Leave it behind

 I once went on an extended pub crawl dressed as Yoda from Star Wars. It was a very long evening as I recall, and sadly before the days of ubiquitous camera phones. So no digital pictures exist that I can share with you, although I’m sure some of my fellow participants, some of which I am still in contact with, may have some paper ones somewhere. 

In my professional career there are a few film analogies and stories that I have milked to death, and this is one of them.

It was actually an organised work event, early 2000s as I recall. Nowadays the idea that a major employer would encourage that kind of thing - allowing, no promoting, the idea that hundreds of its People go round the pubs of Bristol and get paralytically drunk, (for charity) probably cuts across good Wellbeing practice. Who knows, maybe the event persists, I know it’s recalled fondly as evidenced by frequent Memories on Facebook.

In the light of 2020, the whole idea of Wellbeing has assumed massive proportions. I’m sure our ancestors, cave-dwellers, peat-walkers, and subsistence farmers etc would laugh at how we have moaned and griped our way through what is a fairly minor bit of pestilence, historically-speaking anyway. But then again, they probably had more resilience than we now have, and hadn’t yet figured a way to contrive their world into such an inter-dependent, convoluted techno-bubble. 

Bubble, a word only previously associated with “I’m Forever blowing” etc. Yes, I was in that crowd singing, a great day out it was too. Although watching football from the warmth and comfort of your living room has many advantages, it’s nothing like the real thing, particularly in the cold and damp of December. But yes, I have missed it. As for these other Jonny-come-lately “bubbles”, what’s wrong with just using the word “Group”? 

And DGMS on “self-isolation”. We used to call it quarantine which I’m almost pleased to see named as Word of the Year by the Cambridge Dictionary. What an honour. Back when a name was first given to it, it meant 40 days away from people, Italian and ships I think. Nowadays it means whatever the latest set of complicated local restrictions says it means. In whichever tier you are in.

There was also a time when the word “mute” wasn’t offensive, whereas now it’s just become one of those hilarious things to say to the person who can’t figure out the controls of whichever video platform they happen to be using that day. Or who has become so engrossed in reading emails that they’ve lost sight of the fact there was a conversation going on.

But behind all of my tongue in cheek cynicism, there are some serious points of course. We have all had to deal with a lot. My public face might look all cheerful, plain and professional, but outside of the sight lines of the camera it’s a mess. 

Cables and junk absolutely everywhere, tasks half-started and never finished, whilst lurking in the background is a bit of Christmas promise, to be quickly followed by the gloom of the New Year. 

Yes, it’s been tough. Yes that’s a metaphor.

I’m sure many of you have also struggled, and I’m no exception, but, in time-honoured fashion, I don’t want to make a fuss. Nor am I comparing my challenges with yours, or saying I know how you feel.  Our normal, bearable day-to-day struggles have been tipped over the edge by isolation, illness or the threat of it, but above all, by uncertainty and novelty. Not in a good way.

But just for once I’m going to break Shirley’s rule and make a bit of a fuss. Because finally my own poor choices have caught up with me, not in a big way, more in an early-warning way, face this or die horribly in the future way. Much as I’d like to bury my head in the sand, my heart won’t allow it.

I have been diagnosed with something called pre-diabetes. I’m 77kg, 171cm and have slightly elevated blood sugar than is good for me. I won’t give you all the detail about glycated haemoglobin, suffice to say that I’ve just slipped over the border into bandit country.  

Despite a fairly active life, and reasonably good diet, it has not come as the shock you might expect. For one, experts (them again) reckon about a third of the UK adult population is walking around with this condition, undiagnosed. That’s on top of about 10% who knowingly or unknowingly have full-blow Type 2 Diabetes.  A figure that is expected to rise quickly over the next few years.

My condition is far away from serious, it’s the beginnings of an early-warning sign. It was only picked up in me by a serendipitous  blood test. And whilst I have only just snuck over the line in terms of the figures, I have been fairly sedentary for the last three months, and been absolutely caning the chocolate. So in truth, I was not surprised that the last few months of 2020, on have this on.

My weight has been creeping up for years, gradually, stealthily, and I lazily ignored it. After all, I can still cycle 100km without really breaking a sweat, 200km in a day fairly easily, and my VO2 and FTP are superb for my age. But it’s not enough. Unfortunately, despite what the Daily Mail will have you believe, our behaviour isn’t the only factor at play here. Stress, genetics and lack of sleep can all play their part in influencing our blood sugar, so it’s not all down to lifestyle. Whatever the cause, I am going to have to deal with it, and look at eating more healthily, getting more sleep, reducing my stress and being more active. Easy eh?

Now is the time for me to follow Yoda’s advice. With any luck I can mobilise my compulsive gene to become a full-on healthy-eating and focussed exerciser. But in my heart of hearts I know that’s not me, I will just have to find my own way and do the best I can to reclaim my health, and push the numbers in the right direction.  

Right now I feel exhausted just thinking about it, and I am longing for the next week to pass so I can have some time off at Christmas. Much as the Rapha 500 appeals, I probably should have a break from setting myself tough challenges and concentrate on eating dust and grass. But then again, if this year is to have anything good come out of it, I should look on the bright side. I have the opportunity and the resources to do something about it, and the brains to make the right choices. 

As it goes I have been wrestling with a few other consequences of choices I made in other areas too. It’s time to let those anxieties go as well. I just don’t want to carry that baggage around with me any longer, so along with the chocolate, they will just have to go. 

                                                                            Merry Christmas.

Courting opinions

 Today has been a very odd day. Surreal in places, but ultimately immensely satisfying. It is all about cycling and not about cycling at all. Let me explain.

Back in July I put a Go Pro on my handlebars so that I could edit together a short “film” about one of the 200km rides that Martyn and I did around Somerset. The film was OK, the ride was better, but it was vaguely interesting as my first foray into making YouTube clips. As is the way of these rides, I got home pretty tired, it was the first 200 I’d done since before the first lockdown. So the bike went away for the night, unwashed and the camera mounting still under the Garmin.

