Sexing the cyclist

A colleague of mine recently had a baby which she and her husband had been assured was going to be a girl. So I'd like everyone to give a worldwide welcome to Ewan. Yep, the she was a he and much-loved he is too, I'm sure. The thing is, if only his mum and dad could have waited a few years there would have been a surefire way of determining sex. It's what I call the folded arms test.

Have you ever walked down the road with your arms folded in front of you much as you might do if you were sitting in a chair waiting for something to happen. If you have, then almost certainly you're a woman. I have seen countless women walk down the road like that, but no men. Ever. Well, possibly one or two gay men. This is not some sort of battle of the sexes thing or a little dig at gay men, it's just an observation. You do not see (straight) men walking around with their arms folded in front of them. Or if you do, they look a bit odd.

So that is how I knew from quite some distance the sex of the cyclist who was approaching me along the Tarka Trail the other day. Arms folded across chest, yep, that's a woman. I have to say I was slightly in awe of her being able to cycle like that. The minute I lift my hands from the handlebars I wobble alarmingly, so doing what she was doing is something I will never do for safety reasons, let alone gender. Truth be told, she looked a bit fierce, but she was definitely a woman.

Anyway, that's my contribution to medical science. I know there are other, more scientific approaches, and my way often tells you something that's glaringly obvious on account of the womanly shape etc, but I offer it up for what it's worth. (Bugger all).

Anyway, I now have bigger fish to fry. The thought has entered my head - and won't go away - that I need a better bike. A lighter bike. One that will not be so hard to get moving. I think I'm entering an obsessive phase. The trouble is I know so little about bikes and cycling that I'm venturing in to a whole new world about which I know nothing. I think some research is in order. But where to begin?

We're gonna need a bigger boat

I think the captain in Jaws (played by Robert Shaw?) expressed the need for a bigger boat on realising the size of the shark he was after. For my part I decided I needed a bigger bell for my bike owing to the seemingly infinite number of people using the Tarka Trail who are hard of hearing.

The original bell was one of those lightweight devices where you flick one bit against the other producing a rather tinny "Ting, ting" sound. This seemed either not to register with anyone or annoy them in some way. The new bell, all shiny chrome and the size of . . .I dunno, an ice hockey puck? . . .makes a reassuring clanging noise similar to a cow bell. I'm still weighing up the correct way to use this in alerting people to my presence. Too far away and they get fed up waiting for you to pass; too close to them and they dive in to the hedgerow, obviously fearful of being mown down.

At least I use my bell, which is more than some cyclists - mainly the ones in the stretchy lycra with lots of writing on it, although that's not meant to be too critical of them. Cycling has been something of a salvation for me this year and although I only commute, and only when it's dry, it has given me something in my life I can focus on which is, largely speaking, mine and mine alone.

Ha! I told you so

Lengthy and largely inexplicable absence, due in the main to going on holiday and then not really getting my shit together on my return to these pallid shores. Anyway, back now and raring to go (on holiday again). However, what has prompted this posting is something I read in a paper/on a website/scrawled on the wall of a toilet cubicle...whatever, I'm sure it's true. What I read was that there has been an increase in accidents involving pedestrians which is being attributed to the growing number of them who wear earphones as they walk. In other words they are making themselves deaf and do not realise they are about to be run down by a juggernaut, incontinent granny on an invalid scooter,cyclist or whatever.

The regular reader of this blog (me, me, me) will know that I've sounded off before about the risks pedestrians subject themselves to by wearing MP3 iPod type things. Well here is incontrovertible proof. I've had personal experience of the way these twats cut themselves off from the rest of the world. As I cycle along the Tarka Trail I ding my bike bell to warn other trail users of my approach. Most step in to the side and smile politely as I pass, and I ALWAYS say thank you. But some carry on as if they are the only people on the planet and it is an odds-on bet that these are the people who will have their ears filled up with earphones and cannot hear a dicky bird. What is worse is the glare they often give me as I pass, presumably because they are surprised at finding me on their shoulder. Ah well, you can't legislate for idiocy.

Travel broadens the behind

I cycled to work this morning and then, this evening, I cycled back. I've been talking about doing this for two years - almost to the day. It's a distance of ten or eleven miles one way, but I always found a reason for not doing it. Now I have, and, despite the pain in my nether regions (Lord, don't I go on about my nether regions) I am feeling pretty proud of myself. People at work were surprisingly impressed. All I did was cycle along the Tarka Trail one way in the morning and then reverse the process in the evening.

