Category: Road Riding

If the Spanish Inquisition were around today, this would be the modern equivalent of the rack. It is basically torture augmented with bright lycra.

First light. Then rain.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Road RidingLeave a comment

Blah blah dawn ride blah dawn mist shrouds the trees, blah surreal view over the Malvern hills, blah sun burning heat and light into the day, blah, 35 MPH sweeping downhill on deserted roads, blah two cars in ten miles. Blah, privilege to be riding my bike.

Pah. Draw the eye back from the flowery wank that that paragraph could so easily have become. Focus critical faculties on issues relating to perilous state of the road surface, still marked by scars that could only be misplaced WWII bombs. Craters deep enough to swallow man and wheel, a camber designed by nature to switch a road to stream in anything much more than a light shower.

And hilly, so very hilly after three years of Chilterns-Twinned-With-Holland commuting. Even with my inner smug drowning out the ground state of grumpy, it couldn’t totally suppress the thought that this route wasn’t going to be a whole lot of fun if it was wet and I was tired. Although I really didn’t expect to have the chance to test this assertion some 11 hours later.

Luckily a hardened commuting nose had smelt rain at 6am, and so a jacket was packed. Unfortunately the aural breeze wasn’t strong enough to stow mudguards or any other waterproofs, which, considering the bouncing rain and spleen trembling thunder which greeted my arrival back in Ledbury, was possibly a slight oversight.

The sky had the look of an unmilked cow, and I wondered whether this could be a good time to fit my lights. Sadly, having not packed the 12 mile arms, they too were on the wrong side of deeply unavailable. So I jacketed up and headed on into a decent impression of a tropical rainstorm. Inevitably balancing narrow slick tyres on wet slick roads was often quite entertaining. And without wishing to big up the danger, a couple of “ooooh shit, I am no longer in control of the steering axis” incidents possibly tipped the terror needle past mildly exciting.

Despite the best efforts of the alien technology* in my ludicrously expensive jacket, my upper body physiology was morphing into that of a boil in the bag. However, this was still a slightly more pleasant experience than the aquaphobic sensation of water sloshing between my toes. And yet even these soggy items came only a distant second in the “All Herefordshire Moist Limb Competition“, easily won by an arse sounding five fathoms, and suffering radial pebbledash.

Event times as miserable as this can be made significantly worse if one chooses a bold clothing decision. My removal of my – by now – smoking jacket perfectly coincided with the entire Al/Bicycle combination becoming beflooded**. Still playing to my dysfunctional democracy, each individual body part was now equally saturated, and every one was voting for an immediate halt under a tree.

Considering the lightening and a hollow feeling that could not be assuaged by the inhalation of my emergency food ***, the higher brain function took a decision to mentally raise the spinnaker and make fast sail for the pub. An athlete’s pep up of one pint and two bags of dry roasted nuts – while hard rain attempted to smash the roof – pepped me up for the final two miles home.

Of which one and a half are up a big f*cking hill demanding much twitching of the girly gear selection thumb. After this was wearily dispatched, only the final plunge through what was probably once a road separated me from a dry arse. This particular rural highway is comprised of three materials, grass, broken hardcore and tarmac. In that order. It’s reasonably involving on 100psi of 23c tyre, while squinting through the rain and darkening sky.

Sure, I was piss wet thru from limited thatch to buckety shoes, the bike was making the kind of noises not associated with long component life, and I feared for the state of the firm’s non waterproof laptop, but it was great to be home.

Because however cold, dark and wet the commute is and whatever the frustration of a million DIY jobs undone, this does feel like home. And after living in limbo for six months, that’s a bloody great feeling.

* Allows sweat to pass, while barring rain from the outside. How can that be, surely they are both of the base element H20? Is there some kind of password? “Sorry matey, you’re not on the list, bugger off”.

** A worthy third of the terrifying triumvirate Beflooded, Benighted and Unbanked. It would take a far stronger man than I to survive simultaneous exposure.

*** Which was keeping my waterproofs, lights and mudguards company.

Trainy Days

On By PhotoIn Bikes, Photography, Road Riding6 Comments
Roadrat on the train, originally uploaded by Alex Leigh.

It wouldn’t be the twisted democracy of the Hedgehog if I didn’t poll its’ readership* for suggested content, then completely ignore the results before rambling on about trains again.

