Velosolo Club

[sussex cyclist]

Recording of a gentleman I met near Bateman's:



He was walking, I slowed down to chat then finally got off and pushed while we talked. We've run into each other several times, and I know he has significant memory issues. But he has this poem locked.

[sussex cyclist]

Bodiam Castle, early one morn.


G'morning Bodiam ducks.


"It's too early – What The Duck!"


Now that's what we're all here for.


Open up. (Unfortunately the keeper of the key wouldn't let me take my bike inside for a photo op.)


For scale. Her idea. Thanks keeper of the key!


But I was just leaving.

[sussex cyclist]

On this morning's ride I ran into Jenni exercising Bella as I was exercising Langster. Jenni is someone I never would have met if I followed the advice of the IT crowd* and made sure to always keep myself to myself.

She had just stopped in a shallow lay-by as a car squeezed alongside us on the narrow lane.

"Can you do me a favour?" she asked. Sure. "I've dropped my glove..." And there it was a few feet behind her and Bella.

It's a long way down from that horse, so I had some sympathy. Retrieved her glove and handed it to her.

Spoiler

Guess if I was a pervert I'd have shoved it down my pants and scarpered. {Ewwww.}

[close]

I was privately amused by the whole chivalry thing – come on, a glove – but on relaying the anecdote to my wife, she said there were also serious class undertones. Maybe; I'm not bothered.



*Infinite Terror of strangers. It's a thing.

[Vita Sackville-West]

Brooks saddle and snazzy carbon fibre seatpost were enough to summon Vita from the grave to host this instalment of Velosolo Club on her birthday.



Meet Chung, as I met him walking his bike up a hill this morning. We didn't converse other than as was necessary for me to procure this picture and his name.

The Fabulous Forgotten Life of Vita Sackville-West

How preposterous is it that Vita Sackville-West, the best-selling bisexual baroness who wrote over thirty-five books that made an ingenious mockery of twenties societal norms, should be remembered today merely as a smoocher of Virginia Woolf? The reductive canonization of her affair with Woolf has elbowed out a more luxurious, strange story: Vita loved several women with exceptional ardor; simultaneously adored her also-bisexual husband, Harold; ultimately came to prefer the company of flora over fauna of any gender; and committed herself to a life of prolific creation (written and planted) that redefined passion itself.

I kind of doubt that VSW redefined "passion itself", but that's a romping good read. Nothing whatsoever to do with this post, except that I can imagine Vita & Virginia with a pair of Bromptons to be folded neatly away in aeroplanes, first class train compartments, and luxury liners exploring the world and each other.

. . .

See also The Constant Bromptoner

[sussex cyclist]

Not that you're going to be able to tell from this picture, taken post-cleanup.



I haven't had a flat in ages.



Fortunately this one caught me close to the end of my loop. I had a choice: walk the bike a mile or so home ('twas a slow leak) – by far the preferred option – or fix it

in the wild. You can't ask for a better setup than the Kipling bench, so in the wild it was.

"Glad it's you and not me," said a guy passing by before too long. "Never did learn how to do that as a kid."

Me neither! Not sure when I picked it up. Fortunately he didn't stay and watch, or time lapse photography might have been necessary. Let's just say I wasn't in a hurry.

"Do you have everything you need?" said the next guy a few minutes later. I did indeed. Though for some reason I'd only packed a single, slightly too small disposable glove to keep my hands from getting filthy.

Found the leak but not the cause. Also, I need new tyres.

If you're one of those fine people who repairs rather than replaces inner tubes, look away now.

[Alt text: a tube that's over 99% hole-free going in the bin. Also a C02 cannister, which is apparently a common misspelling of 'canister'.]

As I was getting ready to go, a third man stopped, this one having pulled up alongside in a transit van. He also asked if I needed help. I was beginning to wonder if there was a live video feed on me.

Seriously though, I was grateful {even as I secretly wondered if it was the long hair that had first attracted his attention}. He had the look of a cyclist about him; was even wearing a bright yellow top. "I know what it's like to be stranded away from home," he said, or close enough. Probably could've gotten a ride for me and my bike if it had been necessary. I've never been so thoroughly covered for a puncture.

[sussex cyclist]

Can you dance, Rud?

No, me neither.
{Dancing on the pedals doesn't count.}