I created this blog with the mind-set of ‘if you build it, they will come’. I find the concept of self-promotion naff. To put oneself forward and be all “Look at me! Look at me!” like a nauseating toddler is horribly un-British. In my head, the blog would be an instant hit, and I would be played by Amy Adams in the movie of my life. In reality, however, even my parents weren’t reading it, and they are retired and live on a boat. What a bummer! So, feeling slightly disappointed and, having foolishly committed myself to reading the Bible in a year but rapidly losing interest in the project, I’ve taken a lovely vacation from blogging.
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| If you book them, they will come. |
I’m not going to lie, it’s been ace. I’ve been on holiday. I’ve
drunk a gazillion mojitos. I’ve loosely kept up the Bible reading with a much
more laissez-faire attitude, and been absolutely delighted to discover that
Delilah, of ‘Samson and Delilah’ fame, was not the seductive minx my Catholic
primary school portrayed to us, but rather, caused the destruction of the
strongest man in the Israelite nation through nagging him into revealing the secret of his strength. I have no
problem whatsoever in believing that particular Bible story. And now I fancy
writing again with no particular ambitions in mind.
Reinforcing the feeling that I am unsuited to modern life, I
have had several weeks of getting frustrated with technology, and have felt
like a walking cartoon character with animated steam coming out of my ears.
This reached a crescendo when I was in Sainsbury’s the other day and the stupid
self-service machine was doing its usual ‘unexpected item in bagging area’
routine . . . . The security guard sprinted over to sort it out, repeating
“it’s okay, it’s okay” soothingly, as though trying to calm a startled horse,
and I realised that I’d been standing with my hands on either side of my ears
wailing “I can’t deal with thiiiiiiiis”!
Yikes.
Otherwise, I’ve been leading a very quiet life designed to
reduce spending, and this sudden financial discipline is 80% motivated by the
fact that I’ve fallen in love with a bike. That is not a euphemism for someone
who has ‘been around a bit’. I mean an actual bike, vintage style, mint-green
with a basket on the front.
This new interest in bicycles arose out of my recently taking
part in something called the Tweed Run. The Tweed Run is an annual bike ride
through central London. Participants dress up in vintage style - lots of tweed
and typically English dress. There’s an emphasis on vintage bicycles, so you
get quite a few tandems and penny farthings along with normal, modern bikes.
People really go all out on the clothing front – 1930’s, military, colonial, driving
outfits a la ‘Mr Toad’ – you cannot overdo it. It’s a celebration of English
eccentricity, which I love.
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| Photo by Ben Bromfield |
Lots of tourists absolutely adored seeing us ride
through the streets living up to English cultural stereotypes. Others were less
impressed:
Pedestrian 1: “What’s all this about”?
Pedestrian 2: “Dunno. Some kind of c**nt ride”.
I nearly fell off my bike laughing. Oh pedestrian, I cannot
disagree with you. I found the whole experience stressful in the extreme, not that this was the fault of the event itself (which was amazingly well organised, with super helpful and kind marshalls). It was my own fault. So
taken was I with the image of myself cycling through the streets of London in a
tweed suit that I gave little thought to the fact that I hadn’t ridden a bike
in 15 years. What of it? You never forget, right? There’s a whole saying about it!
Technically the saying is true – the basics of riding a bike
came back to me (albeit rather gracelessly). However, riding in tight formation
with 500 other cyclists was probably not the best place in which to ‘get back
on the bike’ after a long absence. I had
an inner monologue constantly running through my head where I prayed not to: a)
hit anyone b) fall off c) crash, or d) generally make a huge tit out of myself.
The bike I borrowed was too big for me and I couldn’t reach the floor, so every
time we slowed down and everyone else shuffled along (which happened a lot) I
would have to leap off, or try to inch along on my very tip-toes without toppling
over (which was not only painful but meant I obviously failed at avoiding part ‘d’
of my prayer). After the event, I had to rush to the bathroom and was sick
several times, which I concluded was due to post-traumatic stress.
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| Tea break at the Guildhall |
My favourite thing about the day was my outfit – I had bought a
cream Victorian blouse with lots of embroidery on it, and a calf length
swirling tweed skirt, which made me feel like Anne of Green Gables. However,
when I pulled them out of the wash the next day, the skirt had gone faded and
bobbly and shrunk so that the tweed now hangs four inches higher than the
lining, and something has dyed the blouse a horrible grey colour. Even my
outfit is ruined. Basically I spent quite a lot of money on an event that
scared me witless, made me sick, ruined my outfit, and gave me a bottom like a
piece of tenderised steak.
Being either blessed with an admirable refusal to quit, or
cursed with a deplorable inability to learn from my mistakes, this did not
manage to put me off cycling itself, which is super fun! However, once I buy
the bike I love, I am planning on only riding it at 6am in the morning when
there are no cars or other cyclists around. I think this is safer both for me
and for everyone else.
