Random is a fashionable word, innit?
I don't ordinarily use it myself. I've even had occasion to argue its suitability. Can something be, like, totally random, fairly random, randomly random? I see random as an absolute - something is either random, or it's not.
This is:
It was a dark, dingy, dismal morning. I could not rush around getting my stuff together, as I simply did not have the energy. The children were being hassled, harrassed and shouted at to get dressed as usual, and you can't swing merrily from room to room gathering stuff together as there is a child in every doorway moaning about something and getting under the feet.
So, I was ended up setting off for my commute to Haverfordwest about 15 minutes later than I would have liked.
It was raining. Again. A mere drizzle at first, but it grew in heaviness and wetness once over the water. It was a hard ride. I got drenched.
My group of schoolchildren were sat outside their classroom like a group of refugees when I arrived, raring to go. I hate being late for anything, but when you're late for children, it's worse. It had stopped raining, but was still overcast.
As the day wore on the sun did appear briefly, and it stayed mercifully dry for us. My cycle home was quite humid, though with quite a strong breeze.
It's evening now. Raining again.
Father's Day.
Handmade cards, a cup of tea in bed (after being woken up far too early by an overexcited No.1 son showing me a spider he'd collared), some chocolate, and a couple of DVDs. What more could the heart of man desire?
I had a church service to lead, but it was a late one, starting at 11am. No rush.
My wife was working in the local park in a craft tent most of the day, so she took the kids with her after church, while I came home to prepare dinner (roast chicken, mmm), after which I watched one of my new DVDs, (Paul) to see if it might be OK for the kids to watch (it isn't). Very funny though.
Made the most of the solitude and got stuck into some knitting. I'm knitting a hooded cardigan for No.1 daughter and have just started on the sleeves. I'm knitting them simultaneously on the advice of more experienced knitters, and it's proving to be sound advice. I will also try and knit the two front panels simultaneously, so there.
So, what does the craft of knitting have to do with the sport of cycling?
Well, it's good exercise for the hands. After a ride my hands and wrists are usually quite painful, or completely numb, neither of which is a comfortable state of affairs. Squeezing brake levers, twisting gear shifters, and taking my weight is all my hands do on a ride. When I get to work I have to wait a while before my fingers can manage a spanner or a hex key, so anything which gets the blood circulating and articulates the joints is a good thing.
I'm not sure who's proudest when I see my children wearing something I've knitted them. Mammy knits them much better things, but if they can tell their friends their Daddy knitted this for them, well, it's a bit special, innit?
Today is a not cycling day.
All week I've been commuting to work in fair weather and foul, averaging around 25 miles per day.
Today is a "rest" day.
The family are out for the day manning a stall on a craft fair (not my idea of fun at all).
I've just done the shopping for the weekend - walked to the supermarket with my rucksack and hauled it back full of heavy stuff - half a dozen tins, a chicken for tomorrow, various vegetables and potatoes etc. My legs just don't notice the extra weight.
I need to spend time in the house; cooking dinner, tidying up etc, and getting myself and the living room ready for our moment of peace between 8pm and 9pm this evening. The weather outside is bordering between sun and rain with no telling which way it'll go. Quite a blustery wind blowing in from the west, so not ideal cycling weather anyway, but I really would like to go for a "pleasure ride" (ie climb some hills that I don't have to!). I know I'll start to get edgy if I don't!
My older brother has spent his entire life running. Oh, he works as well, but running is "what he does". Not just around the park, either - he's a FELL runner. Up and down some of the biggest hills in Britain. In his 60's now, he's been told to stop. He's had surgery on his knee, and the condition is not about to improve if he carries on pounding the hills like he does. A friend has loaned him a bike, but he hasn't been out on it once. He used to cycle loads as a teenager, but gave it up in favour of running (the daft lad). I wish I could lure him onto the bike. I've tried, but to no avail. He doesn't think it would be the same.
I agree. I don't run. It hurts. I'm fairly tireless when I walk, and can cover some distance, but where I could walk around 20 miles in a day comfortably, I could cycle 5 times that distance, with a comparable amount of effort.
There's also the joy, for me, of knowing that I'm riding on a bike I've set up myself. I know where every nut and bolt is and how tight it is. I know how much tension is in the spokes, even, because I built the wheels myself. I know how hard the tyres are.
All you do before a walk is put your shoes on - where's the skill in that? Most of my children can manage that most days!
But, today is not a cycling day.
