This cycling thing can rapidly become an obsession.
Not content to have bedroom walls adorned with maps of England, spending increasing amounts of time racking up the miles on my commute, I am now debating a move into cycling as a career.
Before you panic, I won't be painting myself with lycra and mounting one of those sleek-as-fish, high gear single speeds you see Chris Hoy knocking about on. I am talking about becoming a bicycle messenger.
The job in its purest form entails picking up packages, mostly from corporate clients, then racing across town to deliver the packages to other corporate clients. The pay is based on the amount of jobs done, cash in hand at the end of the week, and taxes being your own responsibility. Effectively you are a self employed bike racer/delivery boy, but with a boss to manage your day. It is for me and for now at least, quite appealing.
If you follow the link there you will find out that as a job it is not too well paid. Nor does it come off as particularly safe. Many people have had to take time out due to injury, sometimes sport related, sometimes due to road accidents. Some few have even died thanks to collisions.
So I have this love-hate relationship with the idea. The lifestyle appeals, the risks make me nervous. But then I ride the streets of Manchester every day. I am surely open to the same risks already?
Not so. I see couriers around Manchester. They are easy to spot. They ride single speeds, wear pretty casual clothes and ride faster than the wind. They also run red lights. This is something that I principally will not do with one or two exceptions where I deem it absolutely risk free (tram crossings where there are no trams!). But 99% of the time I wait at reds. Running them is both illegal and dangerous. Within the cycling community the jury is out. To run or not to run, that is the question! But the money-per-job pay lends itself to stopping as little as possible. Not to mention racing between the lights can be tiring. Pros and cons, pros and cons. Ho hum.
To apply all this to cycle touring I have found that half the battle is in my own head. My body may be physically and technically able to do a task, but the decision to do it or not is what can make me come unstuck. When I did the Coast to Coast last summer, it was one decision which got me over a mountain rather than take a train home.
But then I have also discovered on my jaunts that an idea about what lies on the road ahead is very rarely accurate. There is only so much preparation one can do. At some point you have to accept that moving forwards is simply a leap of faith. So maybe I should just apply and see what happens. After all every time I have chosen a road to ride, I always end up somewhere fantastic.
It is strange how cycling and the lessons learned are increasingly shaping my view on the world. Parallels can be drawn, metaphors can be made. Thus the obsession continues...
Note: It was alarmingly hard to find an article in favour of stopping at red lights. Despite the opinions of several cycling magazines being shared by myself, public opinion on the net seems to be increasingly in favour of running red lights. Food for thought.
Saturday, 27 March 2010
Monday, 15 March 2010
The (almost) Bicycle Thief
This is the story of me catching a bike thief on Saturday. I have “storified” it a little for my enjoyment and hopefully yours too. I hope you enjoy reading it:
I was out shopping in Manchester. I had ridden my bike as I usually do, chaining it up in Exchange Square. For those of you who do not know Manchester, this is the equivalent of chaining it up in New York’s Times Square. It is a bustling crossroads, between the Arndale centre, The Triangle, Selfridges and the bars of The Printworks. I always leave my bike here as it is the busiest part of town. More eyes are on it, making it harder for anyone to take it.
I left the bike and disappeared into the Arndale for a while. Later on I headed over to the Triangle to get a ginger beer from the Fair Trade Cafe. Approaching the spot where my bike was I saw a man mounting up. He was dangling a carrier bag of the handle bars, wasn’t wearing a helmet and was wearing a big bulky black coat. He was obviously not a keen rider. Still I glanced down at his wheels, hoping as I always do to spot a beauty amongst the pack of workhorses that Manchester cyclists use.
Time stopped. My brain clicked in to overdrive.
It was as if a computer took over my thoughts for a split second in order to calmly and efficiently run a diagnostics check. My eyes scanned the bike from saddle to wheel, noting every little detail on the way. It was a beauty of a bike. It was mine.
I shot like a bullet from a gun down the road in pursuit. I caught up with the man easily and for a moment we were parallel. I gave him a gentle push in the side. Somehow I’d timed it perfectly, as when he went down, he collided with a loose bin that broke his fall, before rolling in to the road in front of me. He was inches from either a lamppost or the concrete pavement. For one heart stopping moment he was still. The thought that I may have badly hurt him flashed through my mind. Mercifully after a few seconds he picked himself up, clutching his plastic bag to his side. He was dazed and murmured a protest.
