Triumph in a Winter Hour

The sunny, clear morning that gave way to this strange day seems like a distant memory now. But at the time, it lulled me into a springtime mood. With the sky a rich blue that matched perfectly the crocuses in the garden, the day seemed ideal to put some air in the tires of my new 60-year-old Triumph and take it out for a maiden spin. The weather forecast was iffy, but then it almost always is. What could possibly happen in the course of a 2 mile ride up and down the winding farm lane?

Proper snowfall is so unusual here, that even when the first flakes began to float, landing on my coat and hat playfully, I did not think much of it and kept pedaling the eagerly creaking machine. These flurries would not last long.

But it did not take long for the stray flakes to turn into a full blown snow storm. Tentative, sparse and watery at first, the snow grew drier, chunkier and denser by the second. Soon it fell like a veil, covering the grass, hedges and trees with a gauzy whiteness in the course of minutes. In the time it took me to put my camera away, the accumulation was dramatic.

And by the time I came to terms with the seriousness of the situation and turned around to return home, visibility was almost nonexistent. Surrounding mountains disappeared into porridge-like fog. The vast fields, bleached white, blended with the horizon. One by one, trees and other markers of distance disappeared, until, for the final mile back, the furthest I could see in front of my tantalisingly non-functional headlight was a few feet.

The weathered cement lane, with its occasional outbursts of moss, became now a soft swooshy path, pristinely white. With my tire being the first to disturb it in this state, I felt a twinge of regret over ruining such unspoiled beauty. But this regret was short lived, as the bicycle took to the snowy surface as if they were meant for each other. The expression "like a ton of bricks" comes to mind. In a good way. Heavy and slow to react, the beast pushed onward persistently, its tattered tires gliding on fresh snow with an air of even-tempered striving. A complete unknown to me, this machine could have let me down, and I'd been fully prepared to walk it home. Instead, it almost seemed to savour the harsh weather conditions, enjoying the opportunity to show its mettle. "I am no novelty bike. Just look at what I can do!"

An hour later, the snowfall ended, the fog dissipated and the temperature rose. The snowdrops began to peek out again. The sun made a tentative re-appearance. Only the white caps of the mountains showed evidence of what had gone on. Soon, they too will melt, like the thin crust of snow now sliding off of the Triumph's spokes and chaincase, liquifying into puddles in the shed. A short, but intense winter burst that leaves me curious to ride this old bike in good weather.

Changing Notions of the Winter Road Bike

Last week I posted a photo showing a cycling club out for a Sunday morning spin in Northern Ireland. The photo soon received a comment noting the lack of fenders on what looked to be a sloppy winter day. Others have asked about this as well when I've put up similar pictures, expressing surprise that there does not seem to be a switch from summer to winter equipment among cyclists around these parts.

It's funny, because I think there is this idea in the US that roadies in the Green and Pleasant Land and the Emerald Isle possess not only a certain grit and toughness when it comes to riding in bad weather, not only an innate elegance of handling skill, but also an old-school wisdom with regard to equipment. A wisdom that, among other things, manifests itself in the ritualistic and compulsory donning of mudguards once winter sets in. So what's with all these fenderless roadies?

Well, here is one narrative, as related to me by numerous locals: The road cycling culture in Northern Ireland is in a state of flux, with a mushrooming in the numbers of new riders entering the scene over the past several years. Unlike previous generations, these new riders are not initiated into the sport by local mentors in a way that preserves the continuity of local history and traditions. Rather, they enter into it with attitudes that come from magazines, forums, blogs, and the like, which often comes to override long-held local practices. And because the newcomers' numbers are high, an interesting thing happens when they mix with the old guard: They end up influencing them more so than the other way around - until, one by one, even experienced cyclists are starting to drop the old-school trappings.

Nowhere is this trend more apparent than in the demise of what was once known as the winter road bike. In the old days (which I understand to be some time prior to 2005), one did not ride their good road bike year-round. Some time in the end of September, that bike would be put away and out would come the winter bike. Now, while there is no single definition of what that bike should be like, the general idea was two-fold: First, the winter bike should be both crappier and more robust than one's good road bike, due to the greater risk of damage by the elements as well as aggressive road saltings in winter. And second, it should be optimised for poor weather conditions. As far as frame material, this usually meant either heavy steel tubing or aluminum. And as far as components, this translated to either building the bike up as a fixed gear, or using an older, retired component group. Heavier, cheaper wheels with wider tires went on the bike in leu of summer's good wheels with skinny tires. And fenders (aka mudguards) were a must. In fact, up to a few years ago, I am told, a cyclist would be turned away from a club ride were they to show up without them.