Because that weekend had what I can only describe as “perfect cycling weather” (warm, but not too hot, light breeze, sunny skies etc etc) I decided to make the most of it on the Sunday and ride over to Rodney Stoke to see, and then ride with, Steve on a gentle leg loosener. All compliant with social distancing of course.

On the way there I was involved in “The Incident”. I briefly mentioned it in a blog post, which for obvious reasons I had to subsequently take down from this site. The Incident was of course a close pass. I thought it the most dangerous one I’d ever experienced, and one of the worst pieces of driving I’d seen for a long time. I had to take avoiding action to avoid being hit.

Because of the camera being on the bike, the whole incident was captured in HD footage and was soon winging its way to Avon and Somerset Police. Two days later I found out that they’d issued a Notice of Intended Prosecution. In early October I was called as a witness in the driver’s prosecution for Driving without due care, and today that case came to trial. The driver was convicted, given 4 points on his licence and fined £482 inclusive of costs.

I don’t want to say too much about the actual trial, and all the details that go with it, you can ask me if you see me and are that interested.  But what did strike me about the whole thing, was how utterly unnecessary it all was. The driver did not have to behave as he did back in July. He could have used some logic and entered a guilty plea, or taken some advice from a wiser friend. He is not a man of means, and is now in the invidious position of having to repay that fine over the next year. His licence will carry those points for a few years, and affect his insurance premiums.

But will it change his behaviour? Well, maybe he might think twice for fear of future retribution and punishment. But I’m not convinced he really, truly understands how dangerous his driving was. It may be this is one small victory in the battle against our terrible “car-obsessed, got-to-get-in-front-at-al-costs” driving culture. A few recent events have brought out the best and the worst in people, and I think so much of our society has become too polarised, too quick to argue and too slow to listen.

Maybe court cases and “calling people out” are the way to tackle the ills of our world. But as 2020 draws to a close perhaps we can take some time to think of ways in which we could all get along with each other, and ideally, not come close to killing anyone whilst driving a car. By the way, 2020 has been bad, but ask Cambodians, Southern Slavs, Rwandans, and many, many more people all over the world, if there have been worst years since 1945 and I’m sure they will say yes. My 22, 916 minutes of engagement with Spotify do not signal a bad year either. 

I was shaken by the Incident, so much so that I acquired two new cameras (the original GoPro fell off on a descent on the Mendips, into a long-grass verge, never to be found), but I have yet to fit them to my bikes. Partly because I want to feel that bike riding is about fun, friends and fantastic views. Partly because I don’t need any more extra weight than the second lockdown has given me. It’s amazing how much chocolate you can eat in a month. 

Cycling largely is so joyful for me, and right now we all need more joy. I do for sure. But engaging with all that bad driving just doesn’t feel like any form of joy, and I can’t help but think there must be better ways to change things. Too much fighting. 

For once I am at a loss to know what the right thing to do is. In the meantime, here’s Bristol, in the dark of lockdown, from the bike ride I did last week.

 

A Newtonian distraction

 For once I am going to write an unashamedly geeky post about cycling. Nothing about politics, life and death, films, music or the lockdown. For those of you struggling with big world events, or local issues, or family crises of any kind whatsoever, this post is the ultimate escapism. 

Back in March, for reasons I promised not to mention, I found myself with a bit more time on my hands. Time that of course I used productively to do more cycling. Now, as the dark approaches and the weather turns more inclement, that time is being whittled away and I have to take my opportunities whenever they present themselves.

Still, back to March. As I had all this time for riding, I decided I would ride when the weather was nice. A sunny Spring and the lengthening of the days, meant that was quite often. A further benefit of this fair-weather riding, coupled with the fact that I was riding on my own, and so I didn’t have to worry about spraying anyone with water and Somerset’s finest mud,  meant I could ride my Planet X bike all the time. The lighter bike. 

And the results, and bear in mind the only person any of us truly competes with is ourself, were very encouraging. After a tough year in 2019 with the whooping cough, and an early bout of that illness I can’t mention in March 2020, I saw both my VO2 and my FTP steadily, if not spectacularly, increase in line with the lengthening daylight.

Even when our life-affirming cycling trip to the south of France fell by the wayside, a quick pivot to the Land of his Fathers, allowed me to keep some kind of mountain-focussed goal in my head, to spur my motivation. This was particularly important as that available time started to shrink, for reasons I can’t mention.

Then, on the evening of 26 August, I found myself with a couple of hours to spare till sundown, so decided to head out on a loop of the airport, Bristol airport. Now, for Strava aficionados, I give you the Wrington-Redhill climb. One of my most climbed segments in the whole of the world, as I write I have done it 273 times since I joined Strava at the start of 2014 (an average of 39 times a year), but in 2020, Relatively hardly at all (only 15 times). The simple reason for this is because this climb is on one of my favourite commuting routes, and for reasons that I can’t mention, I’ve not been going into our Bristol office much since March. It was also a lovely evening.

It’s a very benign climb. The full route from the actual village of Wrington to the top of the hill at Row of Ashes, includes five steep sections (of 8-12% each), but this segment truncates that longer climb by chopping off the first and last two ramps. Consequently the segment has an average gradient of only 3.6% over the course of its 2.11 kilometres. Because most of my efforts are done whilst commuting to work I tend to bimble up it, enjoying the views and the sunrises, depending on the time of year.

When I was reviewing my Strava results after that ride on 26 August, to my astonishment I found it was my 3rd best ever climb of the segment, at a stunning 7 minutes and 9 seconds. Look, I know what you are thinking, and I know my place and ability. I’m competing against myself remember? Even if I wasn’t, despite there being 2,103 better performers on this hill than me, And my best was a few years ago, there are still 2,393 people who are either slower or can’t be arsed. Honestly, you Type A people, just relax. There are worse things going on, but I cant mention them.