I stabbed him in the chest with the tip of my forefinger. I told him, forcefully,
“That is my bike.”
I heard some kids mock my voice, twisting my words. That’s meeeh beehk. I didn’t care. I kept my eyes locked on to his. His face was awash with confusion, eyes scanning me, my face, everything for a clue. He didn’t find one. His mind settled on a thin desperate lie. Finally he cracked his lips and with a thick mancunian drawl he protested,
“Nah it’s not, I just bought this off a bloke off the street.”
I exploded. “NO YOU DIDN’T! THAT IS MY BIKE AND YOU KNOW IT!”
My spittle rained down on him and the street fell silent. All eyes were on us. I gained an unexpected measure of control. My voice rose and fell, punctuating the words that contradicted him, the words I wanted him to remember later on, “You DID NOT buy this bike, YOU STOLE it. This is MY bike and you KNOW this.”
In hindsight, I truly believe my limited theatrical training came to the fore here. I projected perfectly, my intonation was spot on. At the crucial moment when all eyes of Exchange square turned towards me, I performed. And I made sure that every single one of them was convinced that I was The Righteous, and he was The Thief.
A well kept man around my age stepped forwards. The Peacemaker, Benvolio. He touched my arm and spoke calmly,
“Hang on mate, someone is on their way and we’re gonna sort this out yeah?”
I liked his idea very much as evidence was on my side. My helmet was in my hand, the keys for the now broken bike lock were in my pocket, along with the clip on lights that only fit the mountings on my bike. I even had pictures of the bike on my phone and I knew instantly that I could prove to the police or anyone without a measure of a doubt that the bike belonged to me.
As I spoke I bore my gaze down on The Thief once more,
“Ok, yes. Let’s wait for the police and have a chat about whose bike this is.” Now both he and the crowd knew it too.
The Thief dropped his eyes, and by wordlessly turning to leave he admitted his guilt. The Thief limped away into the crowd. Nobody stopped him.
As the adrenalin wore away my hands began to tremble, but I was buoyed by the heroes welcome I received. People from the crowd began to cheer encouragement, “nice one mate!” “You did the right thing!” As I picked my bike up checking it over for damage, a middle aged couple walked over. They asked if I was ok, noticing my shaking hands and congratulated me for standing up to The Thief. The explained they had just come from a church service where they had discussed the prevalence of petty crime in today’s society, and said it was warming to see myself not fall victim to it. They joined me as I retrieved my bike locks, both of them neatly cut apart. No small feat as one is an industrial strength steel chain. It dawned on me that The Thief must have had his cutting tools in his plastic bag. No wonder they were the first thing he reached for after coming to.
My bike was mostly unscathed. The chain had come free and the rear break knocked out of line but it was nothing a good service wouldn’t fix. Even so, after letting my nerves steady I mounted up and took it to a bike shop for a check up. On the way I reflected on the incident. I had always had myself down as a bit of a coward. I never let myself get in to physical confrontations, the only time being in high school. So it took me as a complete surprise that I would so readily confront The Thief. He was after all much bigger than me. But then I have never had my morality tested in such a confrontational way before. It is nice to know that everything is in the right place. I came away from the incident with my bike security ideas dented, but with my pride wonderfully intact.
There is a Latin phrase; Deus ex Machina. Literally translated it means “god from the machine.” If my bike is the machine, I am its god. And I will strike down with furious vengeance on anyone who tries to take it from me. Apparently.
I was out shopping in Manchester. I had ridden my bike as I usually do, chaining it up in Exchange Square. For those of you who do not know Manchester, this is the equivalent of chaining it up in New York’s Times Square. It is a bustling crossroads, between the Arndale centre, The Triangle, Selfridges and the bars of The Printworks. I always leave my bike here as it is the busiest part of town. More eyes are on it, making it harder for anyone to take it.
I left the bike and disappeared into the Arndale for a while. Later on I headed over to the Triangle to get a ginger beer from the Fair Trade Cafe. Approaching the spot where my bike was I saw a man mounting up. He was dangling a carrier bag of the handle bars, wasn’t wearing a helmet and was wearing a big bulky black coat. He was obviously not a keen rider. Still I glanced down at his wheels, hoping as I always do to spot a beauty amongst the pack of workhorses that Manchester cyclists use.
Time stopped. My brain clicked in to overdrive.
