely post, indeed. You took us for quite a ride through life and I loved every moment of it.
I tried to learn to ride a bike at the ripe old age of 14. Ran right into a tree. I eventually mastered the technique – then some bloke thought we all needed to be on three-speeders, then mountain bikes – lions, and tigers, and bears. Oh my!
LOL! Oh, my indeed! You mirror my feelings exactly:-)
Great post, Kate! Dave and I have recently taken up off-road cycling, and all was going smimmingly – until a Weimaraner swerved in front of me today. Sorry to say I T-boned the dog and landed on my head, luckily with a helmet on…so you’re making a strong case for slowly does it 😀
Poor you, and poor Weimaraner, and poor bike. Hope you have all come out of it in one piece. However something intangible tells me that you and Dave will be off-road cycling again very soon. Off-road in SA must be spectacular with the right venue.
Great journaling.
Have a wonderful weekend.
You too, Tokeloshe. Loving your site at the moment- so rich with images!