Today I still see traditional winter road bikes ridden by friends with old-school habits, and occasionally I will spot an unknown one out and about. But they are more or less extinct from local club rides, as far as I can tell: Most local roadies will now ride the same bike year-round. And my feeling is, this is based on more than a willful ignorance of tradition or a carelessness toward nice equipment. One could argue that typical modern road racing bikes - high in carbon and aluminum content - are inherently more winter-friendly than their predecessors, eliminating the need for a dedicated winter bike. Speaking from limited personal experience, this is now my third winter riding a titanium bike with racing wheels, skinny tires, and lightweight aluminum and carbon components. In the beginning I kept my old roadbike - a 1970s steel frame with older components and wheels - as a bad weather substitute. But I eventually passed it on to another cyclist, as it became clear that in practice I preferred to ride my nice new bike in all weather conditions. Despite the all-season usage, I see very little wear on my road bike today, and none that I can specifically attribute to winter conditions.

But what of the issue of fenders? There are fenders on the market now that can be fitted even on the raciest of bikes with the tightest of clearances, and then removed and fitted again at will, with fairly little commitment. So why do riders shun them, even on group rides - despite mud in their faces and wet behinds? Well, I don't know the answer to that. But I suspect it's largely a matter of disliking unnecessary complexity (the definition of unnecessary being rider-specific, of course). And I suspect there is also a huge stylistic element to it. As fenders go in and out of fashion, this changes individual and group perceptions of how necessary they are. In the US, the fashion for fenders is now on an upswing, and I am sure it will come back around here as well. Me, I'll fit my road bike with fenders sometimes, but prefer not to - and mostly don't when I ride alone - for the simple reason that I am not sufficiently bothered by the consequences of being without them.

And so, befitting of my newcomer status, overall my winter road bike looks exactly the same as my summer road bike - save for an extra caking of crud, which, on occasion, I will wash off with a hose. The idea of a dedicated winter bike does have a romantic appeal to it - if for no other reason than as a ritualistic marking of the changing seasons. But in practice I don't feel the need for it. If my "good" bike is durable enough to ride year-round and if I enjoy it, then why not do exactly that …assuming, of course, that the roads are not covered in snow.

Do you have a dedicated winter road bike? How does it differ from the one you ride in warmer months?

Watching the Day Grow

Two minutes per day. That is how much daylight we gain once past the winter solstice. The change is so gradual, so subtle, that tracking it seems as futile as trying to watch our hair or nails grow. We do not notice the incremental changes, until one day, all at once, the lengthening becomes apparent and the change impresses us as if a monumental shift has taken place overnight. All the sudden it no longer gets dark at 4 in the afternoon, as it did during those shortest, most oppressive weeks. And that extra fraction of an hour we gain - or, perhaps it's an entire hour by the time we take notice - seem to come out of nowhere, like a bright, crisply packaged gift. 

That is how it has been for me, for as long as I can remember. Except this year - now, that is. This time around, it is the strangest thing, because I have seen the days grow. For a week straight in the middle of January, I rode my bike at the same time every day - setting off in the early afternoon and trying to make it back before dark. This self-imposed deadline was based not on the fact of the fading light it itself, but on the temperature drop and heightened risk of icy roads that come with it this time of year. On the first day it was already dark by the time I rolled down the lane that leads through the fields to my house. The street lights were on in the farm yard next door. I looked at the time and saw it was 4:40 in the afternoon. On the second day, I had aimed for the same time and noticed that the dusk - while still having arrived, was more transparent. On the third day, this transparency intensified and now the outside lights next door were not yet turned on. The days were growing in front of my very eyes.

The following day, I aimed to be back by 5pm. And as I pedaled home, racing against the setting sun, I noticed another thing. It weren't only the days getting longer, but the sunsets. The sun was not dropping like a stone once its descent began, as it had taken to doing since mid-November. On this afternoon it proceeded more hesitantly, making its way toward the horizon as if wandering down a not too steep hill absentmindedly.