It was as if a computer took over my thoughts for a split second in order to calmly and efficiently run a diagnostics check. My eyes scanned the bike from saddle to wheel, noting every little detail on the way. It was a beauty of a bike. It was mine.
I shot like a bullet from a gun down the road in pursuit. I caught up with the man easily and for a moment we were parallel. I gave him a gentle push in the side. Somehow I’d timed it perfectly, as when he went down, he collided with a loose bin that broke his fall, before rolling in to the road in front of me. He was inches from either a lamppost or the concrete pavement. For one heart stopping moment he was still. The thought that I may have badly hurt him flashed through my mind. Mercifully after a few seconds he picked himself up, clutching his plastic bag to his side. He was dazed and murmured a protest.
I stabbed him in the chest with the tip of my forefinger. I told him, forcefully,
“That is my bike.”
I heard some kids mock my voice, twisting my words. That’s meeeh beehk. I didn’t care. I kept my eyes locked on to his. His face was awash with confusion, eyes scanning me, my face, everything for a clue. He didn’t find one. His mind settled on a thin desperate lie. Finally he cracked his lips and with a thick mancunian drawl he protested,
“Nah it’s not, I just bought this off a bloke off the street.”
I exploded. “NO YOU DIDN’T! THAT IS MY BIKE AND YOU KNOW IT!”
My spittle rained down on him and the street fell silent. All eyes were on us. I gained an unexpected measure of control. My voice rose and fell, punctuating the words that contradicted him, the words I wanted him to remember later on, “You DID NOT buy this bike, YOU STOLE it. This is MY bike and you KNOW this.”
In hindsight, I truly believe my limited theatrical training came to the fore here. I projected perfectly, my intonation was spot on. At the crucial moment when all eyes of Exchange square turned towards me, I performed. And I made sure that every single one of them was convinced that I was The Righteous, and he was The Thief.
A well kept man around my age stepped forwards. The Peacemaker, Benvolio. He touched my arm and spoke calmly,
“Hang on mate, someone is on their way and we’re gonna sort this out yeah?”
I liked his idea very much as evidence was on my side. My helmet was in my hand, the keys for the now broken bike lock were in my pocket, along with the clip on lights that only fit the mountings on my bike. I even had pictures of the bike on my phone and I knew instantly that I could prove to the police or anyone without a measure of a doubt that the bike belonged to me.
As I spoke I bore my gaze down on The Thief once more,
“Ok, yes. Let’s wait for the police and have a chat about whose bike this is.” Now both he and the crowd knew it too.
The Thief dropped his eyes, and by wordlessly turning to leave he admitted his guilt. The Thief limped away into the crowd. Nobody stopped him.
As the adrenalin wore away my hands began to tremble, but I was buoyed by the heroes welcome I received. People from the crowd began to cheer encouragement, “nice one mate!” “You did the right thing!” As I picked my bike up checking it over for damage, a middle aged couple walked over. They asked if I was ok, noticing my shaking hands and congratulated me for standing up to The Thief. The explained they had just come from a church service where they had discussed the prevalence of petty crime in today’s society, and said it was warming to see myself not fall victim to it. They joined me as I retrieved my bike locks, both of them neatly cut apart. No small feat as one is an industrial strength steel chain. It dawned on me that The Thief must have had his cutting tools in his plastic bag. No wonder they were the first thing he reached for after coming to.
My bike was mostly unscathed. The chain had come free and the rear break knocked out of line but it was nothing a good service wouldn’t fix. Even so, after letting my nerves steady I mounted up and took it to a bike shop for a check up. On the way I reflected on the incident. I had always had myself down as a bit of a coward. I never let myself get in to physical confrontations, the only time being in high school. So it took me as a complete surprise that I would so readily confront The Thief. He was after all much bigger than me. But then I have never had my morality tested in such a confrontational way before. It is nice to know that everything is in the right place. I came away from the incident with my bike security ideas dented, but with my pride wonderfully intact.
There is a Latin phrase; Deus ex Machina. Literally translated it means “god from the machine.” If my bike is the machine, I am its god. And I will strike down with furious vengeance on anyone who tries to take it from me. Apparently.
Saturday, 6 March 2010
Seasons and Numbers
Thank God that is over. February melted away under the relentless passage of time, giving way to the crisp, sunny days of March.
What a change it was. The month turned and it was almost as if the sun, numbed by the cold of February into complacency perked up and realised “Oh yes, I have a job to do!” On March 1st I opened my blinds in the morning and the streets of Manchester were bathed in light. Suddenly cycling has become much more enjoyable for me. I look forward to being back on the bike in the morning.
