A New Context

The transportation choices we make tend to be context specific. This goes for the "big" choices such as bike versus car versus train versus bus versus spaceship versus horse and carriage. It also goes for specifics such as what kind of car or what kind of bike we choose, as well as the ways in which we use them. 

It should come as no surprise that my own preferences and viewpoints have been largely shaped by cycling in and around Boston for the past four and a half years. At the beginning there were stretches of Vienna mixed in as well, and later Ireland. I've cycled in NYC a bit, as well as in various smaller East Coast towns. I've cycled some through the New England countryside. But mostly my experience as both cyclist and bicycle lover (and these are separate things) is undeniably Boston-specific. And as far as Lovely Bicycle - Had I been living elsewhere I doubt that I would have started the blog, or developed it in the way I have. 

As I explained a few posts ago, I am now living in Northern Ireland - in a rural area on the North Coast. I have no idea how long I am here for, but for the time being this is home. And of course being here has changed - and will continue to change - the context and content of my writing here. 

At various points over the years, I've mentioned that I see myself eventually living in the countryside, and wondered how feasible cycling for transportation would be in a rural environment. Well, it looks like I am in the process of finding out. And the one thing I'm sure of so far, is that context matters here a great deal as well. Not all rural areas are alike. Specifics of topography, road layout, proximity to various amenities, weather-related nuances, even cultural factors, can make all the difference in how feasible commuting by bike is. 

When I first visited Northern Ireland last year, I stayed in a tiny coastal town in County Antrim called Ballycastle. It was a beautiful area to visit, but as a cyclist I would not want to live there. Ballycastle itself has all the basic amenities one would need, but it is best navigated on foot, not by bike. And once you get out of town, the nearest signs of life in any direction are both far and uphill, as Ballycastle is situated in a valley. This makes going anywhere by bike a major project. When I stayed there I was highly motivated by sightseeing and photography, so I did cycle a lot. But for everyday living, I would find cycling for transportation there daunting.

By contrast, the Roe Valley area in Country Derry, where I stayed earlier this summer, is cycling paradise. Not only are there fantastic roadcycling routes in all directions, but getting around for transportation - either to neighbouring rural destinations or to the nearest town Limavady - is very manageable on a bike. Limavady is only 30 miles west of Ballycastle and in photos the scenery appears similar - all glens, sheep, mountains and sea views. But the layouts and the general "vibes" of these areas are very different - and this isn't something you can know unless you've stayed in both places. 

Even areas situated close together can feel like different worlds to a cyclist. Bouncing around between informal living arrangements with friends, most recently I had moved from the village of Aghanloo (pronounced "Anna-Lou") in the Roe Valley to the village of Castlerock just beyond it. I thought I knew what to expect from life in Castlerock, as it was only 6 miles away. But the specifics of the way this place is situated make it feel somehow extra-bleak and uncozy, to the point that it really bothers me. So despite Castlerock's stunning scenery and the availability of a fantastic cycling highway that serves as a direct route to a major town, I would not choose to settle down here - preferring the area where I stayed earlier.

As I'm about to finally move to a place of my own, in a location just right for me, I feel that I have a good grasp of what I need from a rural environment to combine my love of the countryside with my love of cycling for transportation. After some consideration, I will not be getting a car. And while I can't make any sweeping statements about the direction of this blog, I suspect my feelings on the loveliness of bicycles and the romance of cycling will endure.

A Go on the Bobbin Bramble

Two years ago, I wrote about the Bobbin Birdie when they were first introduced in the US. These brightly coloured, reasonably priced classic loop frame bikes have since become quite popular. The London-based Bobbin now brings another model to the North American market - the step-through Bramble. As they put it, the Bramble is inspired by "the Coventry-made Triumphs beloved by Land Girls and English district nurses in the interwar years up until the 1950s." No doubt fans of Call the Midwife will rejoice.

The Bramble differs from the Birdie in several ways. Its step-through frame features straight parallel tubes.

Its construction is lugless, except for the fork crown. The frame is a mix of hi-ten and cro-moly steel, made in Taiwan. The complete bike weighs around 12kg and is available in 17”,19” and  21” frame sizes.

