Stay "local" - what a conundrum!

 

Stay “local” when exercising – whatever that may be!

 Prime Minister Boris Johnson’s advice to stay local when taking exercise was typically vague. This came with the reintroduction of the current lockdown following the predictable post-Christmas surge of the Pandemic as a result, it is believed, of the PM allowing family gatherings for turkey.

Now he's saying we may exercise, but stay "local".

Would the PM care t0 define what is meant by "local", he was asked by British Cycling and Cycling UK.  I haven't read of his response.

He could have suggested a radius from home, say three or maybe six miles. That would be clearly understood.

But we know better than to expect the  PM to be more specific, as his advice  to relax our guard a to enjoy a limited Christmas family get-together proved.

Perhaps he’d heard the virus was going home for the festivities and wouldn’t be back until Boxing Day.

He rabbited on and on about wanting us all to have a normal family Christmas with grandparents and a few relatives thrown in.  In doing so, revealed his complete lack of empathy for the many thousands of people who live alone and don’t have a family and so had no prospect of a risking a shared Christmas even before the Pandemic increased their isolation.

Pressed by his scientific advisors fearing closer contact over Christmas would see the virus spread, Boris rowed back a bit.

Celebrate Christmas. Don’t celebrate Christmas. Invite the grandparents – if you have any.

One aunty, one uncle, or one nephew and perhaps a niece. You’ll have filled the six spots before you know it.

Apply the two-metre rule, even at the dining table. Small table? Eat in shifts.

Meet over the garden fence, for those who have gardens.

He couldn’t bring himself to say stuff Christmas get togethers and stay safe.

So, to the exercise conundrum.

Local means different things to different people, as recent news stories have revealed. For many bike riders used to clocking up 80 to 100 miles local might mean a thirty mile jaunt.

Boris’s own interpretation of staying local by cycling at the London Olympic Park seven miles from Downing Street drew criticism for not being local at all. He should have gone round St James Park or Hyde Park, only a few minutes away, said his detractors.

The “science” says the point of staying local is to reduce the chances of spreading the virus to other areas – should you be an unwitting carrier.

So what sort of distance should “local" mean in this context? Perhaps Boris might have suggested a radius of X miles, not stray beyond that.

What should it be, three miles radius, six miles?

That would be clear.

Staying local is no problem for me. I define local to mean no more than four miles from the house.

Perhaps even that is too far?

I’ve been limiting my cycling to within three or four miles of the house for nearly two years now, because my wife and I are carers of our chronically ill daughter and it doesn’t do for either of us to be away from home for more than an hour.

So our house has been practicing “lockdown” for years before the virus locked up everyone else.

I missed doing decent rides to begin within.  But needs must –- as the saying goes.

Now I’ve got quite used to my limited field of play, going out most mornings at 8am, before the house is up.

I’m lucky we live in a small market town in the middle of North Downs in Surrey, and I can be out into the countryside within minutes.

I shoot through town out and back on a cycle track beside a trunk road.  Occasionally, when the legs let me, I take a loop onto a quieter roads up the mini-alp,  lifting me up 400 feet to the top of downs. Then back down and into a local wine estate for a few laps of a small road circuit servicing the facility. 

For variety I can also exit town in the other direction, out and back to a  village one mile away, over a few minor drags. I  retrace through my town,  head out of the other side to the vineyard for a few finishing circuits.

As the saying goes, Ride your bike, ride your bike, ride your bike.

It’s doesn’t matter you don’t go far, just keep those pedals turning.

 

 

 

 

 

 

A RIDE ON THE WILD SIDE

 

NOWADAYS when the temperature is hovering on freezing I don’t go cycling, for fear of ice on the road, especially where water runs off fields.

When I was younger it never used to concern me, nor my club mates, even when on occasion we all went down like skittles on an icy patch of road.

We just laughed, bounced back up and carried on. Carefree! Lucky! The obvious danger from other traffic just never occurred to us.

One day we completely ignored a really bad weather forecast  and set out on a club run.