The setting sun's glow was a warm one, bathing the roads, the fields and the mountains in a golden light reminiscent of a long summer's evening. This sunset was not anywhere close to a true summer sunset, with its hours of luxuriant lingering. But it showed hints of eventually becoming one. It was a categorical change from the curt winter sunset, with its stingy flash of white-blue light just before fading to black. At what point, I wondered, had the one switched to the other? Even as I managed to observe the minutes of daylight lengthening, I had still missed the delicate changes in the quality of sunsets that must have taken place just as incrementally. And while at first I lamented my oversight, as I got closer to home I was comforted by the thought that perhaps nature does not want to be thus monitored, enjoying the "hey, when did that happen?" reaction instead. And so it sneaks in these suddenly lingering sunsets and longer days, and we are blown away by them once we notice - appreciating them all the more when lucky enough to greet them on the bike. 

Cycling in Wellies

Sure I harbored memories of their stiffness and lack of breathability from having donned them in the countryside years ago. But my resistance to Wellies went beyond that, most likely a result of their absurd, meteoritic rise to popularity in recent years. Step out into the urban streets of Cambridge, Massachusetts on a mildly drizzly day, and you'll encounter a rubber boot infestation out of all proportion to the amount of rain or the surface conditions at hand. Like flocks of exotically brightly-footed birds, crowds of young women in colourful Hunters and copies thereof stylishly stomp their way across shallow sidewalk puddles and the damp grasses of Harvard Yard. What's turned this awkward, uncomfortable form of footwear into a fashion accessory was beyond me. But for whatever reason Wellies seemed to have replaced UGGs and Crocks as the new Ugly It-Shoe, and I wasn't about to buy into the trend. Even when I found myself in circumstances where I actually needed the vile rubbery things for the original purpose they were designed for, I resisted - donning my normal, perfectly good waterproof boots instead.

But I did not resist for long. I live next to a farm now, and spend quite a bit of time there. The yard looks like this …on a dry-ish day.

Then there are the vast fields I cross to take photos along the water's edge. And while that green stuff may look like grass, the soil it grows on is soft and soggy. Seeing farm animals grazing with the fur on their legs wet and matted from sinking into the grass, it was clear that my normal, perfectly good waterproof boots would get destroyed after a couple of such forays. Not to speak of my interest in photographing abandoned peat bogs.

Anyway, Wellington boots. Nowadays you can buy all sorts of fancy versions, including those with a warm lining already built in. But considering the purposes I needed them for, I decided to go for the plain unlined type, meant to be worn with several pairs of socks. The rationale here is that should you step into deep water that goes over the edge of the boot, you just change your socks and can keep wearing the boots after wiping down the interior. With lined boots you would have to wait for the lining to dry if the interior gets wet.

Armed with the knowledge that I wanted plain rubber farmer's boots, I went to the local shops that sell such things. Sadly, it turned out my size 4UK feet are freakishly small by local farming standards. And so I walked out with a pair of teenage girls' boots in bright sky blue with green and lilac striped trim. So much for plain, but my other choices involved butterflies or pandas.

But of course looks aren't everything. So let's talk about what's important for us cyclists: power transfer. How are Wellies to cycle in? Well, kind of bad. The soles are quite flexible - somewhat more so than running shoes, but less so than foam flip-flops. Nothing about these boots said "I want to ride a bike in these!" the first time I wore them. But despite this, they are strangely addictive. The comfort of even the cheap ones I bought are a huge improvement upon the painfully uncomfortable, clammy Wellies I recall from childhood. The uppers are flexible and don't dig into my calves, the toes don't pinch even after an hour's hike through the peat bogs, and somehow my feet do not overheat despite their lack of breathability. In fact, worn over two or three pairs of wool socks, nothing keeps out the winter damp better. 