I know I'm not on my own, because even though my best friends told me I was completely maaaad for turning out at 6.30am on a very rainy Sunday morning for the Tour of Pembrokeshire last week, hundreds of other friends did exactly the same thing.
However, you'd think that working in the bike hire department of a holiday resort, I'd be among sympathetic people when it comes to cycling to work. Not so.
It was fairly clear they didn't believe I'd cycled 60 miles that wet day. Thankfully there are photos aplenty here (my number was 431) to prove that I was there, but why did I need to prove it?
This morning, it was fairly cold, with a bit of light drizzle which had soaked me through by the time I got to work. It rained all day but I still worked outside (because that's where I like to be). It was raining heavily when I cycled home. Wetness is a fact of life in Wales.
So, why are people amazed that I cycle in such weather?
It's not everyone's cup of tea, and a few years ago I would NEVER have imagined myself doing it, but being a Cycle Safety Trainer has to be one of the best jobs I have ever had.
On Monday, at lunchtime, I bumped into Dave, a fellow trainer with whom I worked last year, a retired fireman. We were discussing the job over a Tesco lunch, and Dave said "I never go home from this job feeling I've had a bad day".
I thought about that a lot afterwards, the words echoing around my head like a mantra.
I thought back to a couple of weeks ago, when I was at quite a difficult school. The first two days I arrived home a seething mass of stress and tension, because the children, many of them from gipsy families, were very demanding, and I didn't feel the work I was doing with them would add up to anything. The last day, though, everything clicked. They all did really well in their assessments and written tests. I was on Cloud 9, and I can't wait to get back there again next year.
My current school is similar. A big school, I'm there for 3 weeks. It's a 12.5 mile cycle there, then I have to walk a mile or so carrying heavy road signs to mark out my territory, then back to school, then walk out again with my groups. It's physically very demanding and the children are mentally demanding. The local traffic is insane, to say the least, but we have to work with what's there.
The kids get stuck in, and they cope with whatever I, or circumstances, throw at them. They're ace.
The LSAs who have to come out with me usually start off quite diffident. They don't want to be there and have obviously drawn the short straw or they've done something wrong for which this is their punishment. I try to involve them in any way I can, and they invariably come back having enjoyed the experience, and wanting to come out again.
At the end of six hours, I'm completely drained of energy and emotion, and I still have to get the kids safely back to school and put my signs away. I still have to cycle 12.5 miles home.
Today, I could have sang all the way, and I still have a week and a half to go.
Yesterday (Saturday) I cycled 25 miles or so in absolutely perfect conditions - bright sunshine and a quiet but refreshing breeze - to and from Saundersfoot, Pembrokeshire, to register myself for the Tour of Pembrokeshire. My bike was rolling very nicely with a fresh new chain and brakeblocks and a general cleanup and I was feeling good. My speed averaged at just over 14mph for the trip, pretty good considering the steepness of a couple of hills.
Today (Sunday, obviously) I woke at 5.30am, had a hot breakfast of fried eggs and beans on toast, packed a saddlebag with food and tools and set out for the start line. It was raining, and I soon discovered it was also windy. I'd nikwaxed my windproof top, and the rain was rolling nicely off and my armwarmers were keeping the chills at bay. My legs, however, were soon completely numb from the knees down (no exaggeration). I got to Saundersfoot later than expected due to a 9mph average speed, and only had a couple of minutes to get in line for the first bunch to go. I'd met my friend Paul at the line, who was acting as a motorcycle marshall. He thought I was bonkers to even turn up.
Carbon-framed bike straddled by lithe-limbed and callow youths streamed past me up the very steep climb out of Saundersfoot, and continued to do so for the rest of the morning, though not quite as frequently.
My original intent was to beat my previous long-distance record of 95 miles in a day, and complete the 117 mile long course. I didn't care what time I did it in. However, it was now patently obvious that conditions were about as unfavourable as it gets, and that there was going to be no letup within the forseeable future. I had the option of shorter 80 mile or 60 mile courses, but they all ran together for the first 10 or 15 miles, when the longer course split off to go up and around the Preseli Hills. When we came to the junction I had no hesitation in selecting the easier option.
When I say "easier", I of course mean "shorter". There was nothing easy about it. There is no word for flat in Pembrokeshire.
After around 40 miles, we reached the first Feeding Station. I'd already stopped for a snack about 5 miles back, but was ready for a little rest, and further fillage. Free food is free food.