Anyway, this “performance” was something of a surprise. It hadn’t been a commuting ride, but I hadn’t been making any specific effort to blast up the hill, so I put it down to a bit of good form (don’t you all?) and forgot about it.

Fast forward a few months to Wednesday of this week, and so much has changed. It’s cold, it’s dark, windy, and worst of all, it seems to be perpetually raining. And all that time I mentioned? Mostly gone, as I’m having to use my waking hours for things other than cycling. So a dry and still night Prompted me out the door in the direction of Bristol. I also had a small errand to deliver something to a colleague on the Wells Road. It now being November, and my Planet X being off the road for wheel repair, I was on the chug-a-long steel bike. Actually, it’s beautiful to ride, looks amazing and is equipped with just about everything you need for Winter riding. Which means that as well as being very comfortable, it is also very, very heavy. 

Needless to say my ride up Wrington-Redhill did not pull up any trees. At 8 minutes 40 seconds it was very firmly towards the fourth quartile of my own personal performances. Although it was a very lovely evening, with mist down in the valley, stars up above, and a nearly-full moon to illuminate proceedings. If I was allowed to mention it, I’d say it made me feel glad to be alive.

But the wheel I was using also has a Power meter in the rear hub, and I was equipped with a Heart rate monitor (and yes I do have a Heart) so enabling me to make some direct comparisons with that climb back in August. Brace yourself, it’s about to get geeky.

So why was my November ride nearly 20% slower than my August ride? What had caused such a dramatic decline in the speed of my climb? The obvious first choice would be that I was just bimbling as usual. Not putting in as much effort or worn out from a day at the coal face or ground down by the events out in the wider world. Well, actually no. Power output and average heart rate, at 211/163 for August and 212/164 this week were practically identical, if anything slightly more effort in November. There’s a possibility that the meter has been calibrated differently, but I’m pretty sure my heart hasn’t.

Students of physics, and specifically potential energy, will have seen one obvious answer. The energy require to move any mass uphill is a function of its mass, the amount of vertical ascent and the Gravitational constant (as I’m sure you knew). The latter two obviously haven’t changed in three months, although it does feel like the world is shifting on its axis sometimes. But obviously the mass has. Not the rider, no, despite what you might be thinking. I’m actually about the same as I was then. It’s the bike. Equipped with mudguards et al, as well as more and thicker clothing and lights galore, my Winter ensemble tops out at around 15kg, whilst the Planet X is a mere  8.7kg. So a proportion of those watts would have been used to carry lift that extra weight up the 85 metres of the climb, and the speed would have been sacrificed.  But how much of the fall in speed is used to do that? The equation to calculate the sacrifice is :

Energy = mass x height x gravitational constant [9.8 m/s] - for the truly geeky. 

It’s not a huge amount of energy though, 5248 Joules which equates to 1457 Watts being used to lift up the extra weight. Now, the figure from my power meter, of 212Watts, actually means I’m putting out 212 Watts per second on average. So in 8 minutes 40 seconds I am putting out 110,240 Watts in total over the whole climb. Which means that just 1.3% of my power output is used to carry the extra weight, which would make a difference of just 7 seconds.

The one caveat I’d put on these calculations is that it is 37 years since I did A level Physics, brighter minds and geekier cyclists may know better and I’m open to education.

If my Maths are right, what else would account for such a slower speed when the engine (me) was working at a similar level of output? We need to do a Sean Kelly and made the calculations. So what other factors are in play here? Well, for one, there is air density. As it’s a relatively shallow climb wind resistance plays more of a role in determining speed, and in the Autumn with a temperature of 7C the air would have been more dense than in the Summer when it was a relatively balmy 17C. 

Also consuming a few watts would have been my dynamo hub, not much I grant you, but those lumens have to be powered from somewhere, so the illuminating light of Exposure would have been paid for in speed.

And for those of you that know the local area and follow me on Strava, and are finding it hard to sleep in these troubled times, take a look at my angle of approach. Momentum is everything, unless you are Fleabag or Jeremy Corbyn. In August I was hitting the start of the segment at about 20 mph as I’d come from Congresbury, whereas this week I’d approached from the 10% ramp out of Wrington itself, so had no impetuous push from the landscape.

But the real big determining factor here, and I’d claim, without any evidence, (who would do such a thing as that?) that it’s the case for all PBs on Strava by middling cyclists where the gradient is less than 6% (that’s a pretty bold and specific claim isn’t it without a research-based study to back it up, but oh well, that’s modern life) Is the speed and direction of the wind.

August, tail wind - westerly- of 15.8 mph. It may not sound much, but if you are a cyclist, you will know it is. A full-on, right-behind-me tailwind. Whereas on the misty night of November, - northerly 2.2 mph - and with the side of the hill sheltering me, that’s as near to cycling in a vacuum as you are going to get.

So there you have it. Physics eh? Bloody hell. If anyone would like to work out all the parameters in detail, be my guest. I’ll even pretend to be interested. I’m just pleased to have taken you minds away from all the real-life shitshow at the moment. But, this shows the importance of critical mass, momentum, power, heart,  competitiveness, data, how to use your time, and having something behind you. Those and density, always important. Oh and being good at Maths too.

What’s that? I promised It would be about geekiness?  It is, isn’t it?

Time is a train

 Life operates in phases and cycles, that are not always apparent at the time. It’s only when you look back with hindsight that you can see things have changed and you are into a new phase of your time. But sometimes there are events that knowingly come towards you, like a train.  They approach slowly at first, before they hurtle into the station and you have no choice but to watch them smack you in the face. I’m ready.

Nearly twenty years ago I was reading all the books about childbirth and how to be a father. Oh, how I laugh at the naivety now. The real thing was even better than I could have imagined, but also so much more difficult. You just have to ride on the waves that it brings. Now, as I write this, another very real thing is happening.

For those of you that haven’t guessed, Junior Rouleur is off into the big world on Monday, to University no less, to “study”. No matter how much we care for him, he’s leaving us, and rightly so. Being a parent is a complex thing, it never, ever stops. You really do just get to carry them, even when they don’t want you to. Now is one of the moments, he and I may be one, but we are decidedly not the same. It’s time for him to find his own way, his own paths and his own phases.