Instead of the Birdie's internally geared hub, the Bramble features 6-speed derailleur gearing.

And hand-activated caliper brakes, front in rear, rather than a coaster brake. 

And handlebars that are less swept back, for a slightly sportier position. These aspects of the bike make the Bobbin Bramble more suitable for longer and hillier rides than the Birdie, while its commuter-oriented features make it just as transportation-ready.

 Included with the bike are an integrated colour-matched rear rack,

colour-matched fenders, kickstand, bell,

and a chainguard providing plenty of coverage.

The synthetic sprung padded saddle is wide, for an upright sitting position, its caramel-brown colour matching the grips.

The 26" wheels with 1 3/8" city tires are the same as the Birdie's, and do well on battered surfaces.

They also allow for plenty of toe clearance when turning.

But the most noticeable thing about this Bramble is the colour. Bobbin calls this shade "golden-green," and it is the most successful recreation of that magical vintage English 3-speed shade of green I have yet come across. This nuanced green gives off a warm deep glow in the sunlight, with hints of yellow, orange and even crimson detectable in its flame-like shimmer. Needless to say, I am crazy about this colour - but for those less enamoured, the Bramble is also available in plum.

I test rode the Bobbin Bramble at the Bicycle Belle in Boston, along a typical local commuter's route. Much like the Birdie, this is a straightforward, no fuss, "hop on and go" type of bike that did not call attention to itself as I cycled around the neighbourhood. The sitting position can range from bolt-upright to jauntily leaned-forward, and my own preference is for the bars and saddle to be level. However, most of those who buy these bikes seem to prefer the bars set higher, and the handling remains stable with this arrangement.

For whatever reason, I found the ride quality of the Bramble a little cushier than that of the Birdie. On the other hand, I found the handlebars uncomfortable: There is something about this particular bend that twists my wrists at an awkward angle. This could be a matter of personal taste of course. 

The Bramble does not come equipped with lighting, so adding it will be an extra expense. However, everything else needed for a comfortable commute is there. Priced at around $530 in the USA, the Bramble is another welcome option from Bobbin - this time for hillier, longer commutes. And the stunning colour does not hurt either. 

See complete specs and picture set, and many thanks to the Bicycle Belle for the test ride. 

The Rural Cycling Highway

Most of us have probably heard of cycling highways in the Netherlands. These long distance segregated bicycle paths run through suburban and rural areas, making it easy for cyclists to commute into cities and towns. Perhaps less known is that cycling highways also exist elsewhere - for example, in Northern Ireland. Considering NI is not especially famous for its cycling infrastructure or high rates of bicycle commuters, I find this interesting and would like to share my experience. 

The place where I am currently staying is about 7 miles from Coleraine - a good sized town by local standards, with multiple shopping centers, a variety of businesses, and a university. It is a major commuter's hub for surrounding rural areas - including the village I am closest to, which is Castlerock. There are two routes from Castlerock to Coleraine. The direct one is along the A2 - a country highway with high speed traffic. The indirect one is along a quiet backroad that meanders along the coast and is quite hilly. When I am on my roadbike riding for sport or recreation, I prefer the hilly backroad. When I need to get into town in my regular clothes, laptop in tow, without being absolutely spent and dripping with sweat upon arrival, the comparatively flat and more direct A2 makes more sense. Luckily, a fully segregated mixed use cycling/pedestrian path runs along the entire length of the country highway.

The path is wide enough to accommodate 2-way bicycle or pedestrian traffic. It is buffered from the road by a 3 foot wide grass strip and a raised ridge. The tarmac is a well maintained chipseal. Blue MUP signs as shown here are posted every half mile or so. 

One of the nicest things about this path, is how few interruptions there are. I only counted about 3 during the entire 6-mile rural stretch before hitting the Coleraine suburbs. 

In the more populated areas, the intersections look like this - but navigating them is intuitive, and it's easy to watch for traffic.

Once in the suburbs of Coleraine, the segregated path transforms to a bike lane. At this point an additional two-way MUP appears across the road.

