A curious contraption where the passenger is also the engine! (Cycling in General)

Member Name: Nigel1

Product:	Cycling in General
Date:	30/03/09 (268 review reads)
Rating:

Advantages: Nothing compares to the simple pleasure of a bike ride.

Disadvantages: The sound of a car door opening in front of you is similar to the sound of a gun being cocked.

I was seven years old when I first attempted to ride a bicycle. I had been lucky enough to have received one for Christmas, which was totally unexpected, because, despite my constant nagging and being as troublesome as possible in an attempt to appeal to my parents sensitive side, I was led to believe that there was going to be no bicycle being brought down the chimney that year!

Of course, on that particular Christmas Day, there it was, all wrapped up, with the unmistakeable outline of a bike despite my parent's futile attempts in trying to disguise it. So, to the exclusion of all other presents, I hastily tore away the wrapping to reveal the most beautiful white, two wheeled conveyance I had ever had the pleasure of clapping my wide green eyes upon.

Riding the bicycle at this point was easy, as it had stabilizers on either side to prevent the bike from toppling to the sides. However, my friends seemed to be able to ride their cycles without this 'babyish' addition, and of course I too wanted to be similar to them and therefore lost no time in asking my parents to teach me how to ride and balance on my bike without the stabilisers playing their part.

Despite me thinking this was going to be easy - it proved to be extremely difficult. My father would gently hold the back of the seat, keeping it upright, while I would try to gain some sort of balance, and gingerly and nervously pedal forward until, satisfied I had proper control and balance, I would urge my father to leave go of the saddle, which more often than not resulted in me parting unceremoniously with my cycle and slumping to the ground in wails of anguish and frustration.

Over the weeks I gained in confidence, and my balance seemed to have improved enough for a further attempt at manoeuvring this contraption forwards without the aid of my father holding onto the back of the saddle. So, with dad holding the seat, I pushed forward and sat on the seat and began to pedal, fully expecting to be catapulted to the ground as soon as dad left go of the seat. I was in full flow and turned around apprehensively with the intention of telling dad to let go when I suddenly realised that dad wasn't even holding onto the seat. It suddenly dawned on me that I had actually rode the bike totally unaided.

The sheer joy and elation I felt was immense. I had finally tamed this beast, and more importantly, had joined that exclusive club that only the young know about - The bike riders without stabilisers club!

Becoming ever more confident and assured in my bike riding skills, I would now be able to join my friends and, with my shiny white steed, everything now seemed possible. I could explore the world.. which for so long had seemed unreachable.

My first bicycle ride of any importance was going to be the colliery where my father worked. I had often been to the colliery canteen on a bus with my older sister. As a treat during the summer holidays we would visit the canteen every Friday to have our dinner. Although for the miners, the kindly dinner ladies would also serve children as well. I used to have beans and chips and a large fizzy mug of orange 'Corona' pop. I would greedily tuck into this wonderful fare while watching in amazement as the colliers arose from the surface with their blackened faces, and sometimes even with their white safety helmets, Davy Lamps and torches, and enter the canteen for their food.

So, the first Friday during the summer holidays, and now free from the restraints of my sister and that bone shaker of a bus with the wooden slatted seats, a group of young boys, myself included, could be seen cycling over fields, tracks and meadows, showing off by swerving in and out of cow pats and talking about conkers and comics, gradually eating up the ground on our trusty bikes until the colliery canteen came into clear view.

We were young and fearless, and now, through our bikes, we had total control as to where we could venture in this world of ours, confined only by our imagination (and the warning from mother to be home for tea).

Sitting at the canteen table having safely ordered our beans, chips, and mug of fizzy orange pop, we would excitedly discuss the next planned route of our wonderful bike journey. Over a mug of pop, I suggested we ride around the colliery, looking for conkers and maybe even catch some butterflies at the same time.

With our bellies full to bursting (more from the fizzy orange pop than the actual food) we left the canteen hurriedly, striding our 'mounts' like a posse from a John Wayne film, and ventured around the back of the canteen towards the colliery itself - our very own Wild West!

We stared up in awe at the massive winding shaft, and its huge wheel and thick steel cable that would carry the miner's deep down into the belly of the earth. I visualized my very own father being lowered down to the coal seams in this cage and it filled me with utter dread at the very thought of it.

Anxious not to waste to much time because we had a lot of exploring still to do, we rode our bikes around the colliery, weaving in and out of huge wooden reels that once held steel cable, and rode in between concrete pillars, dodging the bewildered sheep at the same time. We ducked, weaved and spun our respective cycles all around the area until we were satisfied that we had given our bikes a thorough testing to which they had successfully passed.

Content with our days cycling, and with mother's warning to be back home in time for tea, we decided it would be wise to make the journey back home. So now with sore backsides due to the uncomfortable seating, and legs starting to turn into clumps of lead, we reluctantly cycled our way back home to civilisation, leaving behind our adventurous playground, but satisfying ourselves with the thought that we would be back soon enough, once again to weave our way through hill and cow pat like surfers on waves of metal!