Of course, it’s not the end of the world, far from it. There will, I hope, be periods when we don’t see him in quite a while, he’ll no longer be just down the hall in his own room. Covid notwithstanding, I hope he’ll be out meeting new friends in low-lit rooms, drinking wine and having a good time. But no matter what happens, he’ll always be my son, and I will always love him. 

There are dangers out there of course, not least honesty. None of us really know at that age what we want, hell - I still don’t sometimes. But you can rely on us to tell you, what we think. I hope we will continue to tell each other everything -even those those things we are not supposed to. Because that is the core of our bond.

He will make mistakes I’m sure, cross lines he shouldn’t. It doesn’t matter to me, even if it matters to him. You have to learn these things for yourself, and although I can provide a safety net, I can’t protect him every time he crosses the road anymore. That may seem cruel, but letting your children go is the best thing a parent can do when the time comes.

They have to fly. It’s no secret that our world is in darkness right now. It feels like a difficult time to let go, and I feel I could have, should have done more to prepare him. But my pesty conscience isn’t much help right now. He’s going to have to embrace it all, and know that our love will be there for him if he falls off the wall.

And I’m sure that most of his life will be joyful. The last six months must have felt like he was living underground what with all the restrictions. He’ll get into all those late night conversations talking about things you can’t explain, as well as kissing the sky with lots of new friends. From the child will mysteriously emerge a fully-rounded man.

He will throw his arms around all of it, and even in the times he is still up at six o’clock in the morning, and having to get to a lecture by nine, he’ll see the sunrise of possibilities, and travel a long way from us. And one day find his way back home.

He has had tough times in his life already, and has developed a resilience most of you can’t imagine. He can’t always be strong. But he’s wiped the tears from his eyes, coped in the dark, trashy days, and always finds his own treasure somehow. 

In fact he’s a bit of an acrobat, I think all young people have to be these days. He doesn’t always believe things in the naive way I did at his age. He’s more questioning, but he’s also a lot more level headed too, he doesn’t let the bastards grind him down.

Above all else he is my, our, son. I am already deeply proud of him. That may be a common sentiment amongst parents, but just as no one can prepare you for parenthood, no parent can viscerally feel any child is loved more than their own, by them. So there will be a little mourning as I drive away from the University, but at the same time, I want him to embrace this dangerous idea, that he doesn’t need us anymore.

What else can I do?

 Cycling then, as promised, read all about it here.

This morning, as is my compulsion, I had a quick trawl of social media before getting out of bed. As usual, Facebook memories reminded me of all the petty things I was doing on this day over the last few years. Today, amongst the holiday memories of Japan, and other equally great times, was one from two years ago, reminding me of quite a day. The one I spent in the Support Vehicle. 

This memory followed hot on the heels of yesterday’s - the evening I spent with severe cramp in all three main muscles in each leg, whilst simultaneously vomiting into the toilet of a Spanish Hotel. Fun it was not. What made it worse was the fact that the onset of the cramp had come just when I was trying to do a number 2. My friend Stuart, co-occupier of said hotel, said that it was one of the funniest things he’d ever seen, at the time I was not that generous with his reaction. But of course now, oh yes, we look back and laugh.

I’m still a bit miffed I missed that day, the climb up out of Andorra, to the top of the Port d’Envilira had been one I was looking forward to - it was the one 2000 metre pass in the Pyrenees I’d not done before - and also it put my qualification into the Cent Cols Club at risk. Fortunately, the organisation took pity on me, took into account my prior riding and climbs, and let me in. 

I am looking forward to the next two weeks of happier memories to wake up to. I said when I came back from that trip that it Was the hardest thing I’d ever done on a bike, and if I can do this, what else can I do? In a way it marked the beginning of a watershed, not the point of one. A combination of factors, initiated by the massive comedown after that trip, exacerbated by a horrible dose of whooping cough, and finished off by a big mental crash in my mood, meant 2019 was a year to forget on the bike. Until September anyway. 

The trip to Brittany last year was actually the watershed moment, I returned renewed and looking up at the peaks again, instead of into the gutter. So I was pretty disappointed to have to cancel our trip to the Cevennes, we had some amazing rides planned, and I do love the heat and sunshine - just got to hydrate properly and not get stung by wasps. But I was determined to get a week of cycling in, and worked out the four main criteria to pick an alternative destination. 

I didn’t want to carry my own luggage, nor want the faff of touring. I also know myself well enough to avoid the distractions of staying at home. I also wanted it to be fairly testing terrain. Whilst not seeking the desperate fatigue of Cent Cols, I thought I needed more than a few easy days around Norfolk. No offence East Anglicans. And sunshine, please give me some heat and light.

As I write the thunderstorms are lashing down, and earlier this week, our house was battered by gale-force winds. Welcome to Summer in the UK. We are going to mid-Wales, the Cambrian Mountains to be precise. Three out of four criteria is the best I’m going to get, and weather is the compromise. We may get lucky, the sun may shine on us.

Either way, the roads will be steep, the food good, (because we are self-catering), the location looks amazing (no mobile reception!) and the laughs will be hilarious. Just got to watch those Welsh wasps And make sure I drink enough fluids. Then again, maybe I can discover something new about my body that gives everyone a laugh!

World turned Upside down

There’s not much cycling in this one either, but next time, I promise!

It’s been quite a month.

Obviously, the roller coaster of the relegation battle, now successfully, if somewhat anti-climatically concluded. We are clearly a good team, we took all six points off the Blue Filth, and four from Salford United. But most of the time the team looked like they couldn’t be arsed. But I’m really not complaining.

