The Feel of the Road

I never gave much thought to the feel of pavement until I started cycling in Ireland last spring. Then I noticed the difference straight away: The tarmac, as they call it in the British Isles, felt distinctly softer than the asphalt in my part of the US. Having lived for years in the UK before I was a cyclist, I'd somehow never noticed this. But on a bike it was difficult not to. I could feel a give in the road's surface under my tires. It was also more porous, gravely in texture. Feeling more resistance than I'd come to expect from pavement, I kept wondering whether my tires had gone flat, or whether something was mechanically amiss with the folding bike I was riding. Later I learned that the roads in Ireland are a kind of chipseal. The differences I sensed were real. 

Being back this summer, and with a skinny-tire roadbike this time, the characteristics of the Irish roads feel even more pronounced. The softness and the rough texture make me exert more effort to achieve the same speed as in the US. I would place the experience as somewhere between riding on pavement and riding on tightly packed gravel. 

When the tarmac is freshly laid or repaired, the top layer can be quite loose. It also loosens easily after stretches of bad weather. Cornering on such sections without realising what you're dealing with can be dangerous. 

There are other interesting effects. Once I did a long distance ride in a 75°F "heatwave." On the return leg around 4pm, I noticed that the road in front of me was glistening, getting shinier and more liquid-looking by the minute - almost as if it were melting. I thought to myself "Nah, can't be. I must be tired and imagining things." Next things I know, viscous clumps of tar were sticking to my tires and clogging my brakes. I had to pull over and scrape the gooey black chunks off, then use a stick to knock the hardened clumps out of the brake calipers. Then I sat in the shade and waited for an hour, until the road cooled off enough to continue home. To my relief, the following day everyone was talking about the melting tarmac, so at least I did not hallucinate the surreal experience. I guess the tarmac here is not rated to withstand such boiling temperatures!

If you're riding a harsh-feeling bike on Irish roads, you'll know it. The rough texture exaggerates the jarring sensations of road buzz. When I tried a friend's racing bike, my hands were vibrating so much I could not believe it. "Oh it's like riding on razor blades, to be sure," he laughed. I stroked my own bike with renewed appreciation. 

Once I do get used to the roads here, the roads in the US feel unnaturally hard and smooth in comparison, and readjusting to them takes some time as well. As for the New England potholes... well, that is a topic that deserves its own post, possibly in poem form.

A Change of Scenery

On the day of my arrival, the temperature reached a scorching 68°F and the sun came out for the entire afternoon! Yes, summer is in full swing in Northern Ireland. I have relocated here temporarily - to the countryside along the coast, not far from the city of Derry and the town of Limavady. As I write this, a sheep is looking over my shoulder. A mountain looms in the distance. And the breeze is so gentle, I am almost tempted to remove my wool blazer. 

What am I doing here? Mostly two things: writing and riding. I've brought over my roadbike and I have a Brompton on loan from the lovely Chris Sharp. The nearest town is 3.5 miles away. The nearest mountain is just around the corner.

The food situation is pretty straightforward. There is plenty of fish in the Lough Foyle and berries in Ballykelly Forest. In a pinch, there is also the Tesco down the road. 

I am still getting my bearings after 2 days of no sleep, but posting should be pretty regular. The wifi is fired up and working splendidly, so long as I add coal every half hour or so. 

Later this afternoon I am off to watch a time trial. What more could a girl ask for?

Hairpins

Only when reviewing the route months later did I realise that I must have climbed for 7 miles to the high point of Cushendall Road. Effortful as this must have been on a small wheel folding bike, it did not register as such in my memory. What I do remember: Ascending - almost like floating - through an expanse of short, scraggly pine trees, past a surreal lake with steam rising off it. After that, there were farmlands and more farmlands, with their scatterings of placidly grazing sheep. Before long, I was at the top, and now the foggy glens edged by the sea spread out in front of me. Looking down, it was hard to believe that soon I would be at sea level.

I was not, at that point, used to descents longer than a couple of miles. This one was around 6. It began slow, but the grade steepened as it continued. As I gained momentum, the surrounding grasses and the sea began to blur together with the fog, into one green foamy mess. I felt intermittently dizzy and sleepy. In the distance I glimpses another forest and welcomed the variation in landscape.

When I saw the sharp curve in the road ahead, it was a jolt to my system, even though I had seen the map and knew to expect it. From my vantage point, the hairpin turn looked like a giant version of an actual hairpin. Somehow I'd thought the distinct shape only emerged in aerial pictures, and could not be glimpsed as such in real life from a bike. But there it was in front of me, a hairpin sure as day. There was the flash of recognition of what was about to happen, and then it happened. I reduced speed, then reduced it again, and leaned, and still felt the violent yank of whatever force did not want me to make the turn. But I made it: Braking clumsily, drenched in sweat and on the verge of skidding, I made it. For the rest of the descent I was wide awake. 

Another time, back in Boston, I joined a friend on an unfamiliar route through some local hills. Having finished a climb we were about to descend a high traffic road, and she warned me not to pick up too much speed. The wind carried her voice away, but I could make out "Sharp turn! ...end up opposite traffic lane!" Gingerly I cycled around the bend, which I discovered to be another hairpin. Again it stunned me that even with the cars speeding past, even with the row of strip malls in the distance, even with all my energy focused on making the turn while keeping my line of travel, I could make out the shape of the mighty, beautiful hairpin. 

So that makes two so far, which is also the number of actual pins I usually wear in my hair. That connection bears no significance what so ever, but it pops into my mind when I use the pins - just one of those silly associations.

Some years ago, a Tyrolean friend told me - in great, descriptive detail - about the Stelvio Pass, with its 48 hairpin turns. A vintage Austrian picture book was produced, dramatic hand gestures were involved. When she said her uncle liked to ride his bike there, I thought she was joking. How could such a thing be possible, on a bike? I felt lightheaded just looking at photos of the bends, scattered through the mountain like pins in some mad woman's hair.