An end to new beginnings

Until three weeks ago, I had not ridden my bike for three months. I had been watching as the bravest of men fought cancer but eventually left this life on 31st January. I know that we’ll meet again on the other side. Even before those last three months, my riding had been erratic; my reliability constantly suspect with family and friends. But as a part of me died with dad, another part seems to have awoken.

Over the last three weeks, I’ve been commuting the long way as much as possible. Although pitifully neglected, my legs and core are able to tolerate the miles; not at anything approaching the average speed built up over so many years. My head, as ever, relishes the time spent turning pedals alone in pre-dawn’s sharp air; but now it is lost in thought or grief, or is planning my day, my life. Solo miles have always been an invaluable time of introspection and now that is more so than ever.

But last Sunday, a group of us went out on an off road bike ride: full suspension, cyclo cross, hardtail and singlespeed. An eclectic mix. My friends kept a kindly slow cadence; allowing me to maintain motivation. Our mostly random route followed age-old paths in the general direction of Stanmer Park and across a 300 yard stretch of bridleway that is often ploughed (Sunday was no different). The months of rain forced most of us to slug it out on foot, with 20lb bikes tripling in weight. Most, but not all as the cyclo cross bike disappeared into the distance with a comical jaunty quip thrown over its rider’s shoulder ‘I say chaps, is this the way to Jerry’s trench?’. A brutally strong and sharp wind reduced our ambient temperatures to an uncomfortable level, so there were no heroics when the short way home was chosen.

And then today, two of us went out on road bikes, pedaling at a nice steady pace over Devil’s Dyke and round to Steyning. A friend joined us there and the three of us headed up onto Bostal Hill. Two sharp kickers and a false summit make this a hill you love to hate but relish the short intense effort. The climb is worth it. A crisp clear view eastwards captivates my senses for a second or two before the 17% descent has my full attention. Soon we were rolling along past fertile plains, waterlogged gullies and carefully picking our lines along weathered country lanes. Eventually our route took us back over Ditchling Beacon, another classic climb with three kickers this time and another false summit.

So now I’m back home, legs feeling ready for more. My face is tingling and mind is sharp. No more self-reprisals, doubt and anger. No more erratic planning.

An end to new beginnings. Although I stopped riding for a time, I never stopped, and never will stop being a rider.

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