Hanne

Yes, that’s right. Cycling. ‘Motorcycling’ but minus the motor part, which some would characterize as rather important...

As I cycled, motorless, into work this morning I noticed three things. One, when I stop I put my left foot down. Stretched, on tippy toes, I keep the bicycle as upright as possible. Catching a glance of this in a shop window it looked quite ridiculous really. The habit of stretched-left-leg-right-foot-on-brake that I have picked up since riding the DR dies hard, and much as I tried to convince my brain that a 30kg pushbike was NOT about to topple over and leech fuel all over the street if I lowered it past its balance point, this simply would not compute. There are many sets of lights along Newmarket’s Broadway. Today none of them were in my favour. At each set of lights I would come up behind one or two cycling pros who skillfully used the front wheel for balance, cleated feet never interacting with the pavement below. Perhaps my fluoro ‘Look Out For Motorcyclists’ vest gave it away, but they seemed to sense that I was not a member of the upper echelons of lycra clad cycling society.

Taking off from the lights I noticed the second sign that biking (of the motorized sort) was in my blood. This was betrayed by the position of my right hand, on the throttle. ‘Throttle?’ You may ask. ‘On a bicycle??’ Well, that’s the best word I have for it. The lights changed and my wrist reflexively went to twist about the handlebars. This had nil effect, other than to provoke a pre-emptory ‘honk’ from the third car back. The only way I can explain this reflex is to look to the research being done into those with ‘phantom limbs’. Double-leg amputees who can still ‘feel’ their toes. I could almost feel the heated grips, the soft rubber…

*Squeeeeak!* Time to snap out this daydream, as the next set of lights was upon me. Sign number three was harder to spot than the other two. Actually, I only noticed by accident that my left hand was gripping the brake lever as if it were a clutch at idle. ‘What are you doing, Hand?’ I asked. ‘I, umm….’ (caught in the act, he had to come up with an excuse quick smart). ‘I… well, I was practicing. Training. Got to keep in good form, you know, some of those clutches out there are darned heavy…’ A quick escape. I watched the colour race back into my knuckles as the fingers released their grip. Lefty was very careful to relax and enjoy the ride for the last kilometer.

Although I don’t currently have a bike of my own, this morning’s episode has cheered me. Just as messenger pigeons can be released hundred of kilometers from home and navigate their way back, so too will I return to the saddle and reinstate a motor to its rightful place between my cordura-clad knees. And getting fit in the meantime can’t be all that bad.