Acquired Taste or Love at First Try?

image by Chris Sharp

A good friend of mine here is a runner. He cycles as well, but it’s running that’s his passion. He runs mostly off road - on wooded paths, through forests and up mountain trails, along rugged shorelines. And when he talks about running, he makes it sound wonderfully appealing. So much so that, willfully suppressing awful memories of my own tortured attempts at running in the past, I began to ask questions and to consider giving it another try. 

So we had a chat about it, at the end of which I said that I'd like to try running again - making a comment to the effect of “I think I'm going to enjoy it this time.” To this he quickly replied “Oh no, you’ll hate it at first for sure!"

"Oh?"

"But stick with it," he added brightly. "Once you pass the tipping point, you'll not be able to live without it." 

Okay, not exactly what I had in mind. But I remained optimistic. "So how long did it take until you began to enjoy running?" 

 "About three months." 

"Three months?!" Okay, definitely not what I had in mind. But the idea of willingly doing something that feels awful until that point where it begins to feel good intrigued me. What motivates people to run for 3 months if they don't enjoy it? And how does the experience transition from an unpleasant to a pleasant one? 

When I started asking these questions, my friend turned the subject to cycling. "Well didn't you feel the same way on the bike? Is the pain not terrible until you get used to it?" 

It never occurred to me to think of cycling in that way. Because no, it never felt terrible. It felt good from the get go - wonderful even - which is why I wanted to do it again and again. Sure I was sore and out of breath after my first few bike rides when just starting out. And even now I feel plenty of pain whenever I push my limits. But I would compare this to the experience of dancing all night: While I don't get to do this as often as I'd like nowadays, in my 20s I used to love going to clubs and dancing until near-collapse. I'd feel the physical stress toward the end, and definitely the day after. But while I'm dancing, the fun of it and the getting lost in the moment overshadow the pain. On a bike - whether toodling along a river path or  taking part in the most grueling of training rides - I feel something akin to this. But at no point had I ever felt it while running; at no point during any of my attempts to run did it feel "fun," and at no point had I been able to lose myself in the act of running to the extent that the pain and discomfort of it would get tuned out. I had always thought this to be a sign that running was simply wrong for me, and assumed that dedicated runners got that way because they did enjoy it from the start. But now here was a runner telling me that he too was miserable in the beginning. I have since questioned a few other friends who run and got similar feedback. Their description of running as initially unappealing, but habit-forming, reminded me of the stories people tell of how they began smoking or drinking: "I hated the taste at first..." When it comes to stories of how people got into cycling, there is instead a theme of love at first try. 

So, does running tend to be an acquired taste, whereas cycling is innately pleasurable? Or is it more about the person, the intensity, and other factors? I've stuck with cycling for 5 years because I loved it from the get-go, so the idea of running "until I grow to like it" is hard to wrap my head around - but I am not closed to the idea. There is considerable overlap between cyclists and runners, and I am curious how those who've done both feel about these activities.

Sagax et Audax

Over the weekend I finished moving into my new place. The house really is something - basically an old farm manor that has not been inhabited in years, in equal parts grand and derelict: dramatic staircase and French doors meet peeling wallpaper and broken floorboards. As befitting of such a residence, in the front hallway there hung a plaque with the family crest. It was too high for me to read the inscription, so I hadn't bothered to study it closely prior to moving in. But now my housemate took it down, and I heard him laughing down the hall. "Hey, look at this - Audax! Isn't that what you do on your bike?"

Wow. And yes, sort of. In cycling terms, audax is an alternative name for randonneuring - an organised form of long distance cycling. The international governing body for these events is known as the Audax Club Parisien. In Ireland and the UK, the term audax is used, whereas the term randonneuring is preferred in North America.

While I knew the word audax did not originate with cycling, I never thought to look up what it meant. Seeing it now on the crest prompted me to. Rather unsurprisingly in retrospect, it means "audacious" in Latin - brave, bold, courageous, adventurous. And looking into it further, I learned that the motto "sagax et audax" is a not uncommon one to be found on family crests, meaning something to the effect of "sharp and bold," or "astute and audacious." This would surely make an appropriate motto for a cycling family (are the Blayleys in need of a crest?). However, the owners of my house are dairy farmers.