I believe I truly am solar powered.
It is funny how cycling has put me intimately in touch with the seasons. In years previously I have been able to bypass winter completely, by stepping from a warm house in to an air conditioned bus to go to heated buildings where I work, eat, and play, before getting back again to my toasty house. By cycling to work every day I’ve felt the seasons strongly. I even stayed on the bike through Frozen Britain bar the worst few days. Despite obvious moments of discomfort it has been nought but a good thing. Humans are animals and I think we belong outside to an extent. Staying out through the seasons is just good for the soul.
Anywhoo, training is now in progress. I cycle on average 6 miles a day making 30 miles a week. Applying my dad’s marathon beating formula of adding 10% a week, my weekly plan is as follows:
Week 1 – 33m (this week just gone)
Week 2 – 36m
Week 3 – 40m
Week 4 – 44m
Week 5 – 48m
Week 6 – 53m
...and so on, until we get to...
Week 17 – 151m
Week 18 – 166m
Week 19 – 183m
Week 20 – 201m
Week 21 – 221m
Week 22 – 100m
Week 23 will be the first week of the trip where I’ll be cycling a nut crushing minimum of 60 miles a day.
I’m attacking this schedule by increasing my commute for now. By taking long meanders around Manchester on my way to work, the training doesn’t feel like training. It’s merely a different way to work. If I keep this up though, week 21 will mean setting off for work two hours ahead of time and riding 22 miles there and back, somehow finding the energy for a days work in between.
Crikey.
After doing the research I think many would say this is over-training. My dad says it is a bare minimum. I find it difficult to judge having never done a trip so long, but I would rather over-train than under so stick to the plan I shall. The final week of only (only?!) doing 100 miles is something many people recommend, partly to rest a little, and partly to spend more time with the friends and family who won’t be coming with me.
Saying that I have applied for a job with the Red Cross recently which if I am blessed enough to get, I will only be working fourteen hours a week allowing more time for everything.
Fingers crossed that I can achieve both job and training eh?
What a change it was. The month turned and it was almost as if the sun, numbed by the cold of February into complacency perked up and realised “Oh yes, I have a job to do!” On March 1st I opened my blinds in the morning and the streets of Manchester were bathed in light. Suddenly cycling has become much more enjoyable for me. I look forward to being back on the bike in the morning.
I believe I truly am solar powered.
It is funny how cycling has put me intimately in touch with the seasons. In years previously I have been able to bypass winter completely, by stepping from a warm house in to an air conditioned bus to go to heated buildings where I work, eat, and play, before getting back again to my toasty house. By cycling to work every day I’ve felt the seasons strongly. I even stayed on the bike through Frozen Britain bar the worst few days. Despite obvious moments of discomfort it has been nought but a good thing. Humans are animals and I think we belong outside to an extent. Staying out through the seasons is just good for the soul.
Anywhoo, training is now in progress. I cycle on average 6 miles a day making 30 miles a week. Applying my dad’s marathon beating formula of adding 10% a week, my weekly plan is as follows:
Week 1 – 33m (this week just gone)
Week 2 – 36m
Week 3 – 40m
Week 4 – 44m
Week 5 – 48m
Week 6 – 53m
...and so on, until we get to...
Week 17 – 151m
Week 18 – 166m
Week 19 – 183m
Week 20 – 201m
Week 21 – 221m
Week 22 – 100m
Week 23 will be the first week of the trip where I’ll be cycling a nut crushing minimum of 60 miles a day.
I’m attacking this schedule by increasing my commute for now. By taking long meanders around Manchester on my way to work, the training doesn’t feel like training. It’s merely a different way to work. If I keep this up though, week 21 will mean setting off for work two hours ahead of time and riding 22 miles there and back, somehow finding the energy for a days work in between.
Crikey.
After doing the research I think many would say this is over-training. My dad says it is a bare minimum. I find it difficult to judge having never done a trip so long, but I would rather over-train than under so stick to the plan I shall. The final week of only (only?!) doing 100 miles is something many people recommend, partly to rest a little, and partly to spend more time with the friends and family who won’t be coming with me.
Saying that I have applied for a job with the Red Cross recently which if I am blessed enough to get, I will only be working fourteen hours a week allowing more time for everything.
Fingers crossed that I can achieve both job and training eh?
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