Along the way I passed a field with mares and their foals. They were beautiful. I also heard oystercatchers. They were beautiful. In fact, the whole experience was beautiful. Apart from the pain in the nether regions. If only I had known I would enjoy the experience of cycling to work so much, I would have done it a lot sooner. In a way that harks back to what I was saying a few days ago about wanting memories not regrets. In good conditions, which will undoubtedly not apply all the time, the ride along the Tarka Trail is a brilliant way to start/finish your working day. Now I know that I will repeat it, but what put me off discovering it in the first place was a general feeling of fear (almost) that the whole thing would be so arduous and unpleasant that I would hate it.

Anyway, by all accounts, of the various ways to achieve enlightenment, experience is the toughest. So my enlightened state to do with riding to work has been achieved at the expense of realising that I have missed out on something I would have enjoyed, if only I had got on with it sooner.

I had intended to write about women and constipation, but yet again I have gone on about something else. Maybe the women and constipation posting will be soon. Also just a small point, but I understand that Molly Sugden actually spelt her name Mollie. However, her pussy was pussy and not pussie. Also the bloke who played Private Sponge in Dad's Army has died.

I've joined the Dead End Kids

The no-nonsense state primary school I went to many years ago in Kent was staffed by teachers for whom delivering occasional corporal punishment was part of the way things were. For we pupils it was just part of life at school and, generally speaking, we knew the rules. Rule one: don't misbehave; rule two: if you do misbehave, don't get caught; rule three: if you do get caught put up with the punishment. I don't know that it did us any harm, although I'm not sure it did us any good, either, it was just the way of the world. Anyway, one of the teachers would warn that if we continued to transgress we would end up as a "Dead End Kid". This was not a reflection on our career prospects, but an accurate prophesy of the walloping he'd give your backside with a big gym slipper (plimsolls or what in North Devon I have learned to call daps). In fact, in North Devon it might be more accurate to say he'd give you a dap with a dap.

Anyway, I haven't been walloped, but my backside is sore because I've been out cycling the Tarka Trail again. Bideford to Fremington Quay and back again all in one go. Now I know many people are not remotely bothered by such distances, but for me, towards the end I was struggling to remember when I had substituted my supposedly comfy saddle for a piece of rough-hewn timber. I find walking and cycling to be activities that allow me to mull things over, but as I neared the end of my ride the only thing I could focus on was my tender nether regions. However, all this was worth it when, not far from Westleigh Cross, a stoat emerged from the tall grass at the side of the Tarka Trail. I think my relatively silent approach took it by surprise. It popped out, skittered around in a tight circle and disappeared back into the grass. Brilliant, in fact so brilliant, I might even be tempted back out on the bike again this weekend. Will I never learn?

Him? Oh he's The Boss

I was watching Bruce Springsteen - The Boss to many of his fans - at Glastonbury on Saturday. I wasn't one of the hordes actually at Worthy Farm, I hardly ever leave North Devon, but sat at home in front of the telly I got a pretty good view of the best that Bruce and the E Street Band had to offer. I thought it was great, but then I do like Bruce, and immediately suffered a pang of regret. The regret stemmed from knowing that Springsteen is to appear in Hyde Park today and I could have gone.
Yes, I know I said I hardly ever leave North Devon, but I was all set to make an exception in this instance and venture to London. I find our great capital alternately terrifying and fascinating and in order to have seen Bruce at Hyde Park I would have placed myself in the level-headed care of my big sister, who lives in London and is still looking out for me after all these years. However, work intervened and so I passed on the chance and that left me wondering about something that has been on my mind since the spring when my dad died - it's the whole question of regret.
Regrets, I've had a few, but then again, too few to mention. Yes, someone got there first to say that, but my point is should we allow ourselves to run the risk of regretting what we have not done. As I said, since my dad died (after a long illness and at a good age) I have been thinking that ultimately what we ought to look for in life are memories, not regrets. Following on from that I also think that sometimes none of it matters, we are, after all, merely mortal. But that is perhaps allowing the nihilist side of my nature to show through.
This all came to me this morning as I trundled along the Tarka Trail on my bike, where my chief regret was tender nether regions due to not riding often enough. Eventually, I decided that life is too short and I should get on with a) enjoying having seen the Glastonbury performance, b) taking in the beautiful sights and sounds of the Tarka Trail, and c) cycling more often so I don't end up with a funny walk.