You see where Haddenham – a tiny provincial station – was blessed with 500 parking spots, 3 trains an hour, a waiting room, a uniformed parking jobsworth, a full time station master, a proper coffee shop selling non ironic skinny espresso’s and many suits. Ledbury has a peeling wooden shack hutted by Bob*, himself surrounded by a pre-Beecham photographic collection and an aura of extreme antiquity.

So a pleasant enquiry on the availability a Cappuccino, easy on the foam, skimmed milk, choco on top is met with an old fashioned expression, and a stern lecture to whit: I should thank my lucky stars there is even a platform, in days or recent yore, you merely threw themselves at a passing train in the hope that an observant passenger may haul you in.

There are – and Beared Bob is clealy not happy about this – some sops to modern life; Fewer large animals stroll on the lines than back in the glory years of steam, rubbish fencing and Fresian roaming***. Both platforms sport posh electronic signage predicting the arrival of next train and the one after that****.

And – according to these neon glows of technological wonder – the trains always run on time. Tending to the persnickety, this perfect schedule may be symptomatic of their obvious non connectedness to any real time arrival information system.

Nor do they need to be, as a sweaty, fat man leans out of the signal box and updates us all with a cheery “The London train is running 20 minutes late. Keith the driver forgot his sarnies and he’s popped back home to pick them up“.

The train to London dwarfs the platform to such an extent that the front half is servicing passengers at Coldwell, some four miles up the track. It’s absolutely huge. And old. And slam door. Legions of train enthusiasts/pointless wankers take brass rubbings and boringly relive the golden age of the Inter-City 125.

It wasn’t golden then and it’s not fantastic now. Bang up to date the naming conventions may be (Train Host, Train Manager and the whole “Welcome to our Service/How can we fleece you today?” experience) but not much has changed in terms of tired carriages or bumpy track. Forget that Wii balance board you’ve promised yourself; just try going for a piss between Didcot and Reading without spraying everything from the knees down.

The ickle turbo that fills my bikey commuting sandwich is actually a bit better. Mainly because you spend lless time on it, and all of that is in shorts and a t-shirt. I’m still full of childish delight that no bastard love child of the Gestapo and a Butlins’ red coat churlishly waves Railway Regulations at me, whilst triumphantly ejecting my bike from the speeding train.

And because it’s not London, the whole experience is significantly less deadly and – so far – completed with the correct underwear count. Okay it still took me 30 minutes to find an office precisely two miles from New Street Station. 28 of which were desperately circulating wet Dual Carriageways wondering if “Doncaster” might not be a good route choice.

So far, so groovy. Longest day tomorrow. Winter after that. Important to get a preemptive grump in before I start to really enjoy myself.

A final question unrelated and yet troubling. If your kids are lapped at the School Sports Day, and your representation to add “Nintendo Mario Karts” to the event list is mercilessly rebuffed, what’s the solution? All the non city kids clearly run twice round the farm every morning before indulging in a spot of cow throwing.
I could institute a strict regime of exercise to hone their athletic performance for next year. Or I could teach them stick out a leg and cheat. In my role as a guiding force for good and true parent, which do you think it may be?

* Good word. Could mean 1000, could mean 1.

** 1 of a part time staff of 2. Responsible for ticket sales, laminating of timetables, hut painting and repair, general airs of resignation and pulling of beards.

*** 1989

**** Which is generally tomorrow. And replaced by a donkey service via Reykjavik.

MV40

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Other stuff, Road RidingLeave a comment

Hilly. Oh so hilly.

That’s what is says against my name in the roll of (the soon to be) dead. It seems the Marin Rough Ride entry system took one look and my date of birth and consigned me to Veteran status. Hence the V. The remainder of the mnemonic roughly translates to “old, fat and useless“.

This was brought home to me during a recce of the ten mile commute that delivers sweaty’Al* to Ledbury station. From there, Brum is a smidge over an hour away and only a escalator shoulder carry separates me from playing with the city traffic. This worries me not at all after surviving London for over two years, but I am mildly perturbed that bikes and commuters can share the same prime time train service.

Try that on Chiltern Railways and they’ll throw you in front of a passing train and pike your head – in plain view of all the other passengers – as an grisly deterrent. Anyway the commute looks fun, deserted roads, a cracking single/cycle track through Ledbury and a pub stop one mile from home. One thing tho, it’s bloody hilly.