I think I'd decided then that as the route passed within a few hundred yards of my house I wouldn't be going any further than that. There didn't seem to be much point. When I reached Pembroke Dock I'd covered just over 60 miles, in 6.5 hours, with a couple of lengthy stops, in terrible conditions. I'm happy with that, for now.
I don't think I've done anything to them before, though quite how I've gone so long without hurting one of them I don't know. I got some pain in both my knees during and after the ride on Thursday evening, but nothing extreme, so i thought it best just to "ride on through it". I couldn't stand afterwards.
The next day my knees seemed OK so I went on a ride with a friend, during which my left knee was giving me twinges, but again, nothing so bad i had to stop or even ease off. Some of the hills on the homeward leg were a bit painful but I coped.
Yesterday I was in pain from the moment I woke. I was only going for a short ride anyway, so I applied the ibuprofen gel liberally and set out. I was in pain the whole time. I could apply no pressure to it whatsoever. I was limping badly uphill, practically riding one-legged, and had to cut my short ride even shorter.
I applied a bag of frozen peas as soon as I got home, and more gel. I did take a slow walk on it, just to keep it moving, but even that was sore.
Today I rest.
I'm applying icepacks for a couple of minutes every hour or so. There was no pain first thing this morning which is an improvement on yesterday, but there is soreness now. I'm just sitting around with my leg either flat or up, and I'm going nowhere.
Le Tour de Pembrokeshire is on 12th June 2011.
There are 3 distances: 63, 82 and 117 miles.
The most I have ridden in one day is around 95 miles, so I've decided to go the whole hog and do the big one. What's the point if it's not a challenge? It would also seem that the older I get, the bigger the challenge I'm ready to face. Two rides of between 40 and 50 miles have started my preparations. I have a nagging pain in my left knee which is a worry, it only hampers me on steep hills, when I have to overuse my right leg, which is not ideal. I'm trying a painkilling gel today, and may resort to a support bandage, but that will be a very last resort.
Next week I plan to be back at Bluestone on Monday and Friday, and I will lengthen my commutes both ways.
Tuesday to Thursday I will be at Fenton School in Haverfordwest, a fairly easy commute along the wonderful Brunel Cycle Trail. There are some nice variations I can take.
My plan is just to keep riding, so that by next Sunday my legs are just turning automatically. My stamina is fine, but I need to do some work on speed.
I'm raising money for Pedal Power in Cardiff while I do this, please feel free to donate whatever you can on my justgiving page, every penny donated will make a difference!
I phoned work at 5.30am to tell them I wouldn't be in today. I thought it was 6.30, and was wondering why the guy in Security was sounding so sleepy and surprised, bless him.
I haven't had enough sleep. Not just last night, but all week. That's what Post Traumatic Stress does. It robs you of things like sleep, of confidence, of faith.
Interestingly, we visited a church last week where the pastor spoke (at bum-numbing length) on faith, and how we keep it when we're "blindsided" by something (his word) which threatens to knock us off our perch. Before this I'd seen my faith as quite strong.
I'm tired. I'm not thinking rationally.
I had a meeting at work earlier this week about these problems, but nothing is as yet resolved.
I told them that some days, I just dread coming to work.
They nodded.
I explained that, having to cycle 12 miles with a heart full of dread was massively different to a 15 minute car ride with the radio on.
They looked nonplussed.
How can someone who has never cycled to work have the slightest clue what I'm on about?
I've gone on at length in previous posts about what a joy and a privilege it is to have that hour first thing in the morning when it's just me and the bike, but just now, I'm finding it impossible to even get on my bike to start the journey.
I have gone from quite substantially content to dismally unhappy in the space of a week.
Something I don't want to go into has caused a MASSIVE resurgence of Post Traumatic Stress, and I am finding it very difficult to cope, mentally, emotionally, and physically.
It's work-related, so it's not something I can avoid or dodge around without serious rearrangement of my affairs.
In short, it's something I HAVE to face up to, whether I want to or not.
And I just don't know how to, or if I can.
It's something I've been meaning to try out for a long time but for one reason or another I just haven't got round to it.
Then today, my facebook friend and haiku writer John Tiong Chunghoo posted a haiku he had written for the great poet Langston Hughes, which reminded me that I used to perform this poem as part of my live set.
I don't think a recording of it exists anywhere, and if it does, it won't be very good, or at least I won't be happy with it.
I recorded it straight into my macbook. No messing around with levels and gain and impedance and all the jiggery pokery of the previous recordings I've done, no flickering needles or green and red LEDs, no cueing up tapes and demanding silence in the room, just one quick take and the job's done. I was just sitting on my bed with the macbook in front of me, using the tiny built-in microphone.
