Cycling + > SMIDSY
A trip round the bend
(1/1)
Librarian:
by Theodore Blovius
Having informed Jeremy Corbyn's office that I am making preliminary and of course confidential investigations into renationalisation of the train line to Mumbles, which after it is reconstructed can once again become a thriving public transport option, I joined a group of cyclists in Wales; their goal was recreation rather than matters of civic import, but I felt confident that their esprit de corps could be harnessed to a more noble cause once I unveiled my scheme in all its glory.
First there was the matter of transporting my bicycle and myself to Cardiff, a disagreeable task for anyone familiar with both Cardiff and the poor accommodation for bicycles on trains.
When I arrived at the appointed carriage and tried the door it appeared to be jammed. A few seconds later a young man in disheveled rugby kit brushed past me as he quickly exited the car. Inside I was surprised to find my former wife velcroed to the rack, like a modern day suffragette. It transpired Gertrude was on her way to the same ultimate destination as I, to take part in a demonstration of some sort. She was not engaged in a preliminary protest, but had mysteriously become entwined in the otherwise useless bike straps. What she was doing there in the first place she would not satisfactorily explain. I waited patiently while she disentangled herself, then installed myself in her place, attaching my bicycle to my person using spare toeclip straps.
"Are you not sitting in one of the main compartments of the train?" she enquired distractedly, still flushed from her previous situation and, I noted, missing a pump, which was finally located in the spokes of a fine looking randonneur.
I informed her that I preferred this company to that in the main compartments, then busied myself with some papers until a jobsworth stuck his head in to inform me that it was required I obtain a berth elsewhere. I made a note of his employee ID, which he did not provide with any degree of agreeability, then settled myself in the WC, which was reasonably comfortable but proved to be in sufficient demand throughout the journey to disrecommend its use as an ad hoc office in future.
The train arrived in Cardiff late due to Canadians on the line. As I vacated the cubicle I had to make my way past a disgruntled queue, at the head of which was Gertrude and, coincidentally, the rugby player who had nearly bumped into me previously. He must have been on the receiving end of a tongue lashing she'd delivered to him previously, as they appeared to be avoiding mutual eye contact. She was flushed again. I said my goodbyes as any civilised person would, but she merely smiled, which aroused my first suspicion, as she so rarely favours me with a look less than withering. There was no time to ponder this: I needed to catch up to the group of cyclists who would be so vital to my (and by proxy Jeremy's, if he was the man I hoped he was) plan.
Once outside the station I scattered change to occupy the poor souls attracted to the lights of the city centre then made my escape as they scrambled to claim their newfound wealth.
The group that awaited recruitment a few miles down the road consisted of approximately three dozen; not ideal, but admittedly several magnitudes greater than I attract to my humble box at Speakers' Corner on a good day. Intellectual stimulation has never been popular, despite the pains evolution has taken to provide our species with a mostly working brain. Still, it was sufficient as a kernel.
I thought to begin with a few statistics to warm up the crowd, and was clearing my throat when almost as a single organism they departed, generating a breeze sufficient to scatter my notecards in the Tesco parking lot. As the route was due to dive into lanes shortly thereafter, and I was not equipped with GPS due to the disturbing militaristic origins of that technology, nor map as my father had been an Ordnance Survey mandarin and I was privy to how unreliable cartographers could be at the outer fringes of the empire, I had little choice but to abandon the result of hours of painstaking research in order to keep up.
The night was an astronomer's delight. I recognised most of the well known constellations and a few others the RAS have not deigned in include in the official roster, including Gertrude, which conjoins with Perseus, sharing a head with Medusa – a discovery I happened to make shortly after my honeymoon. The dullards at Wikipedia don't allow my entry to remain for any length of time.
The next several hours were pleasant for cycling, less so for preparing the ground for the rousing speech I planned to make at the food stop. While it is not impossible to have a conversation while moving, the experience is often less than satisfactory, all nuance lost as words get lost in hedges. I had briefly hoped to have a captive audience in anyone stopped by a puncture, of which we were blessed with no less than four, but alas, concentration becomes focused on repairs, all other considerations swept aside. It's as well I hadn't thought to 'prepare' the road in advance, as some unscrupulous campaigners might have done, the end justifying any means.