Having started randonneuring last Spring with the New England Randonneurs, I would love to try some audax events here. Unfortunately Northern Ireland is in a weird situation jurisdictionally when it comes to cycling, and I do not believe any audax events are held here (though I'd be glad to stand corrected - anyone?).

But despite the lack of a local randonneuring culture, finding the word "audax" in my new home feels serendipitous. Could an Audax Club Nord-Irlandais be in the cards? An audacious undertaking for sure, but the routes and scenery here would be perfect for it.

How to Start a Fire

I've always felt November to be a month of anxiety-laced anticipation. It is that slow pivot when cold gives way to freezing, when colour fades to black and white, when Autumn slips into winter. It could be a dreary winter, or it could be a gorgeous winter. It could be a winter of being stuck indoors or a winter of uninterrupted cycling. Which it will be, we do not know. The season will slowly unfold to manifest itself, and all we can do is wait - distracting ourselves with a cluster of holidays, shopping, and big meals. 

Earlier this week I explained Thanksgiving and Black Friday to an Irish friend. It surprised me that I had to explain it at all, as they've grown up on American sitcoms here and at this time of year practically all the episodes are holiday-themed. But I guess it's possible to watch and enjoy American shows despite not getting all the cultural references, and so Thanksgiving was one of those fuzzy concepts until I fleshed it out with an elaborate description of what actually goes on. In return I am asked whether I miss Thanksgiving. Is it making me homesick?

Hmm is it? Well, not in an obvious sense. Having lived outside the US half my life, I skip it as often as I celebrate it, and have mixed feelings about the holiday anyway. But I do miss the role it plays in marking that November transition. Without Thanksgiving as a marker, I feel a bit lost this year - lacking in structure and a sense of flow.

There is also the question of weather. In New England I've formed a strong association between Thanksgiving time and that crisp, dry chill in the air. There is something festive about that dry chill, something comforting and uplifting, invigorating. In Northern Ireland the late Autumn cold is different. Humid and penetrating, it feels as if an army of invisible clammy tentacles slowly wrap themselves around me, creeping persistently beneath layers of wool, then tightening their hold to sap my bodyheat. That kind of cold is not festive at all; it is energy-draining and spirit-dampening. And determined not to give in, I have been fighting it with fire. 

At the risk of disappointing those who took my earlier "thatched cottage with no electricity" comment seriously, my dwellings in Northern Ireland have all had modern amenities, including central (oil) heating. However, many here agree that heating a house via fireplace or stove remains the most effective method. There is something about the dancing flame of an open fire that dries out the damp better than anything. 

In my current fireplace I can burn wood, coal and peat - or a combination of any of these. All in all, coal seems to offer the best combination of heat, cost-effectiveness and ease of procurement. Coals burn slowly and they burn extremely hot. The heat is easy to regulate by the amount you put in, and how you arrange them on the grate. And in the new place I'm about to move into, get this: The main wood/coal burning stove (pictured) plugs into the central heating system, so that the radiators and the hot water can actually be stove-powered rather than using oil. I've been tinkering with the system to figure out how it works exactly. 

Getting a coal fire started is not easy - in particular when trying to do it quickly, with freezing trembling hands in the early morning. You cannot simply light a piece of coal with a match - it's like trying to set a rock on fire. Instead, you have to create conditions of extreme heat on the grate, which will set the coals aglow slowly and gradually. This is achieved by building up what looks like a little fort of sorts - layering crumpled paper, then thin dry pieces of wood, on which the coals are then placed. You light the paper, which burns quick and shallow, in turn lighting the wood, which burns slower and hotter, in turn lighting the coals which take some time to catch but, once aglow, release a heat of such depth and intensity that a small house can easily be kept warm all day with a couple of bucketfulls. Wooden logs can be added to vary the feel of the flames, which I like doing as well.

It is a dry, crisp heat that is comforting and festive in the absence of the seasonal markers I'm used to. I do not miss Thanksgiving, but I do want to wish a happy one to my US-based readers. Thank you, as always, for reading, and I hope you are finding ways to keep warm...

...with or without a fireplace!

Roadsters on the Sand

"So what on earth are you doing here?..."