I even managed to listen back to it without shouting at myself (something I just don't do normally, but I had to make sure you could hear it).
My first thought was to post it on youtube, but it isn't video. I hastily gathered some images of first-generation bluesmen such as Lightnin' Hopkins, Howlin' Wolf etc and messed around with imovie to make it acceptable for youtube, then I remembered that some of my electronically musical friends use soundcloud to share their work, and posted it there. I then discovered that I can post it here too!
My deep and sincere thanks to John for prompting this, it could be the beginning of a whole new chapter for me.
Last week was the first week of Cycle Safety. I've done a couple of bike checks, but last week was the first school, and a trial to see if my rather tight schedule allowed enough room and time for the children to learn the things they needed to.
Monday and Friday as usual were taken up with my work as Mechanic at Bluestone, and there were unexpected problems here which added to my workload.
On Tuesday morning the bridge of my specs broke, for around the 4th time. Fortunately my optician is just up the road from where I was working, and I was able to get them repaired quite quickly. My spare is a pair that Specsavers got completely wrong - I can just about see through them for distance, but any reading or writing is out of the question.
That did add a few extra miles onto my commute though, and meant that I didn't get the rest I was looking forward to on Wednesday morning. My total mileage for the week (Monday to Friday) was 136 miles, much of it quite heavily laden with the equipment I need for Cycle Safety - 2 full panniers and a rucksack. Every day of work, either at Bluestone or at school, I was on my feet the entire time.
I have to say that my ride to and from Bluestone on Friday was hard. In previous posts I have crowed about how easy it can be. Not so this day. My bike felt like the brakes were rubbing on the rims, like the chain had become one solid lump, like the frame had been filled with lead. The backs of my knees hurt with every ounce of extra pressure. Every way I went was uphill. My breathing was all wrong, and my lungs felt as though they had been sealed off from the rest of me, lined with clingfilm, so that although they were still gasping air, none of it was getting through to my bloodstream. My nose was constantly clogged with snot and my eyes streaming with tears from the wind, which was constantly in my face.
Thursday at the school, when I handed out certificates, received a thankyou card and an excellent feedback form, was just a heaven-sent day from beginning to end, capped off when a young girl who had recently moved from busy Essex to sleepy Pembrokeshire, came and told me that I had "removed her fear of roads".
Friday was the day from hell, in many ways.
On the way home on Friday, an hour later than usual, I really didn't think that I was going to make it. The prevailing wind in Pembrokeshire is a sou'wester, which shapes the trees, and it was strong, and in my face the whole way. The last 5 miles from Carew to Pembroke Dock is not pleasant at the best of times, pounding along the trunk road amid heavy fast moving traffic, but with the wind in your face and the sun in your eyes (better than rain I suppose) it can be hellish. I really felt like stopping at the Carew Inn and texting a friend to come and pick me up while I enjoyed a leisurely pint, but the chances were my friend's car wouldn't be available, and I'd have to restart the horrible journey after a pint and a rest. Maybe I should have.
I'd love to be able to tell you that despite all this I still cycled home with a song in my heart and a prayer on my lips, but I didn't. To make matters worse, my ipod wasn't charged up in the morning. I couldn't shut the world out. I cursed every car which sped past me, sometimes silently sometimes loudly, particularly those which blared horns. I cursed every hill I climbed, and there are many.
Sometimes, there's just no easy way.
Today is my last day off in what looks like a long time! (By "day off", I mean a weekday when my children are at school, and I have no work to do, paid or otherwise). Tomorrow, I do my first cycle safety checks of the season at Monkton and Hook schools, and then next week Cycle Safety Training begins. For a couple of months it will mean I'm working Mondays and Fridays at Bluestone, and Tuesday to Thursday I will be in various schools around Pembrokeshire teaching years 5 and 6 how to cycle safely on our roads. The furthest school is Fenton School in Haverfordwest, a 12 mile commute along the lovely Brunel Cycle trail, so almost completely traffic free. It will mean that for 3 solid weeks I will be cycling over 25 miles per day, 5 days a week, which totals, er, 375 miles. Niiice. Of course, most of the time spent between commutes is spent on my feet, shouting at children. Hopefully no children will be harmed or lost during these exercises.
I will map my progress on my GPS and post regular updates on how far (and how high!) I've cycled.
