Recycling

When I lived that little bit closer to Norfolk's delightful coast, trundling off to the edge of the ocean was something that I fairly regularly managed to achieve. Now that the city of Norwich is my starting point the sea seems oh, so much further away.

Of course, it is, sort of. But the 'oh, so much further' is really far more of a subjective call than it is one of relative distance. Were I to set out determinedly, upon any of the various and more direct routes, I am reasonably sure that I would quite soon make up the difference. The thing is, however, that, for me, the journeying now is every bit as worthy as is the destination. And yet, having now written this, I am again reminded that I do still yearn longingly for that wild and evocative coastline whilst I am relentlessly turning those pedals.



So, the dilemma? To cycle enjoyably along those quiet country back lanes, or to suffer the occasional impatience of some of our larger vehicles, vehicles with loads to unload and targets to meet, that I might once again reconnect to that wonderful untamed ocean? This 'dilemma,' quite naturally becomes ever more so as age gradually and determinedly replaces relative youth. That is to write that one's ability to avoid or otherwise ameliorate any of cycling's potential and multifarious mishaps also becomes increasingly compromised, as previously sharp reactions are cruelly usurped by something approaching torpor.

In the course of my variable meanderings I have never yet come to any serious harm, although several times I have found myself unseated. Thus, I now always endeavour to don my trusty cycling helmet before venturing forth. But, this wasn't always the case.



There was a time when I didn't even possess a cycling helmet; I used to love the feel of the sun on my face, the wind in my hair, and the merest thought of encasing my fragile skull in a helmet would never have occurred. Events have moved on apace since those more hedonistic days. I can all too vividly recall an incident, not so very long ago when I found myself upended within a shallow ditch. The event wasn't so very memorable as of itself, except in the exiting of the aforementioned ditch.

I remember thinking, "Who is this?" as I struggled to align memories of a more agile younger self with those of a entirely more decrepit older shell. At the time I had been wearing a helmet; it wasn't this mishap that had brought me to my senses, that had happened a couple of years previously. And it wasn't so much any specific sort of a mishap either. It was rather more an imagined pinnacle, a gradual dawning of sanity- it had anyway taken far too long for me to come to my senses. Maybe this 'incident' had merely been that final 'nagging drip.'



As I recall I was somewhere approaching Warham Camp, although I don't believe that this had been my ultimate destination. I believe that I was returning from somewhere further to the west, and was attempting to rejuvenate tired legs by standing upon the pedals, such that this might stretch my aching calves. I remember slipping and losing control, as a left toe dug itself determinedly into the road's surface- fortunately this act of stupidity was not observed by others- and I recall hitting the grassy verge and being thrown over the handlebars and onto the raised bank.

Even then, immediately after the impact, I knew that the bike was okay; in need of a bit of realignment maybe, but otherwise fine. But, when I attempted to sit up it became clear that I had thumped my head against a softer part of the bank. There had been other and less forgiving features with which I might have collided, but my point of impact had been a relatively soft and well-covered grassy mound. Even so I found the immediate act of sitting up to be unattainable. So, I opted instead for a moment of quieter contemplation. I simply laid where I had fallen, using the aforementioned mound as some sort of temporary pillow. The day had been one of generous allocations of sunshine and the grass was longish and, at the site of my landing, free from thistles or other more troublesome plant-life. A short while later- as thoughts of remounting gradually began to usurp those of taking a short nap- it was more the idea of troubling any passing motorist that eventually brought me again to upright.



I hadn't then noticed the fact that the impact had also severed a small bag from just under the rear of the saddle. This I found several days later, still lying in the grass, but shredded by whichever mechanical grass cutter had since mowed the verge. I observed also several of the now exposed and alternative landing sites, many of them entirely less forgiving. When I had mentioned the mishap to my partner she (more or less) insisted upon the wearing of a helmet, a 'request' with which I have always since complied.

But 'to wear or not to wear?' although seemingly clear cut, is not quite so secure in its apparent guise as it might at first seem. There are other factors to be considered, factors other than those of the blindingly obvious.

'Other factors' might necessarily include the most obvious one of the un-helmetted' cyclist being more attuned to the potential pitfalls of the road. Another consideration might therefore be that the motorist- the motorist, not all motorists- actually tends to consider the un-helmetted cyclist as more fragile and will act accordingly. Pertinent to the second consideration, the passing distances of other vehicles has actually been measured; I think that the increased margin is somewhere in the region of six to seven inches.



There is the fact, assuming the skull is not otherwise compromised in any mishap, that the resultant neck injuries may be worsened by the subtly altered contours of the head, shoulders and neck. There is the fact that the tiny restrictions of the straps of the helmet interfere, albeit very minimally, with one's finer attunments with the immediate environment. The issues are seldom quite as conveniently simple as we might wish them to be, or indeed 'as they are often sold.' Most of us can muddle by with this state of affairs.

But I cannot yet fathom the curious decision that some riders choose to make, that of riding unhelmetted whilst a child rides along, helmeted or otherwise, cautiously ahead of the assumed parent. Were we living in less confrontational times one might deign to ask the adult 'quite what is the plan here?' And, I would imagine, always assuming that abuse is not forthcoming, that the answer would be something based upon considerations pertinent to the aforementioned points. Maybe something along the lines that 'the adult' is going to be more finely attuned to the potential hazards of the road. Still, it does not fill me with confidence, to see such an arrangement. I might tally, that surely the adult's finer tunings are going to have been compromised through the distractions of thinking also on the part of the child.



Drivers, some of them, can be fairly impatient, often more so if they are not also cyclists. If would additionally be fair to observe that even the sparsely trafficked roads are becoming ever more compromised, as some of the more rabid effects of targeted austerity bite deeply into the nation's tarmac.

I don't know if this makes me appear more chauvinistic- I'm sure that age is also at play here- but I have found myself evermore anguished at the sight of younger female riders, more so those with the longer, flowing locks, who float along the busier roads. But then, it may even be the case that the flowing tresses act as signpost to the vulnerability of the rider? They're certainly signposting this argued 'fact' to me.

The weather has finally tipped that point where I can feel that winter might never relinquish its determined hold upon the temperatures. I have even managed to dust down my own bike and to again work those pedals, although as yet to minimal effect. But this is just the most recent in a wavering line of sprummers (spring and summer, but should really also include autumn, so maybe sprumtumns) and my mind has been persuaded through the accumulated hard miles, impatient trucks, and confrontation; this year I will be wearing the helmet, and yet again opting for the scenic over the efficient. Still this will not, I think, be able to prevent me from becoming increasingly distracted from my own journeying at the choices that others may have elected to take.

And so, for this one-more-season, I shall settle for being able to cycle enjoyably along those quieter country lanes, preferring not to suffer the impatience of some of our larger vehicles. Those deepening potholes might yet have their 'say'...