Of my fellow travellers I could ascertain little, other than that some were Welsh, others more fortunate. While there have been natives who achieved distinction and acclaim, it is because they gathered sufficient strength to overcome the first hurdle life threw at them. This should not be taken as an insult to anyone who gives the matter thought.
Several times I was chosen by ride leader Claudine for wayfinder duty, an opportunity which in other circumstances I might have used to thin the herd. The only participant I found objectionable attained this status by often electing to ride no-handed. This is a foolish activity which detracts from the pleasure of those who take cycling seriously. Sorely tempted as I was to put my own pump through his spokes, it would not do to irk the organisers with my frontier justice.
When we arrived at the pub I prepared myself to give the speech I had mentally pieced together, first stopping at the toilets as it is unwise to attempt to convince anybody of anything on a full bladder. While drying my hands my attention was drawn to Male Angel, a "Sexual Performance Enhancer."
Though I require no enhancing, I have a friend who does, so as a thoughtful gesture attempted to procure the capsules, which only resulted in my coins being eaten. When I approached the barkeep his face assumed a sympathetic cast, yet he claimed there was nothing he could do as he was busy serving customers. I then went out to my bike to find a tool from the saddlebag which might prove useful.
Reader, if you ever think to attempt to open a Durex machine with a tyre lever, save yourself the bother: it doesn't work, no matter how far you shove it in. Thus did the barkeep find me, defeated and cursing, whereupon he ejected me from the establishment. I used the time wisely, rewriting my notes at a picnic table. When the others finally left I was too cold to gather my wits to attempt even a few minutes "hobnobbing", and so resolved to bide my time until we reached the end of the ride.
What can be said about the ride itself? The organisers are to be commended for sourcing a splendid selection of lanes, along with a panorama at dawn that even a man such as myself who hasn't time for poetry can appreciate as a Kodak moment for the soul. I am reliably informed we passed Japanese Knotweed and Himalayan Balsam along the way. Vegetation is not my strong suit. I make a study of people and their foibles, which recipients of my insight are seldom able to see for themselves and rarely grateful to have pointed out, though one would think they have the most to benefit. I would personally welcome the opportunity to have my faults brought to my attention, if I could find anybody qualified to assay them.
As the riders gathered at the cafe for breakfast, at last my moment had arrived. Unfortunately I wasn't there to seize it. Somewhere along the sweep of Swansea bay I had stopped to add a finishing sheen to my speech and lost track of even the Tail End Charlies. I overshot the cafe, landing instead at a scenic overlook. There I found Gertrude.
"Stop ogling," were the first words she said to me, though I was doing nothing of the sort, as I am long past adolescence.
"I'm up here," she then sighed, though anyone presented with those natural formations in all their glory can hardly be blamed for giving them their full due of attention. I am referring of course to the Mumbles.
Gertrude was quite topless. She had tied herself to what appeared to be a large shed in the shape of an apple. I will admit to being sufficiently nonplussed that for the second and last time I dropped my notes into a parking lot, where the wind swept them away for good.
"What on earth are you up to?" I asked her, Jeremy Corbyn temporarily on the back burner.
"Making a statement about the original sin of sexual repression," she said. "I await imminent arrest. What are you doing here? You hate Wales."
"That is a typical exaggeration," I informed her. "Kindly don't mix up the people with the country. I am here to convince a group of cyclists to help revive Labour's fortunes."
"How, pray tell?" she asked, frantically waving to a police car whose driver merely honked and waved back.
With a flourish I presented the picture I'd had professionally photoshopped to illustrate my talk to the cyclists. "Voilà!"
Nearly a full minute of silence passed, which was perhaps a new record for her. I was forced to explain the obvious: "The old Swansea and Mumbles Railway was variously propelled by horses, sails, steam, electricity, petrol and diesel. It's time the cyclist had a go. Imagine: the world's first passenger service, running again in its original location. Nationalised, of course, with cyclists pulling for the greater good. Get on your bike, indeed!" I will admit to being rather swept away by my brief oration.
Gertrude said nothing constructive, so I made no record of it. Shortly afterwards she unbound herself from the apple and caught a lift from the police car which had passed by earlier; evidently she had made an impression.
By the time I eventually found the cafe all the cyclists had disappeared, like the best of intentions.
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