Miles and Miles

Those wheels have been turning.  It’s been a long wait, but at last the sun has been shining, and the wind has taken itself off to pester others.  Even The Genealogist has taken to the roads of late, venturing a little further round some of my routes.

But my routes are nothing, not even my long one for when there is breath in the lungs, energy in the legs, and the days still and calm.  Nothing that it is in comparison to the 500 or so who took on the challenge of the Round Strathaven 50 at the weekend.  And what a day that was.

The tables at the feeding stations groaned with home-baked goodies from across the area.  Junctions were manned, signs were out, numbers issued and registrations complete.  A huge amount of work by a small group of people had allowed the serious cyclists to mass at the start, on-board computers primed to record speeds and climbs and those miles.  Dr Lisa Cameron, our newly elected MP, had some kind and encouraging words, and the tape was broken.

It was one of those days that don’t come along often.  Overhead buzzards squealed; in the fields horses whinnied and nuzzled.  Even the traffic kept away.  And the verges had been cut.  From the airfield a bi-plane took to the skies, looping the loop, taking the delights of the day in his own way.

As well as the serious side of the bike run, we had a little run too, for the family outings.  I say little, but it was a full 15 miles, with some long and steep climbs.  But as I stood at my own junction, five miles from the finish, down the hill they came, all smiles and worries as little terrors raced on ahead, fearless of the corner round which they must go, care-free, tiny wheels turning as they headed for the finish.

Many will benefit from their efforts, locally and abroad.  Our Scouts and Guides were the original drivers for the event a dozen or so years ago.  This year they may get involved as we extend the goodwill to Nepal, and the kids over there, schools destroyed earlier in the year.

It was a cracking day, and standing on duty, at junctions or parking, brought no pain at all, as I soaked up the atmosphere of hundreds of happy and well fed cyclists in the sun, having a tremendous day and raising money for others as they did.  Our old chum the Queen of Hearts was out there, with her knave, pedalling this year instead of running.  Oh yes, once again the local running club shared the route with us, pounding the roads for fun, all fifty miles of them.

In the days following, the signs all gathered and stored for next year, the roads were still carrying the fun of the day, as the regulars on the route stopped and blethered, waved and smiled.  Perhaps they had all been reading the fantastic feedback from those who took part.  It really does make it all the effort worthwhile.

My own favourite tale of the day comes from a rider, hammering along, five miles to go.  He was there a good 20 minutes before expected, surely not possible.

Late start, trying to catch the ride, he gasped over his shoulder.

You’re going the wrong way then…

He stopped, turned and we had a blether.  A quick check on the computer confirmed 20 miles under his belt, but he’d come from the wrong direction; wrong turn early, perhaps as some of the signs have to be changed for the home leg.

Anyway, he’d been on time, bike in back of car, everything in place.  Then he realised he’d managed to leave his front wheel at home.  Back he went.  And that’s why he started late, with a hangover, no water on board.  So I pointed him in another direction, gave him my map and some water and suggested a way getting a fifty mile ride to savour.  He’ll be back next year, with both wheels.  The sun may even shine.

Under the Stars, with a Star

A book arrived the other day.  I’d ordered it months ago, and waited, patiently.  It is penned by the author of my favourite book of 2013, and events take place in one of my favourite literary locations of that same year.  So we have Anna Badkhen, in the Sahel.  Whilst Alistair Carr wandered with the nomads of Niger, Anna is a bit further west, with the Fulani of Mali.

As we often find with the best travel books the writer is on an escape.  Anna was missing her long-term lover, a parting several months before she set off for Africa.  She is a bit of nomad herself, raised a Soviet Jew and now living in Philadelphia, having worked in parts of the world the rest of us only get to read about, as a war correspondent.  And reading about them through Anna Badkhen’s eyes and with her words, is sheer immeasurable pleasure.

Her latest work, Walking with Abel, takes us to the desert lands, south of Timbuktu, near the border lands with Burkino Faso.  There are no calendars, no dates, no clocks and no hours; there are only seasons, and cycles.  So with Anna and the Diakayate family we see the shooting stars as the canopy above changes through the night; we move our herds as the rainy season arrives late, the dry season early.