************************************************* *****************

Since those innocent and fun loving days a lot of water (and various bicycles)
have gone under the bridge.

Nowadays, long gone is the white bicycle that once was my pride and joy, reduced, I suspect, to rust and rubble, and lying wounded and pitiful in a scrap heap or some sort of rubbish dump, unloved and uncared for, cast aside without so much as an afterthought as I grew out of it, and had love affairs with various other cycles ranging from BMX, Choppers and Mountain bikes right up to my current bicycle of choice, my beloved racing bike with twenty speed Shimano Dérailleur gears.

This beauty is designed purely for speed. It has a lightweight frame which can easily be lifted with one finger, although ashamedly I have added powerful headlights, water bottles, pumps, various tool kits, bicycle locks and various other 'necessities' to its frame, so now even Geoff Capes would have great difficulty in lifting it off the ground.

It also has dropped handlebars which allow for better aerodynamic riding positions, and narrow high-pressure tires for minimal rolling resistance and faster speeds. Interestingly enough, it never ceases to amaze me when I am cycling around, the astounded and bewildered looks I get from children, dumbfounded by its wafer thin tyres and oddly shaped handle bars. I guess that most children these days probably have a thick wheeled mountain bike of some sort and have probably never seen a road bike!

Riding this sort of bike can be an extreme pleasure, although on a blustery and rainy day, and with a steep hill to contend with, the pleasure can soon fade away, being swiftly replaced with feelings of pure dread and exhaustion.

Riding along, accompanied by bright sun and blue skies, with a warm and pleasant breeze gently caressing my face, I cycle the countryside around me, leaving behind the theatre of the real world, and focus my attentions on the sights that pass me by on my journey of discovery, mentally far away from civilisation, which, just for today, is causing other people misery.

Onwards I go, and dogs seem just like dogs once more. They are not the savage and snarling beasts that seem to bay for my blood should I be irresponsible enough to try and pass them on foot.

Potholes, and other bumps and dents in the road, which otherwise seemed invisible or insignificant now take on a personal form, and I am continually aware of that thin edge of danger that constantly keeps me alert and observant.

I push myself on, cycling uphill, lifting myself off the seat and standing on the pedals to gain more power for the final onslaught, sinews and muscles stretching to their very limits as inch by inch I gradually conquer the hill and can now look forward to the free-wheeling joy of coasting on the downhill journey, giving my wearying legs and lungs a well needed break. The effort of pedalling up and down these hills and roads ensures that I have a reasonable knowledge of the contours and lay of the land. (After all, passing through in a car going uphill will hardly excite or impress you, but the sheer exertion on your body as you attempt a steep incline on your bicycle tends to ensure that you have accurate memories of the peaks and troughs through which you have cycled).

I finally reach the road which has traffic in abundance. Up ahead is a slow moving lorry. With the precision of a mathematical genius I calculate the clearance I need and swing wide, outflanking it, leaving myself maybe a hundred yards of paradise before I encounter the next obstacle.

I have fed myself to the traffic and felt the gentle whisper of death on my shoulders, but have come out unscathed. I have inhaled lungfuls of exhaust fumes and almost been side swiped by huge articulated lorries which rattle past me, sending my cycle almost into an uncontrollable wobble, yet, head down, I continue on my journey, gripping the handlebars ever tighter, feeling the road vibrating in their very structure.

I swing off the road and follow a track which was known to me since my childhood, although I am probably going about ten times as fast as I did in those days. In the corner of my eye I spot an old rusty white child's bicycle lying in the gutter, unloved and wounded. As I reach the top of the track, a beautiful green landscape comes to greet me. Now covered in lush green grass and with a pleasant scattering of shrubs and oak trees, this picturesque and charming vision was once the colliery pit where I spent many happy days cycling around and eating from the canteen.

I cycle closer, somehow feeling the urge to meander in and out of the cow pats, as I finally reach the point where once stood those awesome shafts and that huge winding wheel which I so held in admiration as a child. Only now it is no longer there. In its place is a concrete plinth on which proudly sits the enormous iron wheel which once spun around, slowly lowering my father and other miners deeper and deeper underground.

I quickly glance down at my watch thinking that mother is going to be awfully mad if I'm not home for tea, and just as quickly I remember that I am a married man now and of course my mother certainly isn't expecting me to be home by tea time!

I reluctantly swing my racing bike around and begin the journey homewards, turning back only once when I was almost sure I had heard some children giggling and laughing out loud, without a care in the world. I guess it was just the wind playing tricks with me.

I arrive home safely, albeit, with a sore bum from the saddle, and tired, heavy legs from those arduous exertions of those steep hills. My seven year old son is there to greet me with outstretched arms. On seeing my racing bike he begins to plead with me if he can have one for Christmas................

Summary: Cheap, nonpolluting, small and silent...