I know there’s all this COVID stuff going on too. I have watched the news when I couldn’t avoid it. In fact, I am watching it ever more closely now Spain has been cut off again. I, naturally, the voice of doom (as my kid brother rightly labelled me yesterday) was very pessimistic about our chances of cycling in the Cevennes in September, until abracadabra all the countries Johnson liked suddenly became just fine to travel to. I was, no am, getting all excited again, with books about Camisards, and maps of new landscapes being pored over.

Now I’m wondering if it’s going to happen again. Hope for the best, prepare for the worst. Just like being a West Ham fan, so I’ve lots of practice.

Then there are all these masks to be worn. I first thought this might be a good look.

But then someone made the comment that it looked kind of “Creggan estate” circa 1975. So instead I’ve gone with the standard white low-grade builders, with nose piece. Still gets the glasses steamed up, but less controversial.

Back in the Autumn of last year, I finally had confirmed what I thought I knew already, namely that I have some hearing loss. About 35% in fact, no doubt genetic and age-related. But is was the spur to investigate hearing aids, and enable myself to actually hear the shouted instructions from other parts of the house. My first attempt were vanity-related in-ear buds. Looked great, and I could hear very well but unfortunately gave my ear canals eczema. For I am a sensitive soul, with many allergies.

With masks becoming ubiquitous, I could hear even less, especially as all people under 35 seem to be mumbling all the time. But with lockdown over, if you keep Two metres apart in your social bubble, with social distancing, using common sense, or one-metre plus in pubs as long as it’s less than four hours and pay contactless, in a one-way system, and make sure the mask covers your nose, I resolved to get some hearing aids I could actually use.

Phonak - remember them? Turns out they weren’t just a cycling team with a slightly dubious reputation (didn’t they all?), they make hearing aids. With hands-free Bluetooth and a lifetime guarantee. Obviously a Bono Vox one would have been perfect, but Boots Hearing Care don’t do them. Gone with Phonak instead, there’s an app too.

Actually they are great, Not only can I listen to Spotify and take phone and Zoom Calls through them, I can hear things I forgot existed. Indicators are particularly loud I have just discovered. But there are some things I still don’t want to hear. Nothing political, something every cyclist will understand. I’m certainly not going to ride a bike with them. I’ll hear creaks and clicks from the bike that will drive me insane.

I have already had Covid-19, confirmed by obvious symptoms back in March and a subsequent positive antibody test. I’ve been giving blood for 30 years, having recently passed 50 donations, so I fought through considerable NHS bureaucracy and intimate questionnaires about my sexual history (I kid you not) and booked an appointment to give plasma.

All was going well, During the donations, except the needle was quite big and hurt a bit as the machines did their thing Took my plasma, and returned my platelets and red cells to my veins. But something wasn’t quite right and I told one of the team I felt a bit odd, and then, bam, next thing I know I’m coming round, upside down, (as the donation “chair” had been pivoted to get blood back to my brain) and with three sets of very concerned-looking eyes looking over the tops of their masks at me.

Most likely explanation was some kind of reaction to the anti-coagulant that they use in the process. Once my lips had stopped being blue (apparently) and colour had returned to my cheeks, I was allowed to go, having managed a paltry 150 ml of plasma. Not enough for medicinal purposes, but it will be used in their research into antibodies in Covid-19. Best of intentions and lets hope for the best, while we, ...no I won’t say it.

All I was left with was this nice bruise under my scars. I don’t want to put anyone off donating plasma, it’s rare to have a reaction. My existing list of allergens is long, this is just one more thing for me to avoid, but you are unlikely to have a reaction like this. I’m looking forward positively.

To the new football season, a life of Zoom calls and less driving, and some time in deep France.

Let’s hope we get there, stay rubber-side down, and don’t need the services of the Cevennes Health service, with or without anti-coagulant.

A gold guitar

I went out for a walk last night, something I’ve been doing a lot of since the Lockdown started. Instead of the usual random choices from Spotify, this time I chose my companion. “Songs of Experience”.

“The end is not coming, the end is here”

Now I know it’s a metaphor, and I know what a lot of people think about U2. But. My brother and I often talk about what it must be like to have done your best work by the time you are 31, and know it’s almost impossible to get any better. Great for him and me, because in Achtung Baby, there is a multi-layered library of musical and lyrical completeness. Don’t bother arguing.

But. With Songs of Experience, now nearly 3 years old by the way (which in the 80s would have felt like another era, but now, just feels like yesterday), I think they’ve made their second best album.

“Every grand illusion, I would win and call it losing”.

Anyway, the walk was a short one. Just three miles around my block. Things to see beyond the sublime.

Although it was a lot greyer than that last night. But you get the general idea. Idyllic countrysideness. I also had to get back in order to torture myself by watching West Ham lose to my/our arch-rivals. Or “The Blue Filth” as I like to refer to them. I can’t write their real name, children might be reading.

And it was torture, because this was one of those rare occasions when our players could be bothered. It’s never the despair, always the hope. Which made it all so much worse. Denied a good goal by the wonders of modern technology. Went behind, unusually went in front only to predictably squander the lead. Defeat now looked certain.

But Holy Shit, wonder of wonders, a stunning move of incredible beauty, and my now favourite Ukrainian bangs in the winner.

Mayhem in the Mendip Rouleur household. 

Of course we are not safe from relegation. We’ll probably lose to Them for the next 10 times in a row. But last night that didn’t matter, for once the double had been done and someone, somewhere was as unhappy as I was happy.

Being deeply, passionately in love can never be explained. It’s a love that lasts a lifetime, from when you are five to when you are fifty-five. And beyond. It waxes, wanes, becomes more measured, involves anger, tears, frustration and loads of bad emotions too. But it will never leave me.

“If the moonlight caught you crying on Killiney Bay

Oh, sing your song

Let your song be sung

If you listen you can hear the silence say

"When you think you're done

You've just begun"

I wrote about this album nearly two years ago, peripherally when I came back from the Cent Cols. I knew change was afoot, and sure enough it has come to pass. But even as I was changing jobs last year, I never imagined all of this. 