Little by little I started to wear the Wellies not just on the farm or when walking across soggy fields, but out and about - including around town and on the bike. The flexible soles felt strange when pedaling at first, but I got used to it and have cycled in them for up to 14 miles so far with no adverse effects. An additional advantage, is that the Wellies' wide adjustable uppers fit easily over even the baggiest of trousers, keeping them safely tucked away from the bicycle's drivetrain. Of course they can be easily worn with a skirt as well. And when I come home covered knee-deep in mud - which seems to be the norm these days - I simply rinse the boots off and in seconds they are ready to wear again - the ultimate in low maintenance. 

And so, my winter footwear wardrobe these days consists more or less of these. I've held myself back from going dancing in either of them so far, but I wouldn't rule it out. 

Easing Into It or Full Speed Ahead?

There comes a stretch in the winter - usually lasting a couple of months - when I take a break from roadcycling. And while I still cycle almost every day for transportation, my milage becomes a fraction of what it is during the roadcycling-intensive months, and the amount of physical effort I put into riding an upright bike in my street clothes is not nearly the same. Not surprisingly, when I do get back in the saddle (the narrower road saddle, that is) I feel distinctly out of shape. Some work is required to get myself back to a fitness level where I feel like "myself" on the bike again.

Taking a break in the colder months is fairly common among cyclists, and I have found it interesting to learn that different regions have different traditions of when this is done. In New England, cyclists tend to keep riding through most of December, then take a break in January and February before re-emerging in March. Here in Northern Ireland, cyclists tend to take November and December off instead, then get back on the bike in January for "winter training" (base miles) before switching to a more intense and focused cycling regimen when spring arrives.

Purely by chance, it so happened that I followed the local schedule this year. November and December were hectic for me, and thanks to that in combination with the weather taking some getting used to, I more or less wrote them off. Then January arrived and somehow everything fell into place enabling me to ride nearly every day since the start of the year.

When it comes to getting back on the bike, what I tend to do is start easy and frequent. Short, flat rides, with effortless spinning through pleasant scenery, just to get accustomed to being on the bike again and to get back into the habit of doing it regularly. I know that I have to be careful not to overdo it with a ride that is too long, too hilly or too fast - as that can result in several days off the bike in the aftermath, which - when the weather is crappy and my pride is hurt from being out of shape - has a way of leading to more days off the bike. In this early, delicate stage, frequency and enjoyment are more important than hills and miles. It's about feeling comfortable, getting back into the habit of it, settling in. Once I feel like that is done and begin to crave more, I start riding with other, stronger cyclists again. And then out come the miles, the hills, the speed, the exhaustion - and the rapid growth in strength. It is only then that I truly feel "back." But I couldn't do that cold; I have to work up to it.

By contrast, a local cycling friend was telling me the other day that he needs a hard push - a jolt even - to get going after significant time off the bike. He needs those hard, painful rides straight away in order for the winter lethargy to loosen its grip. He needs competition with riding buddies. And he needs to feel just how out of shape he is in order to motivate himself to get back to his previous level of fitness. And though I can't relate, I understand this. We are attracted to cycling in different ways, and different aspects of it motivate us.

So, what is your approach when you try to get back into a regular roadcycling routine? Do you ease into it gradually, or jump in full speed ahead?

Black Ice - Not So Nice

It was a beautiful, bright and clear Boxing Day. The temperature hovered at a balmy 40°F. The wind blew with an almost playful temperateness. Now and again the sun even came out, casting its long, flickering rays over the sleepy valley. And the road - ah the road! Quiet and empty of cars, how endless it looked, how inviting and smooth. But alas, these favourable conditions were but a cruel illusion. My ride attempt came to naught, foiled by the winter cyclist's enemy number one: Black Ice.

Now, reader, please understand that I have cycled through four New England winters without incident. At this stage, I did not think I could be daunted by ice of any variety - be it black, white, purple, or any shade at all. But what I encountered here was a frozen-state phenomenon of its own class. So stealthy and perfectly invisible this substance was, that I can only attribute this to sheer malice on its part - malice toward cyclists.

Absent were the signs that I know to look for. Like the bits of lacy white edging in the texture of the pavement.

Or the tell-tale shimmer, when the sun's rays catch the road surface just so.

No, this brand of black ice had not the decency for any of it. It adhered to the contours of the chipseal in a matte, thin, perfectly transparent crust. It did not reveal itself in any visual manner what so ever, ensuring that its ice-rink quality slickness caught the traveler entirely by surprise. 

