My Favourite Cyclists: David Byrne

Bikes and David Byrne are the two things in my life that seem to have been ubiquitous since the late 1970's.

As a musician, his work with Talking Heads and as a solo artist was a favourite of my then step father and the albums were bought on the day of release and then played on heavy repeat, much to the delight of my mother. Much to the delight of my wife and the boy, I have now managed to find the majority of those albums on vinyl and while the rotation is slightly less ferocious, I still rattle the house with them on the rare moments that I am alone, usually whilst cleaning my bike.

As a cyclist, David Byrne is an impassioned, articulate and socially aware ambassador for the cultural necessity of the bicycle in the modern cityscape and, moreover, the simple joy of experiencing the world by bike.

Depending on your view of cycling, the mileage you get from his book Bicycle Diaries may vary. However, as someone with a love of not only the sport/past time but also the cultural history and social impact of the bike, I loved it.

Part anecdote regarding travelling the world with a bike, part essay on how the bike is fundamental in preserving a sense of belonging in the modern urban environment, it was a personable, relatable and thought provoking read. As a cyclist who grew up using my bike to commute around what was then a notoriously dangerous city, it was interesting to note the parallels between Byrne's relationship with New York and mine with London, especially in terms of the very tactile relationship you develop with the architecture around you.

As a middle aged man who finds himself slightly concerned by the social detachment created by modern city planning, it was heartening to hear someone echo my own innate belief that bikes are increasingly vital in a world designed for motorists to get from door to door with the minimum of exposure to the world around them. As the relationship between cyclists and motorists appears to be more volatile and dangerous then ever, it was reassuring to hear someone discuss, in rational terms, how the bike can and should be integrated into the modern world in order to improve not only congestion but also the quality of life.

Sometimes as a cyclist, it is important to be reminded of the joy that brought you to your bike to begin with and David Byrne embodies and communicates that in a way that invites you to reevaluate your relationship with both cycling itself and your physical environment. He is a unique voice and a keen observer of a culture that merits such exploration and a world that increasingly needs people to embrace cycling in all of its forms.

He also looks pretty sharp on a bike, something I think we can all aspire to.

Burning Love

'You, your mum and then I'd see where the dogs were. In that order.'

The boy stares at me for a moment, probably waiting to see if I'm joking.

'What if the dogs had already run out?' He asks finally.

'Then I'd get the box with all of our wedding stuff in it.'

'Hmm...' He scratches his small, triangular chin for a moment. 'I thought you'd definitely rescue your bike.'

I would, I think to myself. But only if there was time.

'So you'd just let it burn?'

It is dinner time and, as always, we are fielding one of the boy's 'what if' questions. Tonight is the classic what three things would you rescue from the house in a fire. I sneak a glance at my bike, sitting as it does in the dining room (much to the constant but unspoken annoyance of my wife) and ponder my strange, emotive realtionship with it.

'It would make me sad,' I concede. 'But there are other bikes. There's only one of you guys.'

I love my bike. I like looking at it and frequently enjoy riding it. It is, in its current form, a labour of love, a composite of carefully tailored upgrades and the end result of my obsession (and some very tight budgeting). It is very nearly art and I am quite certain that it will find itself mounted on a wall somewhere in my future when my legs or back finally give out.

The truth is that there are other bikes. But there is only one of this bike. I would lose more than an object if I lost it, I would lose something that is now fundamentally a part of me.

I ride a Bianchi frame, an Intenso in the traditional celeste livery. It sports a nice pair of Reynolds Assault SL carbon wheels with a solid but not over the top 41mm depth (a concession to the perpetual winds that hammer anyone foolish enough to cycle on the coast). It has some lovely aero bars and surprisingly comfortable Fizik saddle. One day, it will have a high end group set but the house currently requires the kind of work that makes that a pipe dream. It is not top of the line. It is a long way from entry level. It is a mish mash of what suits my riding style and needs rather than a slavish assemblege of the newest products and I love it. I love it aesthetically and I love the feel of it when I ride.

Through various iterations, this bike and I have covered thousands of miles, claimed more finishers medals that I can currently remember, won and lost KOM's and made countless late night dashes to the shop to buy rum before it closes. We have liked each other, hated each other and, sometimes, stoically ignored one another.

Having this sort of a relationship with an inanimate object may seem peculiar to anyone who doesn't ride. Anyone who does ride knows that a bike is far from inanimate. It is alive and in constant flux. It is an object designed to move, preferably at high speeds. It has to to stay upright. It needs you to keep up. It needs to be looked after, worked on and respected.