These are ancient pathways, and the modern world is beginning to creep in.  Warplanes pass overhead as jihadists cause havoc to the north.  Motor-bikes and guns see goats stolen from herds.  But the biggest danger is from the changing climate; as harvests fail herds are decimated with insufficient pasture or dry rivers.

A good hump, the choicest of cuts reserved for the owner himself, becomes scarce as the cattle become slat-ribbed again.  Where once the herd numbered  thousands now the children take only a fraction to the night grazing.  Cellphones and bright lights, names on football shirts, draw the next generation of nomads to the towns and cities.  But the family walks on, through the cycles, camping where they camped decades before, muttering prayers where infants were buried in previous cycles.  And in the modern world the climate change is felt more in the Savannah than in the cities where our behaviour accelerates the changes.

Anna Badkhen has the ability to take us there, to lead us gently through the moving of camps, the crossing of rivers, and the way of life.  Perhaps her own pain adds to the clarity.  The Fulani though are experts at resilience, in dealing with famine and drought.  Their lifestyle may be alien to us, but no less magical, the rhythms being filled with griots and mystics and myths, of stories passed down from one generation to the next.

Several times my mind turned to that great admirer of the nomadic life, Bruce Chatwin.  He’d have loved this book, as did I.

The Buzzard & The Stoat, and The Grasshopper

It was not easy, putting down that book, with only 40 pages or so to go.  But I had a growing awareness of something strange in the air, drawing me, begging.

From behind the bedroom curtains there was only silence.  No rain battered the window; no wind rustled through the leaves to find gaps in the window sealant.  There was a clarity to the light, unhindered by cloud.  So for the first time in many a long month I had to answer the call of The Grasshopper.  Few things can beat an early morning ride, as they say.  Such has been the paucity of good riding this year that I realised that I have yet to take to the roads in anything as daring as short sleeves.  Another day like this and we might even have to invest in sun-block.

As I pottered round the roads, realising what I had been missing, it dawned on me that the days of excuses were coming to an end.  Within a week or so The Urchins will be back at school and my time will be my own once again.  And even this weekend there is no excuse, for they head off to The Northern Wastes, leaving only an aching silence; that and a list of chores.

Wagtails danced on the road ahead, bouncing away from the onrushing beast – rushing is used by licence here – and on the hedgerows the chaffinches danced together.  Swallows gathered on overhead wires, travel plans to discuss.  The buzzard was out too, rising slowly from the reeds, breakfast swinging from his beak.  Poor wee moose.

And on we went, familiar roads, with legs unused to the toil.  I paused after the climb to the Uncut Gem, views to take in, water to slurp.  It has a hard walk up that hill, pushing a heavy bike.  Ahead the wind turbines massed, like Ents on the march, turning languidly in the softest of air.  Homewards another cluster stood still, as if that Man of La Mancha had them at last, and I heard Rosinante whinny across the still valley.  In reality they await testing and commissioning, but on still and calm days the mind wanders…

The downhill came at last and there was the stoat, out-running the grasshopper, diving for cover in the undergrowth.  It is August.  The roadside verges have yet to be cut.  Grasses and nettles are at full growth, heavy with seed-heads, and blocking the lines of visibility on every bend, every dip.  The roads close in, yet tractors and lorries are the same size, and The Grasshopper cowers.

Pink blossom confirms ripening hips amongst the hawthorn.  And those hedges grow wild, unkempt, half a metre and more of new growth in this fertile and damp season.  I am minded of two things.  Firstly that the flail will be along one day, and the roads then carpeted in thorns.  Puncture season approaches.  And there is a hawthorn hedge back at The Towers too, also unkempt.  It will feature on that list for the weekend; and it rises ten feet and more.  Dwarfed it is though, by the maple hedge which too demands attention.  The hedge-trimmer needs used every bit as much as the back-to-school hair clippers.

And all too soon it is home again, that stiff climb to the gates.  That was quick.  A voice emerges from the back of the car, half-packed.  Short, is perhaps a better description, one gasped.

Next weekend the roads will be thronged, for it is the annual Round Strathaven 50.  I can promise that The Grasshopper will not be holding up any real cyclists, for I’m committed to a high-viz vest for the day, stewarding, and a few tray-bakes for the feeding stations.  Time yet to get your place amongst the 500, but not a lot.  And when you get to the feeding stations there will be fuel a-plenty, tables groaning, to take you on to the next leg.  The sun might even shine, again.