* as there is no BLOODY WAY I am doing it in Winter.

They think it’s all over…

On By AlexIn Bikes, Pretentious nonsense, Road Riding6 Comments

… it is now.

Yesterday was my last ever London commute. 8200 miles, 421 round trips, 3 winters, 2 crashes and a daily joust with the murderous multitude. It was anticlimactic in the extreme with no fanfares or street parades marking my final passing of burned in landmarks. No final resurfacing of the pothole slalom which tests my early morning reflexes. No genuflection from those who I have bested in endless commuter races, nor gloating from those who have bested me.

No more shall I sequence lights in a three dimensional navigational puzzle, no longer shall the green of the Capital’s parks bring respite from tons of angry metal. No longer shall my ire be raised by unanswered pleas for airstrikes to disperse random roller-bladers. Not for me the obsessional forecast checking, the weary glance at a watch which must zoom round twice more before I am home, or the logistical ball ache of switching between urban MTB warrior and sad corporate clone.

And yet there is already a melancholy, a misplaced nostalgia if you will; sharp memories of soft summer smells, the warmth of the spring sun, the glory of a fitness properly earned, the joy of leaving fifty grand cars – with their brochure 150mph top speeds – in your£100 rat-bike wake. And even the grimness of seemingly endless winters could delight in crisp sunrises slash painted by azure blue, grinning through the rain, and just the simple bloody pleasure of not being completely ordinary.

It’s not enough. The first year was great, although cycling every day through the winter feels like it happened to someone else. My motivation to ride through the wind, rain and mobile death has diminished past the point of pragmatic excuses. Riding a bike – any bike – still defines what I really want to be doing right now, but the faffing, the background hum of traffic cockage, the grooved in rote of doing it again and again is no longer enough to make me do it.

This morning’s bikeless journey was strange. My bag was too light, my mind frazzled by a constant search for commuting collateral, my body showered and unexercised. My shoes don’t cleat click on the station cobbles and my helmetless head feels unbalanced. As I risk a guiltily glance at my shackled bike, I swear it glowers back at my disloyalty.

It doesn’t feel good or bad, it just feels weird. A phantom Al clips in and heads out, as I force a right turn into the peopled sewers of the Underground. Something feels lost and I think that might be me.

But this is not quite the end. The brutal termination of a two wheels to work strategy shall be stayed for at least the summer. I’m childishly excited by the prospect of a hard packed, off-road jaunt to Ledbury station. But no more riding in the big city, no chance of commuting through the winter, no danger of the big accident I know was coming.

But I can’t stop. Not yet. It’s like a Class ‘A’ drug and while I know I can give it up anytime, but not like this. I must wean myself off it slowly, let it be chipped away, sliced by a thousand excuses, a slow death barely noticed.

But when I do, what the hell am I going to write about?

Same Shit, different day

On By AlexIn Bikes, Road RidingLeave a comment

After five weeks of flatlining in stark relief of the big city biorhythms, my re-insertion into the matrix was about as blackly amusing as a coach crash of estate agents*. And my play at infusing each commute with a Buddha like sanguine ‘bring it down brother’ lasted all of about ten seconds. You see, I was completely up for finding my inner child until a BMW attempted to remove my inner spleen.

By the time realisation has dawned that bikes are nothing more than urban grouse to these chinless fuckwits, any semblance of remaining calm was swept away as a knee socked, short jeaned, surely ironic messenger type whistled past with his one fixed gear and look of benign constipation. I chased him down, marked my victory with an underarm spit, barnstormed  a dithering taxi before heading into the mean streets of central London.

A bendy-bus attempted decapitation, a motorbike introduced a new nano-measurement as he swept past my front wheel, a multitude of dumbfuck cyclists broke ever rule in the book and every second motorist attempted a citizen’s cull to effect swift justice. I chased a second fakinger-clone – my pursuit stalled by two red lights he ignored and a one sided argument with a white van who was mainlining traffic cockage. So knackered was I when finally straining past his sartorial stupidly, I was aerobically incapable of unleashing the carefully concocted vitriol.

Arriving at work, I was cynically unmoved by the carnage in the bike cage and the theft of my shower gel. But the firm never fails to surprise and disappoint when attempting to deliver marketing by the lowest cost bidder. Our new cycle facilities involve carrying the bike down two floors of metal steps, before collecting our clothing from a locker separated from the shower facilities by a sweaty trudge across the atrium of a spanking new building designed to impress our clients.