“If there is a light

We can't always see

If there is a world

We can't always be

If there is a dark

Now we shouldn't doubt

And there is a light8

Don't let it go out”

Now. Times have been tougher. But not much for many of us in our western, privileged cocoon. But everything is relative, and a viral pandemic causing massive global misery and economic carnage is not the actual end of the world. But for many it feels close. But it needn’t be. Really.

Normal

I love watching television. But even I have been stretched to the limit in recent weeks as we binge-watch and exhaust the usual sources of entertainment that I like. There are only so many times I can watch the Premiership year 1998-99 (we finished 5th that season) or the best stages of the Giro.

Fortunately the choices of what to watch are rapidly approaching infinite, and there are more boxes available that I can recycle, as well as documentaries galore of all the old bands and dead rock stars. One of the latter was a “rockumentary” on the Boomtown Rats that barely mentioned either Paula Yates or Live Aid, although both were pivotal in the band’s initial break-up.  “Tonic for the Troops” was the first decent album I bought with my own money, and Rat Trap describes my life at aged 15 better than anything I can imagine.  The record was packed with unbelievable tracks like Howard Hughes, Eva Braun and Watch out for the Normal People.

Ah “Normal People” - another great series. All about being young and stupid. Just like we all were and some of us still are judging by the views of people regarding this pandemic on blogs and social media everywhere. You might think there is a complete vacuum of facts and data at the moment to listen to people opining their theories on Covid and its impact on society.

One such case in point is “the new normal”, a phrase I personally detest for a number of reasons. First I hate the evolution of language, if I had my way we’d all be speaking 9th century Anglo Saxon, but there you go, that’s just my outdated desire for something that has long since passed into my mistaken memories of a golden age that never existed. But I do hate jargon.

But there isn’t a new normal, aside from the fact that the phrase means a billion things, meaning it actually is meaningless, the only thing that is normal is a statistical average at a single moment. Time marches on like the rust on an unwashed steel cassette (this is the cycling reference for this post - if you’ve come for cycling, come back another day). I’m sure there were people in 1945 describing the election result as a blip or a mistake and that as soon as the people realised the error of their ways they’d be back to doffing their caps and asking for a job as a maid or a butler.

This pandemic has not been a “pause” life has gone on like a giant Severn Bore sweeping up the estuary, despite the death toll from the pandemic. In my view, life won’t be kinder or more humane afterwards either, there is too much endemic selfishness and too many vested interests manipulating our behaviour to ever make us go back to the Garden of Eden (which also didn’t exist).

But some things have changed. I do not believe work will be the same. Sure people need to meet and interact from time to time, but we don’t all need to do it everyday and spend hours travelling everywhere to do it. There’s a story about a US official saying there will come a time when one day, there will be a telephone in every town. Technology gets better, and soon it we will be able to communicate seamlessly from wherever we want to.

Great social change is underway economically too. Mainly because a lot of people are going to lose their jobs in the UK, And across the world and those that don’t will be paying the costs of the unprecedented government support for decades to come. There will be riots and there will be trouble. But hopefully, from that trouble, something better will emerge, not the gooey “Be kind” nonsense, or the vapid Thursday night clapping. I hope for a sensible relationship between owners and workers, with a bit more equity (in the broadest sense) about the rewards that value creation brings.

I’m watching and waiting on my own life too, trying desperately to be normal, whilst knowing I am not. Nor are you, and we should both stop aspiring to that normality. My Mother would have been 87 this week had she still been alive. I do wonder what she would have made of all this fuss about Covid, after all she lived through the Second World War, albeit as a child, and often told me how normal the wartime conditions became after a while.

I suppose that is my point. You can drift along with the tide, commenting from the sidelines if you like, but essentially you are a Helpless passenger on that tidal wave. Or you can look for the evidence, listen to people, observe what is going on, and either enjoy the ride, or maybe, swim against the current. In that way you can work out where you want to be or get to, and make progress towards it. Like cycling.

Maybe you might even enjoy NOT being normal.

The sorry tale of a lockdown injury

There has never been a better time to visit an A & E department. If you live in Weston super Mare or surrounding villages anyway. That was my experience last Sunday and Monday, when despite all the warnings, as well as my strong inclinations to avoid further strain on our beleaguered health system, I had cause to spend the best part of two days inside one.

But I’m getting ahead of myself, and hindsight and detective work are wonderful things. At times during those two days I was very worried indeed, whereas now I just seem to have an injury that (I hope) is going to be no more than mildly irritating for a while.

So let’s start in the middle. Last weekend I planned to go out for a hilly ride on the Sunday, good weather was forecast, and I could do all of it whilst being no more than 30 minutes ride from my front door. In preparation I fuelled up on pasta in the evening, and as I prepared to go to bed I had a few jiggly stomach pains that I put down to indigestion. I was tired anyway, so off to bed I toddled, looking forward to getting out first thing.

At about 7AM I was rudely awoken by a sharp pain in my lower abdomen, followed quickly by another. Then another. It was if, I imagined, someone was sticking knitting needles into my side, near where my appendix had been removed some 30 years ago. I stumbled out of bed, and the pain intensified, so I got back into bed, and they got worse again. My normal reactions to minor illness is to inflate it into something serious, but this felt serious so I tried to down-play it in my mind.

After about 15 minutes this strategy appeared not to be working, so I knew a bike ride was out. After another 15 minutes I decided to burden the NHS and phoned 111. By now the pain was constant, and I was a bit worried. So was the out of hours GP, who arranged for me to go and see a doctor at an out of hours surgery. This doctor was also worried enough to send me to A & E at the hospital.

I’ll spare you the full SP. Suffice to say I was seen by a succession of people, repeating the same information over and over, having my abdomen prodded again and again, till at last, a student Doctor, albeit under supervision, diagnosed a problem with my gall bladder, I almost certainly have gallstones he said.

I was sent home with loads of painkillers as they were not doing x-rays or scans that day, and they were sure I wasn’t in any danger. I found the painkillers went very well with a bottle of Thatchers and the pain subsided.