In a village cafe with impressively bleak sea views, we said this to each other almost simultaneously, as if really questioning ourselves. Clive is here from New Zealand, via England, via... well, it's a story not easily summarised. Much like myself, he does not have a neatly packaged explanation for how he ended up in Northern Ireland. He is simply here. Existing in what sometimes quite overwhelmingly feels like the middle of nowhere. Floating really. Coasting. 

To put it frankly, befriending Clive Somerville has made me question my sanity. And as I worked beside the television last night, the Secret Window playing in the background, I was reminded of why. Clive Somerville could very well be a figment of my imagination. A stress-induced hallucination, an imaginary friend to keep me company in unfamiliar lands, whatever you want to call it. Bottom line is, his realness is worrisomely implausible. Take the name, for instance. Somerville? I moved here from Somerville, Massachusetts. And "Clive"? I'm sorry, but that's a fictional name if ever there was one - a film noir character. Or, a name I might give to one of my bikes... 

And speaking of bikes, the one he rides could have been plucked out of my imagination. A racing green BSA roadster, 1960s vintage, with Sturmey Archer hub and full chaincase - a beast he maneuvers as adeptly as if it were a BMX bike. 

The BSA's frame has been drilled for rod brakes, yet the bike appears to have been fitted at the factory with rim brakes (which Clive fitted with Kool Stop "Vans" brake shoes - in white, to match the bike's grips). In all other ways, it is a traditional roadster. 

Clive bought the bike (named Lady Huck) while living in England two years ago, in a vintage shop in Dorset. He describes it affectionately as having been in "nightmare" condition, rough shape with most components on the brink of failure. 

Once he started riding it, the bike promptly began to fall apart - which in turn inspired Clive to learn how to fix it. Enter the Sheldon Brown website. Enter the classic and vintage bike forums and various blogs. Enter the world of vintage parts hunted down on ebay, wheels rebuilt by hand, hubs repacked, and cottered cranks replaced. With Lady Huck, boredom is a non-issue.

Then there is also a matter of Clive's commute. He cycles 6.5 miles each way, from his home in Portstewart to his job in Coleraine - utilising the rural cycling highway. With my own impressions of cycling in Northern Ireland overwhelmingly positive, I sometimes wonder whether my sense of this is somehow skewed. But, having lived here for nearly a year, Clive agrees: "Cycling in NI seems really well catered for. The cycle paths are convenient, the drivers are mainly extremely courteous and friendly, the local roadies wave, the police ignores me - it's all round a nice place to ride." Of course, his co-workers nonetheless think him nuts for commuting by bike - but neither Clive nor Lady Huck are phased. 

Though his favourite place to cycle so far has been the New Forest in England - an area he describes as so idyllic, I have difficulty picturing it. And as far as cycling in his native New Zealand, Clive describes it as great for mountain biking and BMX, but "hostile and dangerous" for commuting, roadcycling and touring in most parts of the country. This is interesting to me, as it's pretty much the feedback I get from all those who've lived in New Zealand - yet the place is rather enthusiastically promoted as an ideal bicycle touring destination. Goes to show that it's always good to talk with locals. 

While neither Clive and I feel anything like locals here and probably never will, we've each been getting to know the area and the people, while riding our bikes and snapping photos. Meeting up a few times, we've discovered some common ground - including complicated life stories, a shared interest in film photography, and a giddy admiration for Malachi O'Doherty. We could be figments of each other's imagination, for all we know. And I suppose there is nothing wrong with that. 

Having photographed Clive on his BSA, the following night I had a dream where a group of people - all on vintage roadsters - were cycling on the sand, for miles and miles and miles as the sun slowly set. It was more than a bit surreal, but also quite doable here. Who knows, it could be a theme for a future V-CC Northern Ireland ride...

Pretty-Bright! Three Reflective Vests for Plain Clothed Cycling

all  images G. McLaughlin

I've never been an enthusiast of hi-viz gear for transportation cycling. When riding through well-lit, densely populated areas, personally I do not feel the need for it. But as my commutes began to take me through more remote places, the idea of wearing a little reflective something became more appealing. While there's no shortage of hi-viz cycling clothing out there, some bicycle commuters feel that much of it is unattractive and ill-fitting. To address this, a number of companies now aim to make reflective gear that's as effective as it is fashionable. I have tried products from three of them over the past months: the Lightning Vest by Dargelos, the Vesp by Vespertine, and the Capelet by Day Glow Doris. All of these are handmade by small, independent manufacturers and aimed mainly at women. Here are my thoughts on their utility and looks.

