Continuing with the theme of slightly pointless roadie encountering tales, years ago I was travelling around from place to place and fetched up in Holland for a while. One particularly cold, windy and rainy day I cycled a good 30 kilometres or so to a campsite near the coast on the promise of work which never materialised. Being young and that, I was not clad in appropriate attire, and it was only due to the intervention of a pretty young American lass (she gave me a token for the hot shower and lent me a big old jumper) that I didn’t get hypothermia or somesuch. I had learnt my lesson however and for the return journey I sourced a sturdy black bin bag which, once I had cut a hole in the bottom for my head, as well as two for my arms, proved to be a remarkably effective wind/rain stopper.
So I set off on the return journey, through wind and rain, along the remarkably comprehensive network of Dutch cycle paths. Now, as well as being clad in a bin bag and shorts, it is worth pointing out that the only head protection that I had at that time was in the form of fairly ratty dreadlocks and that the bike I was astride was one of theose three speed Sturmey Archer style sit up and begs that are ubiquitous in the Netherlands. I think it is fair to say that I didn’t present the image of a competent, let alone a proper, cyclist and certainly not to the dutch roadie who flew past me, dressed up to the nines in bright lycra, with wraparound shades and a sleek helmet, astride some whirring racing machine and unencumbered by flapping black plastic.
Whilst I will admit that my knowledge of all things related to proper cycling was virtually nil, I had spent the previous summer dicing with death (that’s the hero bit) as a cycle courier in London and had been riding my 3 speed all over Holland for months as I travelled from promise of job to promise of (and occasional) job. So I was very fit and being only 20 had energy to burn too.
Which is why our roadie friend – upon hearing flapping behind him and glancing over his shoulder – was somewhat surprised to see the binbag that he’d passed a few hundred metres or so back sat contentendly on his wheel.
Well this obviously wouldn’t do and the easy solution was to flick up a couple of gears (which I could see him do as the levers were, of course, on the frame) and put the power down. He pulled away. But I responded with a shift of the Sturmey Archer to its middle gear and tucked back in behind him. So he shifted up again. I just pedalled faster.
My memory fails me as to how many times this little scenario was played out – him changing up, me flapping along behind – but it went on until I was wringing every last ounce of speed out of Mary Poppins’ bicycle, with the Sturmey rammed manfully into top gear and my legs a veritable blur of motion. But he never dropped me and as we approached the major town that it turned out we were both heading to (well I was staying there and he pulled off shortly after we entered its outskirts), he even eased off a little bit, affording me a break just as I was close to breaking.
I now know of course, that etiquette rightly says that I should have done my turn at the front and should have sat up if unable to do so. But at the time I was initially just grateful to get home a bit quicker and then it became a challenge to see if I could hold onto him. More so, a bit of me hopes that he still shares the story of the time when the crazy crusty, clad in a bin bag with dreadlocks streaming behind and astride a 3 geared bike that probably weighed more than him and his steed combined, effortlessly sat on his tail for 20 kilometres or so, despite his best efforts to shake him off. Either that or the experience broke him and he never got on a bike again 8)
I didn’t think too much of it at the time, I suspect I was more interested in getting back to the tent and warming/skinning up. But each time I recollect the story over the years I afford myself a wry smile, particularly as I don’t think I’ll ever put one over a serious roadie again..