Having discovered this treachery, I backtracked gingerly only to learn that even more of the road was covered with the stuff than I'd realised. What before had looked inviting now seemed hostile, even sinister - a formidable booby trap. A Boxing Day ride was not to be. But at least now I understand what I'm dealing with, and why the locals warn about it so zealously. Black ice is a force to be reckoned with, all the more so when its perfect stealth is matched by its perfect slickness. Even studded tires, I'm told, will not always help. This could be one long winter!

Let It Snow!

Well the weather outside is frightful

But the bike is so delightful!

What the heck, I'll just pedal slow

Let it snow

Let it snow

Let it snow!

Wishing you a happy holiday and some good cycling weather from the rainy, windy, snowy Northern Ireland. Thank you, as always for reading Lovely Bicycle!

The Darkest Days

I think of the depth of winter as being sometime in late January - early February. The December arrival of the winter solstice catches me off guard. It feels early. Winter is just starting; are these really the shortest, darkest days?

All throughout Autumn, the locals repeatedly warned me, a newcomer, about winter on the North Coast. These warnings were as ominous as they were vague. Just you wait till winter... It will get bad... Stay the winter and see if you still "like it" here!...

Now that the solstice is coming, I am reminded that winter is in full swing. And I get occasional inquiries into the progress of my opinion. On the day of a particularly bad storm, or a drastic temperature drop, someone will inevitably ask: "And how do you like it here now, eh?" - studying my wind-burned face with a hint of glee.

Granted, living here is not without challenges. The winter cold feels far worse than the temperature readings suggest, due to the nasty strain of dampness particular to these parts. The winds get so powerful, it can be difficult to walk, let alone ride a bike. Visibility can grow poor - and rapidly - due to sudden onset fog and flurries. While food is very affordable here, heating is problematically expensive and needs to be thought through carefully. None of this has put me off so far; I adjust. On non-windy, or mildly windy days, I try to get all my long-distance errands done. I have figured out how to get things delivered, if need be. Working from home, I try to time my work so that I'm out of the house in daytime and work mostly early morning and after dark - as its more efficient to heat the house that way.

Daytime lasts until about 4pm these days. Except on those badly overcast days when the sun never really comes out, and the 24 hour period is split into a state of complete darkness and semi-darkness. Those days have not been infrequent as of late. In fact today was one of them. Allowing myself to be pushed about by erratic gusts of wind, I cycled to the little farm shop down the road after riding a mildly hilly loop along the base of the mountain for purely recreational purposes. The light at 10:30am looked no different than the light at 3:30pm, all diffuse and veiled and, if you want to be unkind about it, dirty-dishwater-like. It is the sort of thing that I suppose should feel depressing, but isn't - instead awaking a part of me that is asleep in more overtly cheerful environs and inspiring a flurry of creative and productive activity.

The darkest days are here, and they are okay. I have bikes to ride and work to do and food to eat and logs to burn and people to talk to and animals to pet. The Winter Solstice is tomorrow and it will be the shortest day yet. Suddenly I feel like a bike ride to celebrate. Who else is planning a Solstice Ride?

The Deceptions of Early Spring Sunshine

Here in New England, early Spring might be the trickiest time to ride. At least in the winter you know where you stand: It is cold, very cold - wear your warmest. There are no expectations for a stark January day to turn balmy, and the winter sun has an icy brilliance to it that promises only sparkle, not warmth. But come March, the smell in the air changes; the quality of light changes. We want to believe that nice weather is coming.

There is something about the early spring sunshine that distorts our feel for temperature. A 40°F March morning can feel like 65° when the sun is out, causing optimistic cyclists to dress for a 65° day. But as soon as the sun disappears behind a cloud, the chill of the real temperature quickly takes over, making it feel like the dead of winter again.

Setting off in the morning, it is natural to expect that the day will grow warmer, causing us to shed layers as we go along. But this does not always happen in March. A beautiful, seemingly short-worthy morning can be but a cruel prelude to a freezing day.

Much as I want spring to come, I've learned to anticipate these deceptions. If the forecast says the temperature is colder than what it feels like, I dress according to the forecast. The piles of snow outside are also helpful: If the snow is not melting, then it is not actually warm, even though it might feel like it.