And then tramp back in work clothes but carrying grungy ride kit to be dispatched back to the lower floor locker. Sounds complicated? It’s even worse in operation – I asked for a map and some written instructions. And while the provision of a daily fresh towel, a shower in an environment entirely free from water borne diseases and a choice of complementary grooming products are to be applauded, such platitudes would have be delivered from a hospital bed.

Because the stairs leading from the loading dock down to the bike area are made of smooth, shiny metal. There is only a single possible result from an interface of damp shoe cleats and frictionless metal. And that is a fast, arse based descent with optional windmilling arms, finishing brokenly slammed against the back wall with a bike on your head.

Unless you ride down them which the preppy gym wrangler reckoned wasn’t possible, And for a few anxious moments – half way down – I was becoming persuaded to his viewpoint. It was all a bit eyeballs on stalks, fillings on edge and sphincter on full recoil during an unhappy period when flinging myself headlong into the rail was the only ‘innovative life saving move’ being offered up.

Still I am pretty sure it was with some aplomb that I shakingly unclipped and nonchalantly declared “Fucking hell, that nearly killed me – you want someone to have a look at those“

A little belatedly the security guard de-hutted himself and was angrily, adamant that no employee was allowed to ride down the stairs. How wrong he was. I think with careful planning an illegal plunge down the stairs, followed by a naked stroll across the atrium could end my career in two single steps.

Tempting.

* If a bevy of solicitors were journeying with them, all the better. Not that I am bitter or anything.

That’ll learn me

On By AlexIn Clic-24, Road Riding2 Comments

Sitting on an 500mph aeroplane going nowhere, I found myself idly musing if a man, still within binocular distance of not that old, should be growing breasts. Fantastically innovative as the human body is, the DNA chronology is clearly wrong in this case. Boys should grow breasts at the age of fourteen – such was our fascination as puberty took hold – and then we’d never have to leave the house. Bad for the bedsheets, good for millions of innocent women who don’t include teenage groping in their list of wants.

Whereas at 40, we have a spouse and the Internet for that kind of thing. And, because I was sandwiched between a family with about 50 kids, half of whom were screaming and the other half who were being noisily sick, I decided to extend my pondering to consequences. Of breasts, not children, I don’t like to think about the latter without a large drink in my hand.

With the CLIC-24 less than two months away – and I may need to start sponsoring myself to pretend I have more friends – I am determined not to put in a totally piss-poor performance. Considering my entire racing career consists of seven starts and two finishes, this is possibly an unrealistic aspiration.

So four days of Easter would be the ideal way to kick start my training regime. Although, ‘training’ to me is not based on any science; for example when I dismount – jelly legged from the bike – if I still retain the power of speech, then I clearly am not trying hard enough. And while I have a heart rate monitor I don’t understand and a training book I’ve never read, my total lack of mental discipline means training is just riding a lot and hurting.

Sadly plan A was scuppered by the kind of rain and sleet which so characterises British Bank Holidays. But a lack of Plan ‘B’ meant going out during a brief period of cold blue, clad only in thin shoes, roadie shorts and a late snatched waterproof. The first half of the ride was into a freezing headwind that rapidly escalated into a toe, body and hand-wind – all of which began to shiver.

My mind was elsewhere though, trying to judge whether the banks of threatening dark clouds were far enough away to allow a sneaky five mile extension. My decision to go for it was mocked by immediate rain upgrading soon to sizzling hail. Blue sky still lit the Chiltern hills a few miles away, but my personal hailstorm followed me all the way home.

Removing the lights and courier bag to gain speed still rated as a fine plan, ditching mudguards and waterproofs less so. Within two minutes, my arse was soaked, I had contracted “Trench-Willy“, my face was stung by shotgun pellets from the sky, and my feet had lost all form of motor control.

This went on for a very, very long time without any respite. It was sort of fun in a it’ll soon be over kind of way. I was significantly happier – standing naked in the barn – once I had stripped off the layers of soaking clothing. Sadly my feelings of warmth and worth were spiked by a caught reflection of white and floppy man boobs.