When I'd posted the last blog, "Ten feet down", I suddenly wondered why I'd posted a blog exclusively about prayer on my cycling blog, and re-posted it on my prayer blog. Then, thinking about it later, I realised how the 'ten feet under' idea fits in with cycling, particularly hill climbing. That's the state of mind you need to conquer those hills. Ride them as if you're riding on the level. The hills are just like waves, only they don't move as much. They're just ripples on the landscape. Ride downhill just like you were on the level too. I suppose on solid ground, the "ten feet under' analogy doesn't work so well - we could invert and say ten feet up above the highest hill on your route is where you need to be cycling.
I showed great restraint in Emmanuel Christian Bookshop on Thursday; I didn't buy anything for myself! (You have no idea how hard that is!) I was looking through the prayer section, where there are always books without which my life is incomplete. I became aware that I bought a rather substantial book on prayer some weeks ago, which I haven't yet delved into; "Taste and See - adventuring into prayer" by Margaret Silf.
That book "appeared" on the floor at the foot of my bed this morning, peeping out from under some clothes.
I picked it up and opened it "at random".
The first sentence to leap towards me contained the phrase "ten feet down", in quotations, obviously referring to an earlier mention.
Riffling back through the pages (none of this consciously thought about) I came upon a section titled Ten Feet Down and read:
"A friend once told me an interesting fact that if you can imagine yourself in a stormy sea, and then imagine yourself ten feet below the trough of the highest wave, the water would be perfectly calm. The picture appealed to me, and helps me come to prayer.
Like most people, I live my life on the 'surface' of myself..."
That was enough to cause a lightbulb moment. I'm just noting this now so I can return to it later.
My ride to work yesterday made me think I was starting to make it all sound a bit too easy in my posts on here. It's never easy.
There was no noticeable difference between yesterday and any other day. It was a non-skeddo bank holiday, so there wouldn't be much traffic around, if any (something to relish). I'd had around the same amount of sleep I usually have (ie not quite enough). It was a bright, fresh morning, not a hint of the wet stuff anywhere.
My wife brought me a cup of tea as usual - she always wakes early, but today she'd woken a little later than usual, so everything was slightly more hurried. As I struggled through breakfast I noticed I was a bit snotty - certainly not a full-blown cold, or, God forbid, manflu, but my face was definitely a little bigger than hitherto, and my breathing more laborious, punctuated by the odd sneeze. A mild headache, nothing worth troubling the medicine cabinet with.
I eventually got myself out of the house over 10 minutes later than usual, and as I've tried to make clear in previous posts, every minute counts at that time of day. I couldn't rush around though. All my movements were slow and laboured, like I was moving underwater.
The gears on No.1 bike need a bit of adjustment - it's still rideable, but it's annoying. So, I took the Rockhopper. Bulkier, heftier, but on the plus side, lower geared.
It was hard work right from the gate. It felt like the back brake was stuck on, so hard was the pedalling (I actually checked!) I set off slowly as I always do, but this time I stayed slow. Every turn of the pedals was effort. It became clear along the route that I was going to be a couple of minutes late if I didn't put a spurt on. I couldn't put a spurt on if my life depended on it. I continued riding "within my means", and clocked in at 8.02am. The ride had taken 1 hour 22 minutes, and I hadn't stopped anywhere.
My lungs and sinuses were a little clearer for the ride, and I did generally feel marginally better for having done it. It took a couple of cups of tea before I was ready to lift the first bike into its stand, but despite the glory of the weather, work remained hard throughout the day.
The ride home was more of the same. I got changed out of my uniform with 10 minutes to spare, and sat and had a cup of tea before setting off as extra hydration when you have a cold is essential. The afternoon was also incredibly hot for the time of year. I still made it home in about an hour, spurred on along the trunk road by playing keepy up with a road bike for a while (it really annoys them when a mountain bike holds their wheel!)
I remember a phrase used in a letter to Cycling Weekly, back in the days when I actually took the time and effort to read it, when a reader said it felt like he'd "taken the wrong legs" on a ride one morning. It happens to the best of us (and I'm far from the best!). However fit we are, however accustomed we become to long rides and hill climbs, there will be days like this. Most peculiar, mama!
I'm currently helping to promote The Moment of Peace.
The aim is to get a million people to be mindfully silent for one hour;
One Hour. How long is that, exactly?
Sixty minutes. How long is a minute? Sixty seconds.
3,600 seconds? Doesn't really mean much. You could sit and count up to 3,600, but then you wouldn't be being mindful. You'd be counting, and the chances are you'd speed up a bit to get to 3,600 quicker, so you wouldn't complete your hour.