Yesterday, I rode off into the lazy warm sunshine, gentle and inviting. An hour later the temperature dropped and it began to hail violently, giving way to a bleak and freezing afternoon. Crossing paths with a blue-legged cyclist pulling up his knee warmers, we nodded at the sky, then at each other in mutual "WTF was that" acknowledgement. I zipped up my jacket's vents and rode faster, just as fledgling rays of sunlight tried to charm me once again with their promises of spring warmth.

Knitting Cyclists and Cycling Knitters

Last week I finally got back on the roadbike enough to start marking miles on my calendar again. Birds were singing, legs were spinning, flowers were pushing through. Then yesterday, this happened. It's still on the roads today. And it's supposed to happen again tomorrow. I lost my temper and did something I hadn't done in some time: I knitted.

I am not a committed knitter, but I learned as a child and do it whenever the fancy strikes. Or when I'm frustrated. The winter of 2010-11 was terrible for cycling, but great for knitting. I made myself an entire new wardrobe, made presents for friends, and did a brisk trade in hats for bicycle components. I must have knitted over 50 hats that winter; it was pretty bad. I can never just sit there and knit, so it's always done in conjunction with another activity, like reading, or talking, or watching a film. I did try knitting while cycling on a trainer a couple of times, but the rhythms are too different for it to work well.

It's been a surprise to discover how many women who ride bikes also knit. They seem like such different activities on the surface: one is domestic and stationary, the other exploratory, active and physically draining. Maybe it's the contrast that's attractive. Or the rhythm. Or the element of independence and self-sufficiency that both provide.

Apparently Lyli Herse was a prolific knitter. She would knit before bicycle races and brevets, because it kept her from getting nervous at the start. She made matching sweaters for her tandem partners and randonneuring teammates, their patterns distinctly recognisable in the historical photos.

Today, there is Emily O'Brien, who is not only a knitter, but also a spinner (can make her own yarn out of fleece). Bobbin and Sprocket knits and crochets. Knitting Lemonade knits and embroiders. There is Roseread, who knits lovely socks. The writer Sally Hinchcliffe a bicyclist and knitter. There is also The Knitting Cyclist. And The Knit Cycle. And Knitting by Bicycle. And more! Some are predominantly cyclists who are also attracted to knitting. Others are predominantly knitters who also ride bikes. Either way, it's an interesting convergence of interests: Knit your own wheeling costume (or a handlebar flower?). Get on a bike. And ride where you like ...once the snow melts a bit.

The Surest Sign of Spring

Although Friday surprised us with a fresh foot of snow, it was nonetheless a glorious weekend. The plows made their rounds, the sun shone in a clear blue sky, the temperatures rose, and the scarves were distinctly loosened. Navigating through the still snow-covered streets, I could feel something new and fresh in the air - unmistakable signs of Spring.

There was the wet snow, softening under the sun's warm rays.

There were the delicate buds, with their promise of new leaves in the weeks to come.

There were the fences in need of mending, having unburdened themselves of heavy snow banks.

There was a fresher, younger quality of the afternoon sun's glow.

There were the pothole lakes cheerfully reflecting cerulean skies.

There were the colourful chairs on the lawns of local college campuses.

There were the freshly liberated bike lanes.

And perhaps the most noticeable change of all, were the dozens upon dozens of bikes. They emerged out of hibernation en masse, heralding the official start of Spring. 

Some of the bikes I had seen in the neighbourhood before, but not since November. 

Oh hello again, slate blue Mercier mixte. You look positively radiant!

Long time no see, copper Raleigh Lady Sports. Warming those old bones?

New handlebar tape this season, Bianchi Nuovo Racing?

Oh, but what's this here? You are new this year, aren't you, oh teal Dutch Gazelle with full chaincase?

And you, Babboe cargo trike? I haven't seen you around before. Have you moved to this neighbourhood over the winter? Welcome, welcome. 

A local university recently installed bicycle racks along the entire length of their rather expansive Science Center. After sitting largely empty since their installation, on Saturday the racks were suddenly 3/4th full - snow storm of the previous day notwithstanding. 

It was not a coordinated effort, but it surely felt like one. The neighbourhood bikes have had their say. And they've declared it the official start of Spring.