Wheely Free

I used to love cycle rides when I was a child. Before I had my own bike, my dad took me out on his. I'd perch on a block of wood strapped to his cross bar and, until I got my foot caught in the spokes of the front wheel, it was a perfect arrangement.

Next came a blue three-wheeler that me and my brother would ride on downhill; him on the saddle and me standing up behind him like a seven-year-old charioteer. I don't recall any accidents, but concussion can do that.

But it's the bike rides with my little sister, when I was a teenager, that I remember most fondly. I'd pack a flask of hot chocolate and a couple of Club biscuits and we'd be off, flying along the country lanes. Sometimes she would stand up on her pedals to moo at the cows and sometimes I'd join in. And it felt bloody marvellous. The whole of the Kentish Weald at our feet and everything we needed in one saddle bag. Propelling ourselves along under our own steam. Free to stop and look. Free to get off and push. Free to moo at cows.

We didn't have to arrive anywhere. It was all in the travelling. And thoughts and ideas were welcome to come along for the ride. Flowing through our minds like the breeze blowing through our helmet-free hair.  

Over the years, the pure joy of cycling for cycling sake has been worn away until it's become simply the best means of getting from A to B in a city of rising bollards and streets clogged with traffic. I still get some great ideas along the way - in between avoiding death under the wheels of a bus or serious injury from anarchist cyclists shooting out of side roads and jumping red lights.

And, then, I started going for bike rides again. Purposeless, aimless, glorious rides. The Cambridge guided busway has replaced the country lanes, and it's more likely to be Earl Grey and a banana in a pannier, nowadays, but it still feels bloody marvellous.

Sadly, my sister lives too far away to join me on my outings, but I know she's with me in spirit. Especially when I pass a field of cows.