Once in the town proper, a segregated bike path takes you over the bridge across the river Bahn into the town center - a largely pedestrian area closed off to motor vehicle traffic. And so before you know it - voila, you arrive in the city after a very pleasant commute from the countryside. 

Overall, I would say the most challenging aspect of the cycling highway here is the weather. In mid-November, it is getting cold, bleak and damp, with strong winds. The landscape here is wide open, with little in the way of shelter from the wind or rain. Another thing to note, is that - for the most part - there is no illumination at night. The structured and straightforward nature of this route makes navigation in the dark doable with bright LED lighting - but not everyone will like the spookiness of riding through the middle of nowhere in pitch dark.

As far as the nicest parts of the cycling highway, it is things like this. Riding along the segregated bike path, I can take it easy and enjoy the scenery and animals. It is a pleasant and relaxing way to get around for transportation. 

The cycling highways in Northern Ireland exist without much fanfare. But they are here, and they are lovely. If others have experienced cycling highways - either in the Netherlands or elsewhere - I would love to know your impressions. 

Cycling as Stress Relief

When a friend told me he was “too stressed to ride lately,” that struck me as dissonant at first. We think of cycling as a stress-reducing activity. So if you’re feeling stressed that is all the more reason to go on a bike ride. But the more I considered it, the more I came to realise that the relationship between cycling and stress is not linear for me either.

When I'm stressed out, cycling does help. It clears my head, slows down my racing thoughts, improves my mood. It regulates my appetite and sleep patterns. And when sufficiently strenuous, it plain exhausts me into a state of near-catatonic relaxation. I have never been on a bike ride where I started out feeling stressed and didn't feel better afterward. And knowing this, my use of cycling for stress relief has become habitual. Feeling frazzled? Under pressure? Bad mood? Off I go on a bike ride. There, that fixed it.

There is, however, a threshold beyond which this doesn't work. Because stress, when it's bad enough, can demobilise. And this creates a Catch 22 situation: You're too stressed out to engage in an activity that can relief that stress. At that point, it can become a vicious cycle, with the stress building up and making you all the less likely to get on the bike. 

So what do you do if that happens? One solution could be to try and catch it early - convincing yourself to ride anyway before things snowball. Of course that's easier said than done. And personally, I don't like to force myself to get on the bike when I don't feel like it. So if I'm feeling too stressed to ride, then I just don't, and if that results in a cycling-lite phase of some weeks so be it. As always, I know I'll come out of it, waking up one morning and feeling the need for the bike before my eyes are even fully open. 

There may be times when we are too stressed to ride. And there are times the bike can wash the stress away better than any other remedy. Hopefully the latter overshadows the former.

The Desert Island Bike

You know the drill in this scenario: 

You're stranded on a desert island and you can only have one bike! What bike will it be? Hmmm?

I've been thinking about that one lately, as I now get to play this game for real - sort of. Okay, so moving to Northern Ireland is not exactly the same thing. But hey, Ireland is an island. And the area I'll be living in is kind of remote. I say it's close enough.

So what are some desert island bike criteria? Well, the bike must be reliable, durable, adaptable. Whatever distance and terrain you need to cover, it should be capable of covering. Whatever elements  you'll be exposed to, it should be able to withstand. Whatever supplies you will need to haul - be it driftwood, those eels you caught for dinner, or your lunar-powered laptop - it should have provisions to haul. 

But a desert island bike should also be fun - because, let's face it, you're on a desert island and stuck with only one bike forever (or until you're rescued, or until you smuggle a second bike on your next trip over - whichever!). 

A desert island bike is the bike that can serve as your entertainment, your mode of transportation, your means of exercise and your anthropomorphic companion, all rolled into one. 

But you must also take care not to overdo it. In theory, a Ti-carbon monstercross bakfiets might seem like just the thing. But in practice it could prove daunting for everyday use as an only bike, what with the constant polishing of the cargo box and the hydraulic disc brake bleeding. Sometimes simpler is better. 

The desert island bike can be a fantasy bike that exists solely in your imagination. It can be a real bike that you've always thought would be perfect for such a scenario. Or, it can be a bike you already own - the one you've realised you would not be able to cope without. 