Still I can suck it in and, because I went out yesterday, I have every excuse not to go – Scott like – into the sleet and rain today. But I bet it’s not raining in New Zealand 🙁

The Wizard of Ug.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Road RidingLeave a comment

This morning, a wintery wolf stalked our house while trying to blow it down. On incautiously stepping outside into the gloom, I was immediately slammed back against the door, throwing a shape best described as “involuntary star jump“. A swiftly hosted internal meeting was won over by a strong claim, by my enlarged frightened gland, that a cheeky crosswind topping 30 knots was not ideal cycling weather.

Swapping barn keys for car keys confirmed this concern as a ton of grippy metal was tossed about in the manner of a frisky salad. The whole “pass me the red shoes and call me Dorothy” experience was ratcheted up beyond surreal when an expensive suit hiding a tiny brain opened up an umbrella. His instinctive – if largely suicidal – reaction to a squally rain shower instantly transported my imagination to tales of tornado collected Texan cows being windily transported to the next state.

Well, if this fella was lucky, he’d touch down somewhere in the next county. If not, Belgium.

Honestly, what next – the Von Trapp family aurally eulogising over the harmonics of some Nazi filled Austrian hills? Sadly this was a fable too far and the only sounds were those of second hand tinny iPods, plus the twig like snapping of New Year Resolutions.

Steeling myself for tornado alley – London Style – I mentally trimmed my sails and adjusted my helmet to a piratically jaunty angle. And for what? The result was anticlimactic in more ways that one. I wheeled out into what could, at the fibbing end of charity, be called a stiff breeze. This is just another reason why London is rubbish – it can’t even do bad weather properly.

It can do murder though. Those drivers living with the disappointment of not receiving that dead cyclist for Christmas, had stuck one as priority one on their New Year’s list. My boredom with commuting has begun to breed a dangerous mindset; so when some fucknugget ambles across three lanes – one of which I was legitimately using – I am about <---- far from just smashing right into him. Because - and I really do mean this - because it’d teach the knob-bracket a bloody good lesson.

And tonight a taxi indicated, using that orchestral favourite of horn arranged for vigorous hand gesture, that a cyclist’s proper position is – both socially and geographically – in the gutter. He tested his theory with a deadly side swipe which I avoided using weary commuting autopilot. But sufficiently vexed by his actions, a feeling of irritation occupied my mind for the mile and a half it took to catch up with him.

At which point, I politely requested his immediate attention with a brisk tap on the window. I followed that up with a spitting line of invective which, had it been anywhere close to a proper sentence, would have gone something like “No Dickweed, my proper position is in front of you flicking the finger just like this” “Oh and you’re a total C**T”

I’ve got to get out of this city before it kills me.

Morning blues

On By AlexIn Bikes, Pretentious nonsense, Road Riding5 Comments

Step carefully into the darkness. Grope for a frosty door guarding the entrance to the hard transport option. Shiver and fumble, with cold fingers, for riding gear. Add an extra layer and wheel out into the pre-dawn light. Clip in and fire shotgun audio – bang, bang – into the still of an icy world.

Crank carefully on white roads. Imagine a painful future through squirming tyres. Feel the freezing sizzle of 23c of slick on nature’s glass. Then, carefully risk upping the power needed to heat freezing extremities. Watch a crescent of fiery orange imperceptibly ascend over the low hills. Marvel as the layers of primary colours – reds and blues – push back the night.

Frozen water from autumnal storms forms winter crop circles. Long shadows are cast from bovinely stupid but contextually perfect cattle. Stop, dismount, abandon the bike to spiders busily icing Mandelbrot patterns. Marvel at this planetary show of fire and ice, until freezing hands and leaving trains drive you on.

Snick a couple of gears. Pity those unknowing stuck behind airbags and fiddling with heater controls. Sweep into the station and catch a little slide on untreated tarmac. Ignore the warmth of a stuffy waiting room. Grin at a hundred identical city coats and useless patent gloves.

Feel the morning blues. And reds – freezing fingers and hot blood mirror the colours of the sky. Stand on the platform now, savour the feelings of being warm and worthy. Remember why you ride a bike. Smile.

Flash Boredom

On By AlexIn Bikes, Road RidingLeave a comment

Dark out there isn’t it? Reminds me of a story of an dying wizard who wasn’t ready for a tense meeting with the grim reaper, so instead cast about himself with powerful spells to ward off the coming of Death. Then on entombing his still living body in a coffin sized box laced with much magic, he allowed himself the smile of the smug just before a deep voice in his ear lamented cheerfully “Dark in here isn’t it?”

