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sam_tThe wind rushes about my helmet: along the river, I ride in a whistling silence.
This only happens when I'm riding on cycle tracks away from car engines: the noise of the wind in my helmet combined with the effect of a hat which comes over my ears means that the wind is the only thing I can hear. The noises made by my bike are drowned out completely, as if my tyres have somehow left the path and are turning silently in the air. It's rather spooky.
I was thinking yesterday, when I finally turned the corner and had the wind at my back, how much I've learnt about riding my bike. I cycle primarily as a means of getting to places (I do occasionally ride for pleasure, but it has to be a sunny day with no wind and no timetable, and that doesn't happen too often), so although I've been able to move myself around on two wheels since I was about eight it's only since August that I've started cycling almost every day. In that time, without noticing, I've learnt things. Not only knowing the roads better - where the road's wide enough to overtake other bikes in traffic, or how fast to go round a particular corner in the rain - but learning what to do with my body. When in the rotation of my feet to change gear; how to get a bit of extra power to the pedals; what to do with my arms when I'm approaching a bump in the road; how to swerve quickly around a drain cover. I tend to pay more attention to what I can't do than to what I can, and (despite the climbing) I still tend to forget that knowing what to do with my body is still knowledge, which requires learning, even if some of the learning happens without me noticing. It's a good thing to turn round occasionally and recognise what I've done.
This only happens when I'm riding on cycle tracks away from car engines: the noise of the wind in my helmet combined with the effect of a hat which comes over my ears means that the wind is the only thing I can hear. The noises made by my bike are drowned out completely, as if my tyres have somehow left the path and are turning silently in the air. It's rather spooky.
I was thinking yesterday, when I finally turned the corner and had the wind at my back, how much I've learnt about riding my bike. I cycle primarily as a means of getting to places (I do occasionally ride for pleasure, but it has to be a sunny day with no wind and no timetable, and that doesn't happen too often), so although I've been able to move myself around on two wheels since I was about eight it's only since August that I've started cycling almost every day. In that time, without noticing, I've learnt things. Not only knowing the roads better - where the road's wide enough to overtake other bikes in traffic, or how fast to go round a particular corner in the rain - but learning what to do with my body. When in the rotation of my feet to change gear; how to get a bit of extra power to the pedals; what to do with my arms when I'm approaching a bump in the road; how to swerve quickly around a drain cover. I tend to pay more attention to what I can't do than to what I can, and (despite the climbing) I still tend to forget that knowing what to do with my body is still knowledge, which requires learning, even if some of the learning happens without me noticing. It's a good thing to turn round occasionally and recognise what I've done.
