Some men, sorry – people strive for great things, wealth, climbing mountains, going into space. Me, it’s a depression of loose stones near the winch huts at Bulverhythe. Most days as I ride the bike past there I go a little “of road” and try and cycle through this patch. So far no success. I could die happy knowing I had done this and with that in mind I know there are many rooting for me.
New bicycle – sandy beach, new bicycle – sandy beach, are you getting the picture? I should have known, I’m a gadget boy, I hate sand & salt but the beach looked so exciting to the inner kid…
Boys don’t clean bikes.
During a heated defence of cyclists a “friend” of mine called me a “sad old git” and that wanting to say “Morning” to people was, I think she was suggesting, a sign of loneliness. The trouble is, as with many of these things, there’s a hint of truth there and for a few days it spun me into a haze of despondency.
The nature of friendship is a complex thing and possibly borders on the spiritual for being something that defies description. The rub for me as far as friendship goes is that the bond that exists should not be too dependent on one side making emotional sacrifices to keep the relationship going (Hey, that’s what marriage is for!).
The difficulty I have with friendship is that my interests rarely coincide with the people I meet, especially in Hastings and the circle I found myself in when I came here. A good example is politics. Very few people seem to view the infinitely complex field of how people relate to one another and the ruling structures that emerge from this in anything other than a crass series of stereotypes where the massively simplified augments of others are taken on board then defended by manipulation of guilt; it was once said to me by a member of Transport 2000 that if I had no objection to 4×4s I must believe in killing children. Whatever the rights and wrongs of things the lazy refusal to engage with the vast subtleties of life with anything but moronic cyphers and blackmail does not just make conversation pointless but boring. Add to this the oozing self righteousness of the unsuccessful artist, of which this town is plentifully blessed, and you have a situation where one either has to nod in agreement while gagging or make excuses and leave.
Me, I like it when someone says “Good Morning” to me, it makes me feel good and I hope the same goes for the people I say “Good Morning” to, no big deal, no harm done…
Patrick plans his escape from the grasping hands of sponging artists.
It was warm, it was sunny and I vowed not to drive or fret about work (The downfall of Excel could be the end of my pocket money) so naturally it was three glasses of wine before lunch, not a great example to Kim “Special Brew” Thrower but the world had an almost hallucinogenic tinge by mid-day. Steve Smith and Patrick appeared and we became a gang of slovenly bicycling layabouts as we “tore” down the cycle lane to a coffee house. Patrick held forth with his familiar “the world going to hell in a hand cart and socialists are the Devils representatives on earth” speech, Steve countered with his famous to his family “kids should be put in cages till they learn their times table” monologue. I just drooled open mouthed at the elephants coming out of the paintwork.
The antithesis of wisdom
Just when I thought every cyclist was sociopath with the personality of Tony Hancock along comes a ray of sunshine. This is Dave looking pretty cool on his new recumbent bike. Friendly, smiling, willing to give you the time of day. Doesn’t he realize that he’ll be drummed out of the society of frowning cyclists? What’s wrong with the man?
Life doesn’t get better than this!
I hate to harp on (a lie in the first sentence!) but when I got the bicycle I thought that, apart from exercise, it would improve my head with it’s relaxing rides and sense of camaraderie with fellow cyclists. So the stony faced, anti-social self righteous bunch that I was confronted with came as quite a shock. Many speed along the sea front cycle lane with little regard for other prom users and you can see in there eyes that if they hit a wandering child it would be nothing to do with them.
It’s got to the point where if someone started a campaign to get rid of the cycle lane I would get behind it just to see this ungrateful crowd forced onto the road where they could sort it with real transport, the sort that pays for the roads and has insurance!
View of cyclist approaching on the Hastings seafront cycle path
Cycling is becoming a pleasant addiction so I jumped at the chance to wander down to the huts at Bulverhythe for a “business meeting” with Kim. Next week-end is the first week-end of Coastal Currents Open Studios, this is where artists throw open their studios, homes, dog kennels or beach chalets to display their work and Kim, having a chalet, wants to show his paintings and engraved glass. I’m going to be producing printed material as well as a web site for Kim hence the urgent need for a meeting. So there we were, relaxing and having a laugh whilst drinking tea and fruit juice (really), then suddenly an angel appeared. That was the good news, the bad news was she was a real person with a name; Jenny, a teacher, with a nice husband and the proud new owner of a chalet. Whilst Kim engaged her in conversation I was busily plotting a way to work the fact that Kim had a partner (and I did not) into the verbal flow without my motives being suspected. Kim himself mentioned this letting me off the hook.
As a strange coincidence on the way home I bumped into Teresa, the only woman I was ever engaged to (she tells me), who is also a teacher. We hadn’t seen each other for nearly a year so was nice to catch up over a coffee. At the back of my mind was something Patrick said this morning; “you should never get on with ex’s”. When I start to think Pat talks sense it takes a dumb remark like that to remind me of how wrong he is about almost everything!
Jenny and some bloke I’ve never met…
Cycling back from a meeting with Kim Thrower, the glass guru and his lovely but no-nonsense partner Catherine when, on the cycle path by the pier, a voice emerges from a group of cyclists going the other way encouraging me to follow them. I recognise Anton Hack in the group and take up the invitation as he’s always good company. After half a mile I realise that I’m now a co-opted member of a revolutionary group of pro-cycling guerillas and am involved in reclaiming the world as a two wheeled habitat. Oh dear, my street credibility is oozing down my trousers and into the ground. Thankfully they all turn out to be pleasant people and fail to spot an former Thatcherite amongst their number. The wonderful glide down the length of the cycle lane only slightly marred by one of our party being an incessant bell ringer; I’ve always considered tooting horns or ringing bells as a sign of social disconnect and have generally found the power of a smile or just patience can smooth a path, but it takes all sorts.
Fresh from the cycle paths around the Afghani training camps.
Drinking and driving, ain’t it great. Or at least it’s a huge plus point for the new cyclists. In the seventies we drunk like fishes and drove. I passed my motorcycle test fuelled by three pints of beer. I once rode a 250cc Honda from Hastings to London thrashing it every inch on the way after having numerous pints and many bottles and to be honest next day I remembered nothing of the trip. Nowadays I’m very much in the “hang, draw and quarter” them school when it comes to drink driving; hypocrisy being one of the many pleasures of age. I won’t get on my motorcycle or in the car if I even have a whiff of alcohol.
But now I’ve just returned from my evening bicycle ride having had a very enjoyable two and a half pints down the Cinque Ports in All Saints Street. Now I know I can still be “done”, but the only one likely to get hurt by this action is me, and to be honest, most of the trip back up the West Hill the bike was used as a crutch as I staggered up “heart attack hill”; a very steep footpath indeed. So I’m back in the seventies in an intoxicated haze, wallowing in youthful selfishness, living in a squalid flat, er, no change there then.
One of the things I’ve noticed as a new cyclist is that, at least on the Hastings promenade cycle route, very few people nod or acknowledge each other. I’m used to motorcycles where a huge number of us at least nod to each other and when walking on the prom when it’s not busy many walkers grunt “morning”. But cyclist make a production of looking everywhere except at the oncoming rider and their faces take on the façade of a stone mask. I’ve had more walkers say “morning” as I pass. What’s going on?
Stuck in a shelter near Bulverhythe this morning.