We took no heed. Foolish youth!

I can still recall a police officer’s shouted warning.

“HANG on lads, hang on…severe weather warning. Gale force winds…his other words were carried away on the wind… this morning…” shouted the police officer, as he ran towards us. 

Thank you officer, we called out, and kept going.

What did he say? Asked a club mate riding up alongside of me.

Not sure, something about force…I answered.

Nothing could be allowed interrupt the Sunday club run. Well, heavy rain would probably do it.

But not when blessed with a fine wind blowing us all the way to Warrington. Trees bowed this way and that, waved their branches at us. Overhead wires sang their tortured songs. We chatted, as you do, about six of us in two lines. Hardly another soul to be seen.

It is 15 miles exactly from our starting point from the Rocket Pub in Liverpool to the Warrington boundary sign, along flat roads.

And we covered that distance in half-an-hour!

15 miles in half-an-hour! THIRTY MPH.

We looked at each other in amazement.

What did that copper say?

Gale Force 10, someone recalled.

Met Office Definition...

“A gale force wind is a sustained strong wind, registering between 7-10 on the Beaufort Scale, which indicates wind speeds of between 50 and 102 km/h (32 - 63 mph).

Bloody Hell!

At sea Gale Force 10 throws ships onto rocks.

On land it could easily drive a cyclist off the road, up the verge and tip him over a barbed wire fence into a field!

I was all for turning home immediately. The others decided to carry in the vain hope the gale would abate for their return! Or you’ll be in Scotland for tea, was my parting shot!

I figured differently and alone I charted a circular route to avoid a direct headwind, hoping I might fare better with side winds.

It was the hardest ride of my life, trying to keep the bike going in a straight line.

I recall two stand out moments quite vividly.

The first was on a narrow lane cutting between flat open fields and farm buildings, where barn doors creaked and banged in the wind.  I was taking the brunt of the wind on my left shoulder and I was leaning into it. But an unseen force in the air, like a massive wall of pressure, was pushing me slowly but surely into the centre of the road. There was nothing I could do and I eventually found myself hard up against the grass verge on the right, still moving painfully forwards at walking pace.

I was now on the wrong side of the road. Try as I might, I could not move back to the other side of the road.

Then I was pushed up on to the verge, which was cut grass and easy to ride. Finally, still just about making headway, the gale pushed me up against a fence. Yes, the barbed wire fence was waiting for me and unceremoniously and without fanfare, and in slow motion and still fastened to the pedals; I went bike over head  and into the field, 

I had this view of my wheels against the sky. There I was, lying there in a ploughed field, unscathed and laughing at my impromptu attempt at  slapstick! Charly Chaplin would have been proud.

I struggled to release my feet from the pedals and quickly got to my feet, looking around in embarrassment anxious that no one had seen  my folly!

No one had. There was not a soul to be seen. My honour was intact.

The rest of the ride home is lost in a blur of images of  thrashing tree branches,  hedgerows twisting this way and that, rubbish bowling towards to me, the sky all of a rushing noise.

But I well remember the descent of Parbold Hill near Ormskirk.

This was my second vivid recollection.

Normally you would take this descent at speed, in top gear.

Not that day. For the hill barely checked the   roaring wind which rushed across the flat plain from the Irish Sea some 10 miles due west, sweeping up the slopes with renewed vigour,  bringing me  almost to a standstill.

No one will believe this. But I was forced to stand on the pedals, as I strived to 

turn bottom gear,  all the way down to the bottom. 

A few miles on my course swung to the south onto the dual-carriageway Preston to Liverpool trunk road, bringing welcome relief as the wind was now placed squarely on my right. But gusts still blew me all over the place and so I took refuge by riding on the cycle path, safe from what little traffic there was.

I reached home exhausted.  Pushed open the back garden gate and just got through before my howling tormentor slammed it shut with a crash, as though to say, "You've been lucky today, you little bastard." 

 “Bit windy today, dear?”  said my mum.

My dad just gave me a look. He knew!