By the way, the hospital was deserted, kind of. Very quiet anyway. As it was the next day when I limped in to the X-ray department to have an ultrasound scan. Where we discovered I have a perfectly functioning gall bladder with no trace of stones or anything else that shouldn’t be there. And a very healthy intestine, pancreas, liver and spleen, and an aorta which would look good in a 30-year old.

So far so comforting. But what was wrong with me as I was still in pain, of the dull ache variety, if not the knitting needle category. Another wait ensued before I got to see a thoracic surgeon, late on Monday afternoon. More prodding, coughing, etc. Gentlemen will understand this is not pleasant. Woman can imagine,  but I’m sure experience far worse. Don’t write in.

The final diagnosis? A tear in the oblique muscles of my right-hand side. The treatment? Generally a lot of rest and no twisting or turning or heavy lifting. Painkillers and cider to moderate the pain. Sort of.

Just to be clear, that is not a picture or image of me. I have a bit more timber around the six-pack, and I’m also now sporting a fetching beard. 

So how did I come by this weird injury? I think I’ve pieced it all together in hindsight so that it now seems obvious. Well, I hear you say, if it was obvious, why didn’t you realise and not bother our overwhelmed NHS at a time of national emergency. To which I say, stick some knitting needles into yourself, just east of your tummy button and see how clearly you think.

I blame someone else obviously, for back in February I did do a minor injury in that area, when my PT, a Spurs fan but otherwise a great bloke, forced me to lift weights purely beyond my weedy capability. I took it easy on that front for a couple of weeks and didn’t think anything of it.

I also had a slight ache in that area the Friday before as I cycled up the 14% gradient of a narrow lane near Burrington, but again, put it out of my mind amidst everything else going on. Surely, neither of those two were enough to bring this on?

They were not, and the cause of the trip only became apparent on the Friday just gone, as I walked around Sainsbury’s buying our now weekly shop, fresh food mainly, and such is the appetites here in Mendip Rouleur Towers that I fill the trolley to the brim. I have also discovered the “joy” of that scan-as-you-go gun thing, and devise a system of bag-filling to make life “easier” when I get home and have to unpack it all. Anyone compulsive will understand. What a capacity we have for creating new first-world problems.

 One thing we seem to have an insatiable appetite for in our house is Diet Coke.  And it won’t go in shopping bags in the cases I’m buying it in, so I decided to put those in the trolley first.  At the front. Then go back to the start of the social-distancing journey and get the fresh food. Now bear in mind, this is 5 days after my hospital experience. I’ve done no exercise, the pain has subsided to a dull ache and I’m looking forward to some wheeled excitement at the weekend. No not the trolley. The bike.

I round the corner of the shopping aisle, and it being a trolley, the front-filled Diet Coke loaded thing goes one way as I go another. Instinctively I go to counter balance and get the knitting needles in the side again. The trolley comes to rest against the dried pasta and tomatoes, fortunately everyone is two metres away, no harm done to fellow shoppers. Because I let go of said trolley, no harm done to me either.

Then I remember. Last Saturday, just before my pasta-meal, I’d been lugging a similarly-laden trolley around. Could that have been the straw that tore the camel’s obliques? Quite possibly, I’ll never know for certain, but it seems likely.  I tried a gentle walk later yesterday afternoon, and this morning I’ve woken up with more persistent pain. I’d come off the painkillers on Thursday, now I think the cider might have to make a comeback. We’ll see.

So clearly I have a lockdown injury and the years of home delivery have taken their toll. I need to work more on my core. My legs are fine, they can tackle the gradients OK, I just need to utilise that aorta And toughen up in the middle. I think. There’s going to be some gentle exercise tomorrow, but for now if anyone has any tips, let me know. On this type of injury please, not on shopping, core strength training or cider.

To go anywhere that I please

Who am I?

Ha, you weren’t expecting that were you? I was always a fan of Jean-Paul Sartre, perhaps the finest exponent of existentialism. But not the only one. So (that’s for you Stuart), what is it to exist? Back in my formative decade, the eighties, there was much talk of the dignity of labour, and how work defined so many of our existences. Much concern too, that with mass unemployment amongst the predominantly male workforce we were about to have a crisis in the heads of millions of men.

I could do that.

Of course like any self-obsessed teenage (and beyond), I’ve had my moments. A few of them in the last three weeks as I balance the rational, logical business decisions with my own feelings of hopelessness and despair. I pulled myself together, don’t worry, and now I’m fine.

Don’t make a fuss.

Anyway, the lockdown is fraying, like that gear cable you look at and think, umm, not today, maybe when I get back, or on Sunday. And then one day, you pull on the brake and....nothing, and you wish, oh you wish. Today, out on my officially-allowed exercise I saw the following:

- A group of nine or ten men gathered around a table in Axbridge, pretending to social-distance (what a shit verb), whilst really they were there for a drink and a knees-up

- Quite a few conversations on doorsteps where again people were pretending to keep a safe distance, but really they’d just popped round for a chat

- Motorbikers in groups of 3-4+, with no panniers, boxes or rucksacks. They may have had medical appointments, but they sure weren’t going shopping

- Picnics. Quite a few of these, people parked up roadside chomping away

- Young people. Now I understand if you are 17 (I still do remember, no matter what Junior thinks) being apart from your mates is hard, being apart from your boyfriend/girlfriend is actually the end of the world. A lot of that.

There was more. It’s OK though, clapping and positivity can cure all ills, make up for the lack of testing, PPE and a plan for the relaxing of restrictions without catastrophic economic meltdown. Yeah, too much politics and not enough basic competence. 

So who am I?

Haven’t you worked it out yet? 

People.

And there are  too many pictures to post of the wheels I have followed over the years, great friends, colleagues, fellow travellers and strangers I have met on trains. Somewhere deep inside, you must know I miss you.

For all of those reasons I know that in a couple of years all that feeling of togetherness, Captain Tom, we’re all in this together and enjoying the stillness of the car-free roads, will be but a vague and distant memory. What matters then?

