Wednesday Chain Gang – Ranting and Riding

“Breath in, hold… hold… breath out slowly… and relax. And again, breath in, hold…”

  I did as I was told, unsure of where I was or why I was there. Bright sunshine streamed in through the window onto a clean white floor. A gentle breeze ruffled the curtains, carrying in the fresh, wakeful song of a blackbird. The doctor’s voice was soothing and kind. A nurse stroked my bruised and cut left hand as I exhaled and felt a wave of calm wash over me.

Good To See Dave B Is Coming Out More Regularly!

 “And relax. Now, do you feel ready to tell us what happened last night Mr Smith?” I nodded, suddenly feeling less happy as I would have to relive the events of the previous night, although that already felt a world away as I lay in the warm, firm bed. “Can I have a…” But no need to ask, the nurse to my right put the large cup of piping hot coffee in front of me. The smell of finest Guatemalan dark roast drifted to my nose; I smiled.

 “In your own time Neil. Can I call you Neil? Is that ok.” I nodded, took in a deep breath and cast my mind back to what should have been a perfect (twitch) chain gang…

 I spent some time on Wednesday afternoon again sorting out my puncture-prone front wheel. Inner tube out and tyre off, turned inside out and carefully examined for sharps but nothing there, it looked perfect. Tyre back on, inner tube replaced, pumped and kept under observation. Sorted, or so I thought, but the ride to the chain gang start felt bouncy and coarse. I looked down at both wheels and the tyres looked ok, so I put it down to having only one cycling short’s pad between me and the saddle instead of my ‘winter two’.

Some Of The 'Ultras' Arriving Early!

The warmer evenings are bringing big turnouts for the chain gang. I counted 29 riders at the start, ready to ride in very good conditions – a little bit of following east wind, dry roads and 8 degrees C. I’d had a quick chat with Joe Kingsman, then Peter B and John V. For some reason, I squeezed the front tyre and found it to be half inflated. Damn! John V said it was ok, so I decided to head off, especially as John had asked me if I was riding with the fast boys. Well, that laid down a challenge, so I had to respond.

I fell in alongside George Welfare and had a good chat the whole way along the prom. The front tyre was definitely spongy but it was manageable. I thought maybe I could sort it out at the roundabout. I got up and down South Cliff with the group and I felt strong. I was up for making a big effort and staying with the faster riders for as long as possible. Expectations and hopes were high, the omens, thus far, were good…

Wow! These Lights Are Bright!

The pace upped as we came onto Cooden Drive and I could feel the front bouncing perhaps a little more than earlier, but I put this down to increased effort. We came to the left kink before the Cooden Beach Hotel and the front was a little twitchy. I slowed and then banked to make the tight right turn. Whoa, I was straight onto the rim and nearly off! I straightened up mid-corner and headed for the back of a vintage white Rolls Royce. I twitched to the left and braked hard to stop just before hitting the curb. Dammit!

So, dear doctor, there should have been no drama, just change the inner tube and get back on the ride asap. As the other chain-gangers sped past, I quickly replaced the inner tube and screwed the pump onto the valve. The next bit is never much fun, so I attacked the pump with gusto to get it over with. Aargh! I pinched my left palm between the handle and the pump, taking out a chunk of flesh. Blood dripped onto the pavement. Oh Joy. I gritted my teeth and kept pumping, pausing to check the pressure. Hmm, seems to be going up rather slowly, better pump harder.

 After two minutes it was clear that the pump was not working – not a single puff of air had made it into the tyre. I tried to unscrew it, but somehow it was firmly jammed onto the valve. Oh for fuck’s sake! Right, keep calm Neil, think… Nope, no bright ideas. I tried screwing it back on and then back off again, several times, but all it did was turn on the valve. I tried and tried; with increasing desperation my already delayed chain gang ride dissolving into comedy chaos. Screw it up, screw it down – nothing. Fuck! Bloody thing, crappy pump, sodding valve bastard. GET OFF!!

Stuck solid. I’d have to ride home on the flat tyre, change wheels and come back out again. Yes, come back out again because there was NO WAY I was going to just go back indoors, say ‘hello darling’ and eat dinner, no way at all. But the pump was stuck to the wheel. Right, I’ll try just once more to remove it in a calm and adult fashion and if that does not work I will RIP IT OFF AND SMASH IT.

I ripped it off, my left hand flying back to the handlebars, taking a chunk of flesh out of a knuckle. Blood dripped onto the pavement again, swear words rent the peace of the cooling night air. But the bike was now rideable, if a bit unstable. The tyre made a terrible noise for part of each revolution as it rubbed on the bottom of the brake calliper, but I didn’t care – I was punishing it, hopefully without running the rim. On I plodded at no more than 20 kph, attracting curious glances from other evening cyclists. ‘Yes, my bike is making a funny noise; yes, it looks funny; no, I don’t care – I WILL get home and come back out and then I will show you what’s funny, mush.’

