Tentative re-embarkation, or: why I won’t take the bus any more

Despite still smarting about the torso (see post number one), I returned to two-wheeled transport on Friday. I’d been working from home – a perk of the job – but after three lonely days of feeling sorry for myself, I though it best to get back in the office among real-life human beings.

Yet I was a little tentative about returning to saddle, for two reasons. Firstly (and least-ly) was my physical pain – easily dismissed with an ibuprofen/paracetomol/codeine cocktail, and to be honest knackered ribs will hurt no matter what you’re doing.

Ibuprofen - good for what ails ya

The second reason was more profound – I no longer quite trust my bike, it having sent me flying for no apparent reason. Though I’m lucky inasmuch as my commute is largely level, without sharp ascents or descents - the main dangers are cowboy bus drivers and, more frequently, errant pedestrians - I was still concerned that, if I had to brake suddenly I might find myself decorating the tarmac or, even worse, become an impromptu speed bump along Europe's busiest bus route (true fact).

Counterbalancing these was the hollow, mournful feeling that immoblised cyclists everywhere share when forced to take public transport. The thought of the agonisingly stop-start journey, taking twice as long as it would on my bike and with the added torture of inane student conversation going on around me (no offence to students - I was one once and probably could've out-inaned the best of 'em) made my mind up - it was time to get back on the bike.

And of course, I was fine. I started off cautiously, but like everyone I have my own natural pace and couldn't keep slow for long; before I knew it I was gliding past the sit-up-and-beg brigade and chasing down the lycra mob, my progress slowed only by the standard red-every-time sequence of traffic lights.

(By the way, I’ll clear up my stance here and now on two of the big ‘take sides’ debates of UK cycling: red lights – I stop, always, though I'd be in favour of 'turn left on red' legislation; helmet – I wear one, always, though don't believe it should be a legal requirement)

Coming home, I just hopped on my bike like it ain't no thang - not a thought for health-concerns or pyschological trauma. Proof, if it were needed, that cycling remains an aid to the health of the mind, as well as the body. Today I went a step further and took my 'extended remix' route home, past Man City’s ground, out toward Gorton and then down the Fallowfield loop to Chorlton before rolling the final, pot-holed stretch down Barlow Moor Road to Didsbury. Bumps and lumps do give me the odd jolt of pain about the ribs, but it's nowt compared to the shock-and-awe of a sneeze - and it's nothing to the pyschic trauma of paying for the bus.

The bike

This is Mr Bike his-self, my own bicycle:

Mine came with two pedals...

A Giant Escape M2, in stealth-bomber black. A hybrid bike, though closer in spirit to the classic no-suspension mountain bikes of the nineties than most, more road-oriented, hybrids. I bought it courtesy of the cyclescheme for a mere £300 (from Putney Cycles - I was living in London at the time) along with a heavyweight Abus lock, Cateye lights and cheery black helmet.

I've added a Topeak Super Tourist rack, with its handy plug'n'play action. The standard-issue Maxxis Detonator tyres were swapped in fairly short order for Schwalbe Marathon Plus puncture-proof marvels. The only other adjustment has been to swap the original 11-32 rear cassette to a more road-ish 12-25 - though to be honest, I rarely stray beyond using 5 or so of the 27 gear combinations; I don't have a hilly commute. Also, the pedal reflectors have chosen to remove themselves, for reasons unknown.

Since picking it up in 2009, pretty much exactly three years ago, I've covered somewhere in the region of 8,000 miles, the lion's share of which came over the last twelve months. As well as the daily commute, it's gone down the Thames, over the Pennines and across Snowdonia, in addition to multitudinous forays into Cheshire and innumerable intra-Mancunian trips. It's comfortable on tarmac and on trails of varying quality - mud and ice have been dealt with; the only "you shall not pass" substance has been sand. And it's held up pretty well: the only persistent problems have been the disc breaks (probably too cheap a bike to have discs, but there you go) and my apparent inability to keep a chain in decent working order for more than a couple of months at a time. The saddle is also slowly disintegrating, and I recently noticed a kink in one of the spokes.

For all its versatility, there are some big downsides. First off, it's pretty heavy. Granted, the lock and the rack (and all the stuff I stick in the luggage) add to it, as do the tyres, but nonetheless, it's still quite an effort to heft it out of the cellar. Secondly, the ride is pretty rough. Flying down a hillside on the ill-maintained byways of North Cheshire, you feel like you're rattling your teeth out. By comparison, my housemate's Specialized Allez rides like a hovercraft. Finally, bless it, it's certainly an exercise in function over form; which is a kind way of saying that it's not particularly aesthetically appealing

Felix rides a Specialized Allez; armour, Comme Des Garçons; helmet, model's own.