For me that bike would probably be the Brompton. Sure it is not a fast sexy roadbike, but it can tackle hilly roads. It is not designed for dirt, but can act like an all-terrain vehicle if called upon. It is not a cargo bike, but can handle a heavy crate of eels with aplomb. Its dynamo lighting will illuminate my thatched cottage (circa 1620 and unrestored, so no electricity - score!). And it's tiny enough to be folded into a lifeboat. Just as importantly, I know that should I find myself without this bike even briefly, as I recently have, I start climbing the walls (and when you're living in a stone thatched cottage, that's not hyperbole; you can totally climb the walls as the stones make for sturdy footholds). 

Anyway. So here I am, packing the Brompton while other bikes stay behind, their fates unknown. But I cheated at the Desert Island game: My Seven roadbike is waiting for me in Ireland, left there during my previous trip. So in fact I will have two bikes. Sport and transport, for the love of god don't make me choose! But the desert island bike is fun to contemplate anyway. What would yours be? 

Hey There, Hot Stuff

Up until a few days ago, I had never tried embrocation. And why would I? My understanding was, the stuff was for racers. On cold days they spread it on their bare legs to warm up. Beyond this practical application, embrocation also seems to serve a romantic function in racing culture's narrative. It is one of those sacred rituals, always written about with reverence and awe. All this made it feel part of a world I had little to do with.

I was somewhat surprised then, when several friends suggested I give embrocation a try. I enjoy cycling in cold weather, but sometimes experience stiffness and aches when starting a ride in the cold. The embrocation, I was told, could work as a remedy. Now I was curious. But which to choose? That question answered itself when the rep for Donkey Label offered a sample to try. A few days later, a pot of their mild embrocation arrived.

Donkey Label is a tiny company in Minneapolis, specialising in custom jerseys and skincare products for cyclists. As the name suggests, they have a donkey on their label (which, while adorable, can also be problematic: I have one of their soaps and can't bring myself to actually use it, for fear of "murdering" the creature carved into the surface). But I digress. Made in small batches without the use of preservatives, Donkey Label embrocations are organic and hand mixed. When I opened the stainless canister, the contents were a translucent ambery-orange balm. It smelled spicy, but not harsh - a masala chai sort of spicy, with something extra I could not identify.

Scooping out a small amount, I applied it to whatever areas felt like they could use warming up: mostly along my lower back and hips, and a bit to the shoulders and knees. Rubbing the stuff in, I expected to feel a burning sensation. But instead it was a slow acting warm-to-hot feeling that, together with the scent, put me into an almost trans-like state. It simultaneously soothed me and jolted me awake.

I set off on my bike on a damp 48°F morning, feeling as if my body was aglow, as well as more fluid and relaxed. Interestingly, over the next several hours the sensation seemed to grow stronger rather than diminish, reaching a tingly apex just before it finally faded around mid-day. And as soon as it wore off I wanted to feel it again. Could it be this stuff is addictive? That could explain a lot.

Donkey Label informs me that I should feel the tingle again in the post-ride shower. Alas every time I've used this embrocation so far I've stayed out all day, so that by the time I shower it is but a faint echo of the original sensation. I guess this gives me incentive to wash sooner.

Though shrouded in mystery, cycling embrocation is essentially a waterproofing heat rub. It contains essential oils blended with warming agents (such as capsicum) and ingredients with anti-inflamatory properties (such as camphor). These combine to perform vasodilatory and analgesic functions, while ingredients such as beeswax form a barrier against wind and moisture. Some of these effects (minus the waterproofing) can be achieved with commercial topical creams such as Bengay and IcyHot, though the exact nature and duration of their effectiveness will differ. To me both of those products feel harsh in comparison to the DL embrocation, hitting too hard at the beginning and wearing off sooner. I also find that they smell quite unpleasant, whereas the scent of the embrocation is gorgeous.

I have not tried any embrocation products besides Donkey Label's mild formula and cannot speak of how it compares to others. But in its own right, this stuff is so nice it makes me look forward to winter cycling even more than I do already. DL's mild embrocation is warming, soothing, de-aching, and, dare I say - sensuous.