Your values, your compass and your ethics. Believe in a higher power if you want to. But draw on your DNA, those closest to you and your integrity. You don’t need to be able to go to the pub to be free. Or even to debate the regulations and how they affect the distance you can or can’t cycle. You are as free as you decide to be.

Never quite as it seems

Are you losing track of what happened when? I know I am. Junior asked me today when I last shaved and I had to resort to looking at a calendar, figuring what had happened when, the last day I was actually in a real office, to be able to answer. I still don’t know if I was right. Anyway, in case you are bored of boredom, and also fed up with Gary Barlow, and other tedious forms of entertainment, here is my quick guide to Lockdown 2020. In no particular order

Work. I don’t really miss the real office. Unlike the virtual one I’ve been inhabiting for the last whatever. I have just the right amount of social contact and have found my job to be easily doable from home. Meanwhile, it’s all be going on for ‘so long’ that people are already talking about creating better worlds, and the new normal. Like I said, whatever, never mind. I can’t see it happening, I think people have very short memories and will revert to type soon enough.

Music. I’m late to the Spotify party but it’s been a godsend. Just like the virus supposedly. Only more heart-warming. I’ve trawled musical memories and on the walks I’ve taken in the hills and woods that surround my house, I’ve delved into the musical memories, as well as allowing the playlist suggestions to take me to wonderful new places.

Roads. Largely devoid of cars, they have become a true joy to cycle on, if you can avoid the few maniacs who feel they’ve been given some kind of licence that permits excessive speed and driving straight out of a Bond movie. It does get a bit mind-numbing to cycle all these lovely routes and roads on my own, but as we have also been blessed with an abundance of dry weather, I’m not complaining.

More Work. More of it that I can handle. Which is unfortunate as I am now only officially working for three days a week, but it’s amazing how quickly we can all adapt to working without actually being in the same physical place. I suppose we just need to be on the same page or ballpark, albeit two metres apart. But I’m a fortunate son, as I have a job still, for which I am very grateful. If I can do things I like, put bread, or crisps or cream eggs on the table, that’s what matters. 

Facial hair. As mentioned earlier, it’s been about a month. My stated aim at the beginning was to look like a Viking. But actually, as my brain meandered into thoughts of head tattoos and eyebrow-shaving, I was reminded by a friend that it’s really a mixture of boredom and rebellion. A dangerous combination and all too true. It would also make a good album title.

Americans. I haven’t seen my cousins from Oklahoma in quite a few years. Decades actually. But we still exchange messages and the like. In the new normal, virtual way. They, at least, all seem to have their heads screwed on. But some of their fellow Americans, well, I look at the news of demonstrations against lockdown and wonder how they actually became top nation. I saw news that there had been  no school shooting in March, in the USA, the first month that was true since 2002. So I fact-checked it, and aside from a variable around how these things are recorded, it wasn’t true. Because there were eight school shootings in March 2020. Plus ca change and all that.

Virus. Pretty sure I had it back in late March. Classic symptoms, very easily shared with family despite attempts to isolate in the house -how ridiculous is that exhortation - and all passed “mildly” in a little over two weeks. Except we don’t know for sure, because there’s no testing, of either the antibodies, or the infection at the time. I’m not going to the political place now, but if you know me, you’ll know what I think. Where is it going to end? You need to ask? I am pretty certain of one thing, it’s going to be bumpy for quite a while, so I hope we can hold onto the kindness epidemic.

Books. A lot of Julian Barnes, I just love both his style and his substance. I’ve have a trawl of lots of cycling stuff as you’d expect and a surprising journey through early 20th century Irish history (Like I said, plus ca change). Late to the party, but catching up quickly is some general philosophy reference material - I was on a recap of Virtue Ethics tonight. I wonder what a book would look like with all four elements combined. Don’t write in.

I have no insights today, no hackneyed exhortations. Just the best version of my song of the moment. Take care of yourself and those around you. Be generous.

Let's fast forward to a few years later

I'm not going out for exercise tonight. I've been doing low-level intensity stuff for most of the last week, and I need a bit of a break. Slobbing on the sofa, that kind of thing.

Anyway, I have something to say, even if I can't say it. Even if no one is listening.

By all accounts, this is the biggest medical, social and economic shock to our society ever. Well, if you believe that you have no concept of history. I dare say that there were a few people around in 1348 who if they were still around now might argue the toss with you. But I get the point.

In recent memory anyway. Which means the last fifty years. Or eighty at a push. Maybe even 95 if you are being particularly obtuse. But the central point of my point is that in all the clapping, the crappy videos, (and yes, I know I'm as guilty as anyone), and the self-congratulatory emails about adaptability and the like, we seem to have lost sight of something.

We've forgotten how to be human. I know I have. The truth is that bad things happen and we get through them. Sometimes we make a fuss, and sometimes we don't. Whilst it is true that the NHS workers are doing a wonderful job, so is the bin man who goes out collecting our rubbish, not knowing if it's covered in virus particles. No one claps him at 8 o'clock on a Thursday night.

The woman in the Co-op serving her customers, with the risk one of them will sneeze all over her. The supermarket shelf-stacker, toiling away at all hours of the night so you can go and get more toilet roll. Or even the local council apparatchik, bravely sat in the corner of his spare bedroom, plodding away at his laptop, not knowing if his employers are going to make him redundant tomorrow.

I've been amazed at how quick some people are to judge, criticise and demonise the actions of their fellow citizens. Maybe everyone could do with a little bit more understanding now. More listening. There are encouraging signs, but we are not there yet. If there is really going to be something good to come out of all of this, I hope it's that.

The truth is, life is difficult for everyone right now, and all of us are doing our best to make sense of it, in whatever way we can. My way is Netflix and music. Occasional exercise, to the degree I'm allowed. Yours may be something else.

But if ever there was a case for not judging, it's now.

Enjoy your evening. Thanks for listening. Oh, and keep your hands clean.