So I must admit, my eye is wandering... my employers offer an interest-free bike loan which has seen me making covetous forays onto bikeshop websites to see what's on offer, but I'll save that for another post. Suffice to say that, even if I move on, I'll always have a tender spot for the Giant, which has been my road into the healthy lifestyle and Zen-like meditative wonders of cycling.

I'd been out of the game for over ten years, pretty much since heading off to university in 1999. The return to pedal-power came largely in an effort to improve my general health and counteract my (fairly substantial) weight gain. But it wasn't the first, of course. The predecessors include:

Trek 800, circa 1995 (with grip-shift gears, deep metallic purple)
A Raleigh something-or-other MTB, circa 1991 (white and purple-y pink, with a then-dizzying 15 speeds)
A white BMX with spokey-dokeys, circa 1987
A red bike with stabilisers, circa 1985

The real deal...

The next stop will be something a bit closer to a road bike, possible made of steel, probably with fewer gears. Keep watching.

My first crash

Something like this...

Or rather, not my first crash - seeing as I hit nothing other than tarmac. More 'my first spill' then, though that word sounds a little frivolous, as if it were an amusing inconvenience. The French, of course, have a lovely word for it - une chute - but I'm no Francophone. I don't know - what would you call it?

I'll try to tell you what happened: taking a short descent through a village (hastily, but not superfast), I braked to take a left turn, only to introduce my face to the tarmac a second later. It's hard to describe the precise sensation: it was as if the bike just disappeared from under me. I flew over the bars superman-style to flop on the ground with thwacking finality, face-first. Actually, chest-first describes it better, as my torso bore the brunt; I did leave some of my face on the road, but my helmet saved me from more serious head injury (and, incidentally, my cycling mitts kept my hands free of grazes too).

Then what? The next thing I know I'm loudly sucking air, making a repeated 'hurrrr' sound, as if theatrically registering fright over and over again. I can't speak to answer the kindly chap who has jogged over to my aid. Two women, whose chat I have interrupted, ask casually if someone needs to ring an ambulance. Still incommunicado, I signal 'no' with a wave of the hand and vigorous head-shaking; on all-fours now, I carry out a spontaneous limb audit and figure that nothing seems broken. The overwhelming pain is coming from my chest.

Helmets: worth wearing

After re-inflating my lungs, my benefactor - I never learn his name - offers me a cup of tea. I stagger to my feet, pick up my bike - seemingly undamaged, though the chain has come off - follow my new friend to his home and accept a glass of water to steady my nerves. He tells me that I've "fucked up my face a bit" - never good words to hear - and directs me to look in a mirror. Indeed, the right side of my face is blackened from the tarmac, though the blood trickling down my cheek from eyebrow offers a pleasing contrast.

Now, I know from reading autobigraphies of professional wrestlers that the eyebrow is quite easily 'busted open', so I discount serious injury there and ask for some kitchen roll to stem the flow. I can also spot a nasty bruise on my cheekbone, which will expand roughly to the size of a quail's egg. But it looks much worse than it is. Minor cuts and bruises elsewhere are revealed during the Bates-Motel shower I take after shakily cycling the two miles back to the cottage I'm staying at.

(Oh yeah, this is in North Wales. Sorry - one post in, and I've already strayed from my Mancunian remit)

The long-term damage is to the ribcage. I've self-diagnosed myself as having bruised ribs, as my google research (and, to be fair, NHS Direct) tells me that I have all the symptons: most notably pain when breathing and moving around. Coughing, stretching, laughing and big hugs are strictly to be avoided; sneezing feels like what I imagine it feels like to be stabbed in the kidney, i.e. sharp and excruciating. Sadly ribs - whether bruised, cracked or fractured - have to be pretty much left to heal by themselves. Which means I've got around four weeks of pain and difficult sleeping ahead. Oh well.

Yer ribs: handle with care

So, yesterday I came back to south Manchester by train with my tail between my legs; I was planning to return as I arrived - by bike - but the prospect of 100 miles of wheezing, painful discomfort, not to mention still feeling pretty shaken , made the trip too awful to contemplate. Nor have I, a couple of days post-crash, reinstated any feelings of trust in my bike. Actually, I feel a little betrayed: I'd only had it serviced a couple of weeks previous, equipping it with a new chain and cassette to boot. So the commute's off the cards for a week or so too.

But... I'm sure I'll be back on it soon. In fact, achieving two milestones over the same weekend - my first century ride and my first serious accident - have made me feel even more of a 'cyclist', as opposed to a mere cycling commuter; a gutter bunny. Of course, one can't simply be a cyclist, he or she must belong to a tribe - the roadies, the trendy fixies, the MTB-ers or whatever - but I'm on the threshold. I've sat on the monastery steps for a year to prove my worthiness.

Lets see where we go from here.