Fear and Longing

When I walked through Pamela's front door, they were moving furniture. Or rather, her husband John was moving furniture. Pamela herself stood nearby in a posture of uncharacteristic stillness. She then made her way toward me, slowly stepping out of the shadow into the living room light. I took one look at her and exclaimed "Hey, that looks fabulous on you! Sexy, like a corset." I was referring to her massive back brace. 

People say the darnest things when they don't know what to say. It's the nerves talking. Or the shock. Or the feelings of guilt. But none of this applied to me. I genuinely thought her back brace looked cool and I felt comfortable blurting that out. See, that's one thing I love about Pamela. I can say whatever the heck I want to her without worrying about being insensitive. Because she has a warped sense of humor. Because she understands that to treat a disaster nonchalantly means you're well on the way to overcoming it. Because she'd say something similar herself. Because a comment like that was sure to cheer her up.

Except this time it didn't. She wasn't offended, but she wasn't cheered either. She looked sad, pessimistic, deflated. When we spoke, she told me she could not imagine riding a bike again. "Damn it," I thought. Broken back or not, this isn't Pamela. This is bullshit." And I reacted the way that felt right, which was to treat Pamela as if nothing had happened. As if a truck hadn't hit her from behind a month prior, fracturing her spine and putting her future mobility into question. 

For a surprising number of people the year 2013 has been a year of crisis in one form or another, and I am among them. This summer the course of my life was irreversibly altered. And while I am evasive about it here (for now at least - bear with me), I wasn't evasive with Pamela. When I wrote her about it from Ireland, she responded in her usual practical, helpful manner. The following day she was hit by a truck, sending her next email from the hospital. And so our very different crises became linked in time.

Visiting Pamela back in Boston, I realised the connection was not just a temporal one. We had something in common: We were not ourselves. What I mean is, we were each behaving out of character in the way we were reacting to our respective situations. And, each noticing this in the other, we felt alarmed. We wanted to shout "Snap out of it, this isn't you!" And we did shout it. 

In one of her blog posts about her injury, Pamela writes:

"I may not be physically paralyzed, but I am becoming so paralyzed by fear that I may not be able to get back on my bike when the physical impediments to do so are gone. 

...I define myself as cyclist first and foremost, and if I can't reclaim that state of being, this distracted driver who ran me down on September 8 will have robbed me of my identity."

This is chilling for me to read. Particularly because, as I see it, it's not just Pamela's cycling identity that is threatened, but one of her defining character traits: her fearlessness. There are situations that bring about a crisis of self, which can prove more serious than the immediate disaster we are faced with. 

Undergoing my own crisis of self, I started to question everything. This included my identity as a cyclist. Over the past weeks, I had wanted to focus on personal matters and "take a break from the bike world." To a laughable degree, these two goals proved incompatible. I may have taken a break from posting on the blog, but my friendships, interactions, daily activities, even my thoughts, remained intertwined with the reality I've come to know through Lovely Bicycle. My world as a whole may have turned upside down, but cycling - and the impulse to write about it - has retained firm footing. There is some comfort in that. Some confusion too, but mostly comfort.

The last time I visited Pamela, she mentioned the idea of "longing." She still could not imagine cycling, she said. But she could now "imagine imagining" it. She could imagine a time when she would feel a longing to get on the bike again. And once that happens, it will only be a matter of whether - and when - the longing outweighs the fear. 

Hearing this lifted my spirits and infused me with a sense of optimism more than anything else that's been said to me in the past month. I thought back to my first rides with Pamela two years ago. She took me up and down winding hilly roads the likes of which I'd never ridden before. With her signature nonchalance, she introduced me to roadcycling as I know it today, ignoring my anxieties and ineptitudes. So much of it felt impossible at the time, but I got through it - the push and pull of my own fear and longing so tangible I could feel it in the back of my throat. Remembering this, I rode home with the wind on my face and felt tears streaming down my cheeks. They were windy cycling tears, mixed with happy tears - for Pamela, and maybe also for myself.