The Dargelos Lightning Vest fascinated me from the moment I saw it, because it is such an ingeniously simple concept. This garment is basically a hand-knotted net of 3M reflective ribbon, providing all-over reflection for your entire torso, while also being extremely lightweight and compact. And because the netting is spaced fairly wide, pockets remain accessible. Available in two sizes, the Lightning Vest is drapy in cut and roomy enough to fit over a jacket or coat. Prior to trying it, I wondered whether this might make it prone to snagging on parts of the bike, but I have not experienced that so far - the netting stays close to the body. 

One thing I do find a little awkward about the Lightning Vest in use, is figuring out the head and arm openings. It's not complicated, but it does take some care - particularly to not get my hair caught in the netting.

Judging the Lightning Vest as an article of wearable, fashionable clothing, I have to say that I like it. The silver netting is light and ethereal-looking, and the cut is unexpectedly flattering. It certainly is unusual, but to my eye it looks nice.

And as far as reflective properties, my favourite aspect of this garment is the amount of coverage it provides. 

With my entire torso covered in reflective netting, I am equally visible from the front, rear and sides. Made in NYC, USA, the Dargelos Lightning Vest is priced at $138. 

The 50's Capelet by Day Glow Doris is a vintage "Dior-inspired" vest that comes in hi-viz colours (yellow, green, pink and red) with reflective trim and buttons. The rounded collar, 3/4 bell sleeves, floral ribbon trim and retro cut give it a soft, feminine look that makes for an interesting contrast with the neon and hi-viz colour scheme. 

Roomy in cut and easy to put on, the capelet closes via a hidden velcro strip in the front (the reflective buttons are decorative), which also makes it possible to adjust fit. Though designed to be worn over a jacket, this capelet is available in one size only (S/M). Made of a lightweight polyester fabric, it is bulkier than the other vests featured here, but can still can be scrunched up to fit into a (deep) pocket.

As far as its fashion appeal, the Day Glow Doris Capelet is clearly targeted at those who go for the funky retro look. I am not sure the '50s styling is my cup of tea exactly, but I can appreciate the design and do find the cut flattering. And as far as neon goes, I also like the particular shade of red/orange the manufacturer chose: It is not a typical "construction zone orange," but more like the colour of a wild poppy rendered in neon. 

In the dark, the Day Glow Doris reflective features are limited to the reflective ribbon at the collar, sleeves, buttons and waist. In the front there are quite a few reflective bits. 

However, in the rear and from the sides the reflective areas can be less visible. For instance, if I wear my hair loose it will cover the collar, and if my arms are too far forward the strips along the sleeves will disappear. To be sure, this capelet is highly visible - but the reflective features are limited to the edges, rather than being its centerpiece. Made in the UK, the Day Glow Doris Capelet is priced at £49 (or $80 USD at current conversion rates).

The Vespertine Vesp is a mini-vest with a deep v-neck cut and a ribbon-tie front, that is a lighter-weight, more versatile alternative to the manufacturer's line of reflective dresses and jackets. 

Available in sizes XS-XL, the Vesp is shown here is the silver lamé fabric, and is also made in several neon colours (yellow, green, orange and pink). It is adjustable to fit over a jacket (go up a size for thick overcoats). 

While the Vesp does not exactly look like everyday wear to my eye, the delicate tailoring and the use of diagonal lines make it surprisingly flattering and as unobtrusive as a silver lamé article of clothing can be. It also impressed me by being much lighter and more collapsible than it looks - I can easily scrunch it up to fit into the tiniest of pockets.

In the dark, the Vesp's arrangement of reflective 3M ribbon make a sort of butterfly shape in the front,

And a large, prominent "X" in the rear that covers much of the torso, supplemented by another thin reflective strip at the waist-line hem. The edges of the X extend to the sides, where the reflective ribbon is also quite prominent. Made in NYC, USA, the Vespertine Vesp is priced at $68 for the neon versions and $84 for the silver lamé.