Doctor, I think it was at this point that I started to lose it. I came to the turn for Westcourt Drive and was just wobbling around the corner when a large man with a poor grasp of English crossed the road, begging me to stop. ‘Oh what the hell is it?’ I wanted to yell, but somehow I managed to be polite. He was trying to find a care home but was on the wrong road. I told him what road he needed and how to get on it, but he seemed to be stuck in a loop of incomprehension. He pointed towards Bexhill front, so I said that was the wrong way – ‘either go this way and right, or that way and left, ok?’ Oh heavens, he couldn’t get it and went on and on, not listening to me. My patience, already worn as thin as a fag paper, wore out. I repeated my final offer on directions and rode off, swearing as I tried to avoid the potholes on this stretch of crappy road.

Why Are Cycle Pumps So Rubbish!

 Right, back on track! But no, what was this? I got to the other end of Westcourt Drive and a car flagged me down. A waft of strong, cheap perfume hit me from 10 paces – a young lady leant out of the driver’s window, wanting to know ‘what did that bloke want?’ I presumed she meant the guy who had stopped me. Do I have to explain and, frankly, why do you care? It was like I had a sign on my head that said ‘please stop me and waste my time with stupid questions’.

‘He’s looking for somewhere’ I bellowed through gritted teeth and rode on, reaching home five minutes later, throwing open the garage and turning on the light. Just as I whipped out the front wheel I was plunged into darkness. NOW WHAT! The door to the house opened and there stood my concerned wife, wondering why I was back early. She read my face and took a step back – I blurted out an explanation and scrabbled around for the spare wheel. Success! Quick pump and I was ready to go again. My kids gathered around to laugh at me, recognising all the signs of ‘cycling hysteria’ and keen to mock with giggles my evident lunacy.

But I didn’t care – the bike was sorted again and I could get back out there for what would now be a solo chain gang ride. The east wind was a bit stronger than earlier in the evening, helping me make good time to the roundabout, but providing increasing resistance to progress on the way back to Bexhill. It started to rain. Perfect.

I rode all the way ranting and cursing at cars and potholes and at the bike. Nothing felt right with it and I was getting more cross, not less. I was really annoyed to have missed the chain gang and I knew why. The fun of it is riding fast in a group, but I was riding a bit slower and on my own. It felt futile and empty. I was riding out of pure bloody-mindedness and not for pleasure, but I was determined to complete the chain gang circuit and also my usual extra route, come what may. I felt even crosser, knowing I was being stupidly stubborn.

I mashed the pedals and smashed my way along the roads, snarling at other cyclists, growling at cars and lorries, hating taxis, ranting and riding my way home, ever crosser, ever more annoyed, stuck in a downward spiral of rage and fury. At some point, I guess I must have arrived home, but I cannot remember when…

‘And that’s all doctor’. She smiled sweetly and a little uncertainly.

 ‘So, where am I and how did I get here?’ I asked, suddenly anxious to know what was going on and, very importantly, where my bike was.

 ‘You don’t remember?’ she said, but could see I did not. ‘You’re at the Peter Buss Home for the Bewildered; as bad a case of cycling psychosis as I we have seen, quite a case study…’ (she babbled on). ‘Do you remember the incident with the axe?’ Er, no. ‘Ah, that’s when you were brought in – we found you running naked through Bexhill with an axe and a bicycle pump, hacking at lamposts’. Oh, sorry… ‘We’ll need to keep you here for a bit, you know, make sure, well, that it’s safe to, er, let you out again’. Ah, I see. ‘Like you did for Peter?’

‘Yes’ she replied, ‘like we did for Peter, bless him. He’s such an inspiration, our star patient. So much anger, but now so serene’ she said breathlessly. I felt sick, but managed a weak smile.

‘Inspiration my arse’ I muttered.

A sudden sharp pain stabbed into my groin and the smell of burning hair replaced that of the coffee. I saw the wires that led to a switch in the doctor’s hand and then to a socket in the wall.

 ‘That’s not nice Neil, not nice at all – we can’t have that, can we? You need to show you’ve improved before you can go home, before you can have your bike back.’

‘Yes doctor’ I said meekly, my eyes watering, ‘I’ll be good.’

So, it’s not quite what I had planned this week, but life here is comfortable enough. After some rest, I’ll be better than new and back on the roads – calmer, quieter and ready to laugh in the face of pesky punctures and horrid headwinds. I mean, it’s supposed to be fun, right? Nothing to get het up about.

Neil S