Grumpy Mean Time is upon us and with it seemingly perpetual darkness than brings “The Coming Of The Idiots”. Ninja Cyclists I can deal with, but not the other 90{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} who labour under the illusion that flashing lights provide exactly that. If one were being particularly anal, you could argue that a flashing light is working exactly half the time and that’s the whole problem. I ventured out into the middle of what could only have been “persecute an epileptic” evening with the black punctuated by a thousand tiny flashguns.

It is no surprise there are so many bloody accidents. Those things are hypnotic – I found myself mesmerised as a sailboat driven by sirens to a rocky grave. I actually find myself siding with the poor sodding car drivers – optical sensors overloaded by the flashing sequence of random LED’s. “I was forced to run over the cyclist because he was doing my bloody head in” would seem a pretty sound defense argument.

I’m sat here hours later with retinal memory delivering laser strobes onto overwrought optical nerves. It seems my options are limited to:

a) Stopping whinging
b) A large roll of tape and some tough conversations
c) Some kind of bar mounted Electro Magnetic Pulse Generator.

I have at my disposal a beginners guide to electrical theory, a soldering iron, a car battery and unlimited Internet access. What can possibly go wrong?

I fully intend to write the Berlin/Hamster post if only I can solve the cryptic brainteaser that would magically flash the pictures from my mobile phone to the PC. Both of which are running Windoze. I’m starting from the assumption that this may be the root of the problem meaning some old school hammer and chisel action may be required to tease them out.

Play Misty for me*

On By PhotoIn Bikes, Other stuff, Photography, Pretentious nonsense, Road Riding3 Comments
Misty Commute, originally uploaded by Alex Leigh.

From the 21st of September, night displaces day and dark replaces light. Autumn, with all its’ decay and death, symbolises the changing of the guard between bright colours and inky blackness. Chasing light away, as the wounded animal it has become, is the switch flick of GMT plunging this seaswept Atlantic island into perpetual darkness for three long months.

Something to look forward too then, along with the commercial parody of the long debased religious myth that is Christmas, wind, rain, gloom, doom and – to bottom it all – trails below the water table. And yet before the storms lies a windless lull of a two tone world – impenetrable and moist as daybreak pushes feebly westward, and then blue, crisp and really quite agreeable as weakening sun rays burn away the fog.

This makes commuting a bit of a bugger.

4.1 degrees is not motivating weather. But set off we must, uncomfortable in heavier clothes and half blind from refracting light beams dissipating against a nebulous but impenetrable wall. Today a bike piloted by memory and internal gyroscopes is quicker than meandering cars, and their too powerful headlights groping at the darkness. But it doesn’t feel safe; if they can’t see the road, what chance they notice a one foot wide by six foot tall mobile statistic, whose dimming lights emit nothing more than a ghostly halo.

Riding scared, I ran away onto unlit side roads where looming dog walkers – zombified by the fog – lurched in late surprise as the hiss of damp tyres warned of my approach. The fog tamps down sound as well as light and little of each escaped to stimulate the senses. I was reduced to 3/4 speed, straining eyes and ears for pain giving obstacles and cranking peripheral vision to separate the murky green edges from greasy tarmac.

Soft rain sizzled off clothing, sweat beaded under now a too warm jacket and still cold breath merged instantly with the clamping fog bounding my world. But only once did the journey go bad, when frontier stones – guarding a tended lawn – loomed large like dirty ogres teeth ready to chew up this knight in shining lycra. A fast shimmy, as wet grass plucked away traction from slick tyres, and a desperate course change saw us plot a lucky line back onto the blacktop.

I fear there may have been collateral damage in terms of carefully planted perennials. Certainly as the station emerged fromunder fuzzy streetlights, it became apparent that the bike was considerably more shrubbery accesorised that it had been twenty five minutes previously.

But there was a feeling of worthy which is not earned during the summer. A flapjacks’ worth of extra effort, a coffee double-shot of not taking the easy option, a warming winter pint coming back the other way. Still a thousand times better than taking the car.

* I hope Seb doesn’t see this photo. Technically it’s all over the place. Compositionally it would blow a randy goat. In my defense, the camera was on my phone, the temperature was still bloody chilly and the bloke on the platform thought I was stalking him.