Overall I find all three of the vests described here easy to wear, reasonably attractive, and effective in their high visibility features. For riding in the daytime in overcast conditions, the Day Glow Doris provides the best visibility with its swathes of neon fabric. For riding at night, the prominent X of the Vespertine Vesp seems to be the most eye-catching from the back, while the all-over netting of the Dargelos Lightning Vest provides the most thorough reflective coverage. 

For women seeking fashionable hi-viz wear, either of these products could fit the bill. And if you like the concept but find the price too high - why not whip out the needle and thread, and get creative with the 3M ribbon? Although what I'd like to do is find some 3M yarn and do some hi-viz knitting... 

Don't Go Chasing Waterfalls

If I were to start a sentence with "I won't ride my bike when..." how would you complete that sentence? 

Yesterday I completed it with "...when the waterfalls flow backwards." 

According to the weather report last night, Castlerock was "the windiest place in the UK." Having taken the train into Coleraine early morning, on my way back I could hardly stay upright when walking home from the station. The wind felt like a magnetic force pressing me into the ground.

Later in the day, I was out taking photos with a friend when I saw it... There is a series of waterfalls along the cliff edge of Binevenagh Mountain in the Downhill stretch of the coastal road - thin streams of foaming white water, flowing down from a great height. Only this time the streams were flowing up the mountain instead of down. Blown backwards over the cliff's edge, they looked like a set of erratic, rogue fountains. 

Unlike anything I've encountered here before, this sight made me feel like a complete slack-jawed tourist. Feebly I tried to capture it on camera, but really I just stared and pointed. "The waterfalls are flowing backwards... They're flowing backwards!!!"

"Sure," said my friend nonchalantly, "the wind gets nasty here. If you threw a brick over that edge there it would come back to you. Not a day to be on your bike hey?"

I imagined cycling up the mountain with a brick in my basket and perhaps some video equipment just to conduct that little experiment. But no, it was not a day for the bike. It was a backward waterfall kind of day. 

How Dark Is Your Dark?

Well, it looks like we've entered that magical time of year... the season of 5pm nightfall. Today I rode home along a pitch black road under an ink blue sky, my path illuminated by a faint hint of stars and my bike's dynamo headlight. There was precipitation in the air that was not quite snow, but a fluffy sort of sleet, and bits of it fluttered, mothlike, in the headlight's beam. I could see nothing else around me, save for the vague outlines of scraggly trees. 

Having happily ridden my bike through the past four winters, at some point I began to take it for granted that I was equipped to cycle at night. This changed during my attempt at a 300K brevet last spring, when I found myself absolutely unable to navigate a hilly, winding country road in Central Massachusetts in the dark, despite (multiple) powerful headlights. Part of the problem was no doubt exhaustion and nerves, but part of it was how absolutely dark that particular darkness was! 

Those of us who cycle mostly through populated areas are accustomed to streets being lit at night. In cities, the ever-present blaze of street lights and store fronts, and the constant stream of car headlights means we are never in the dark at all. In suburban areas, the lit up windows of residential homes provide a soft background glow. Even many of the unlit country roads tend to have reflective features or white lines along the shoulders that - in the beam of a bike's headlight - reveal the shape of the road ahead and guide us around bends. 

But what of areas where there is nothing - and I mean, absolutely nothing - to provide illumination other than our bicycle's lighting? It's an environment difficult to imagine until you've experienced it, and cycling through it can be just as much about being able to tolerate it psychologically as it is about having adequate lighting. When it's so dark that we see nothing other than what's in front of us, the imagination can run rampant and the mind can play tricks on us. 

I am getting myself used to cycling in the rural dark here - mainly by sticking to short stretches of familiar roads. More than anything, I am finding that knowing the road is helpful, as well as knowing how far I have to go until the next well-lit stretch. So far, I feel fairly comfortable doing this - the biggest challenge being that I tend to get sleepy. Nothing like complete darkness to fool us into thinking it is bed time, even when it's hardly dinner time.

In the winter season, some portion of our transportation cycling will almost certainly take place in the dark. How dark does it get where you ride, and how do you deal with it? Do you feel that, aside from equipment issues, cycling at night requires some mental or emotional adjustment?