The rewards for this are varied. Some, like pert buttocks, a lack of middle aged spread and a distinct set of tan lines, are obvious. Others are more subtle but quite profound. I have spent some fantastic times with my son on bikes. I have been welcomed across finish lines by my wife holding a bag of Indian food, beers and actual pride in my achievement. I have seen parts of the world (including the town where I live) that I would never have ventured into were it not for my bike. I have seen my stress levels and quick temper vanish as a result of riding. I have come to learn that half of the ride is for me and my bike, half is all about getting home to my family. I have actually become a better father, husband and person thanks to my realtionship with my bike. It has taught me to value my time, my physical well being, my surroundings and those around me who quietly strive to keep me moving, upright, worked on and respected.

So, yes. My bike is more than a bike. It is a part of my life that is irreplaceable to me, ironically because it has lead me to fully understand the other things around me that are even more irreplaceable.

The boy scratches his chin for a moment longer before turning his attention back to his dinner.

'I still can't believe you'd let it burn'. He says absently.

I look for a moment at his small chin as he works at a mouthful of pasta, then at my wife as she studiously avoids becoming embroiled in the discussion but descreetly touches my hand with her little finger in that way that I love.

'It's what it would want'. I tell him.

The truth is that there are other bikes. But there is only one of this bike. I would lose more than an object if I lost it, I would lose something that is now fundamentally a part of me.

L'Etape London 2017

After a dismal London 100, with inadequate training, dire weather and a finishing time that made me want to cry, I thought I should seek out some sort of redemption for myself before the season winds down for the winter here in the UK.

So, I turned to the L'Etape, a Tour De France affiliated sportive organised by Human Race that departs and finishes from the rather magnificent Olympic Velodrome in Stratford, taking in 115 miles of city and countryside and featuring three sprints: two intermediate (at 40 and 85 miles) and one 1km effort around the road track back in Stratford. I expected the pace to be high with the number of clubs involved and a fairly flat, fast looking course inviting some pretty full on efforts to get around the route as fast as possible. As an added bonus, the weather, for once this year, was forecast to be dry and bright, so everything looked good for a challenging but rewarding day in the saddle.

I stayed overnight in Stratford with my wife and the boy, so it was a relatively luxurious amble to the start line at a surprisingly civilised 7.00am. We had seen several other participants checking into our Travelodge the previous night, so it was clear that this was going to be a well attended event with some serious riders and I took myself to bed for an early night. It didn't take long to arrive at the Velodrome, take in the usual paltry coffee van and spend some time surreptitiously checking out the competition, suddenly wondering if my 41mm carbon rims looked a bit spartan by comparison to some of the 90mm and full TT set ups that were milling around. There were a good number of staff manning the event, even at this early start, although they were unable to use the speaker system at this time of day, so getting information about loading times was a little haphazard.

I decided to hang around the loading area, so as not to miss my start and actually ended up being ushered out with an earlier group, enjoying a nice spin on part of the road track before being lead out onto the roads. This is not a part of London that I feel overly familiar with (Stratford and the surrounding areas were still very much a wasteland back in my days of hurtling around the city on mountain bikes and BMX's), so I had that slow and steady feel that inevitably creeps over you when you're riding unfamiliar roads. However, it was crisp, sunny and I felt good on the bike, so the fairly swift pace off of the line set by the club riders was welcome and I followed the large group out onto the course, letting their familiarty with the route set the tempo.

Of course, I got dropped fairly swiftly and, riding alone, soon found myself in that strange no man's land of being faster than the slower riders but not able to hold the wheel of the faster groups. Which left me alone. In a block head wind. With 100 miles to go.

Suffice to say, my finish time was not what I had hoped for. Despite feeling strong, the head wind really ate into my energy and my back began to ache early on as a result of hunching into the relentless gusts. By the 100 mile mark, I finally got off, made my way into a newsagent and bought a beer to lament my rough outing... Not something I would generally recommend but definitely a marginal gain for my knotted shoulders.

That aside, the route was lovely, with some spectacular roads and literally the greatest feed stations I have ever encountered on an organised ride (salted, baked potatoes anyone?). It is a ride I would recommend, especially if you are lucky enough to have a tail wind or a solid club to go with. As a lone rider, I found that I noticed the lack of road side encouragement that is rife in say London to Brighton or the London 100 but there were moments that made up for it, notably the three sprint sections that forced me to think about how to spend my energy in ways that more endurance based rides do not.

The medal I got at the finish line was great (as long as you don't look at the finish time on the reverse) and there were a number of events and activities going on that had helped to distract my wife and the boy from their nagging worries about my extended ride time. So, overall it was a good experience, if not a great day in the saddle for me on a personal level and, as I said, I would recommend it.

So, I suppose I will have to wait for 2018 to find my form again and get back to those solid finishing times from two years ago. Then I'll be back to try this course again and nab myself a medal with a time that I can wear with pride, in addition to a few handfuls of those delicious, carb filled potatoes.