Two thirds of a football match. I don't like football, so for me that sounds like a long and boring time.
It's being silent through Emmerdale and Coronation Street, and no getting up to make a brew halfway through! Imagine how many words of script are spoken in that one hour (and don't forget to include the adverts!)
The website suggests a time of 8pm on Saturday 18th June 2011, which, according to my hasty research, is when most of the nation will be watching Britain's got Bollocks or some such stuff - not something which would distract me or my family from an hour's quiet contemplation and meditation, but there are (sadly) many people out there who just wouldn't want to miss it. If they did, what on earth would they talk about at work the following day? "Did you see so-and-so sing such-and-such?" "No I was meditating." Instant conversation killer!
But I digress.
Do we have any real concept of how long one hour is?
It's the time it takes me to cycle to work, but remove the bike, the tired legs and the landmarks - how do I measure the hour then?
To sit in silence, eyes closed, mindfully (ie without distractions) for one whole hour is quite a task, really!
Of course, you can set an alarm to go off at the end of the hour, but who wouldn't sneak a peek to see how much time is remaining?
I helped organise a 24 hour prayer event last year, and spent the entire 24 hours in a church. I expected it to be an ordeal, a real marathon of endurance. It flew by. Time was immaterial. I only looked at my watch twice the whole time, and was utterly amazed to see how much time had passed. But that's me.
I was going to write about time seeming to drag and/or fly by depending on... what? I'll do that some other time. My hour's up.
not where you'd like to be.
I first encountered this phrase when I took part in the "Expert Patient Program" (EPP) - a self-help group for people with long term illnesses or disabilities.
I enrolled on it while I was recovering from a double hernia operation a few years ago.
Just so you know, I've had a lot of abdominal surgery over the past 16 years, for one reason and another. Most of my abdomen is now scar tissue, which makes exercising my "core" muscles nigh on impossible, hence my big belly. I try to lose weight, to "firm up", but all pretty much in vain. I don't like it, but it's something I have to live with, and yes, I do try and pretend it's not there.
That's where I am. Where are you?
You have to be realistic. You have to be honest. Brutally. You have to accept where you are, especially if it's not where you want to be, because it's the only way you'll ever get anywhere.
I've come a long way, baby.
A working day today for me, very busy due to the bank holiday.
Out of the house at 6.30, and a cool and easy ride got me to work at 7.45, going a longish way around (but by far the easiest).
I had in mind yesterday's posts as I cycled, particularly going up Whitehill.
I found writing them quite difficult, and not very rewarding. I felt I'd missed a lot out.
I hit on the key to it on my way home, though. It had been a warm sunny day, which I'd spent working outside all day. I was very tired - could very easily have gone to sleep for a couple of hours after lunch!
At hometime I eased myself carefully out of the park onto the road, prepared to take it easy. My knees ached like they wouldn't stand for much in the way of pressure. It was a warm afternoon but there was a perfect breeze cooling things down to just the right heat.
The first half-mile or so on the road is gently downhill, so you can reach a quick zip with no effort at all, and once I was moving, I decided that I may as well "put the hammer down". I took the same route I'd taken this morning - mainly level for the first two miles, then a long fast downhill followed by a very long and winding gentle uphill through mixed countryside, then down Whitehill to the trunk road for the 5 mile grind home.
From the gates of Bluestone to The First and Last (would be my local pub if I ever drank there) took 45 minutes. If I'm counting, I usually count from inside the grounds right to my back door, but both the start and the finish have tricky bits like cattle grids and level crossings. From work to home had a previous best time of 58 minutes, and that was straight along the main road. 13 miles in 45 minutes I'm very happy with.
It wasn't much of an effort either.
I still had time to think and pray and stuff.
And I realised why I find it hard to write about.
It's because the key to it is that old chestnut, "living in the moment" "the eternal now" etc etc.
The post about climbing the hill - stare at a space just in front of you, don't look up... it's meditation on the here and the now. Don't waste energy wishing you were at the top of the hill, accept where you are. Don't look at and be daunted by the mountain, focus on each turn of the pedals. That's what I do, without even thinking about it, really.
Admittedly, it is much easier to do this on a sun dappled stretch of single-track lane snaking through the woodlands of Pembrokeshire than it would be weaving through the stinking angry traffic of any urban landscape, but the principle is the same.
Wild garlic is everywhere in the hedgerows. The lanes of Pembrokeshire smell like a french restaurant.
