City Of Cycles

33:22

City Of Cycles

by Mandy Sutter

Rated

5

Type

talks

Activity

Meditation

Suitable for

Everyone

Plays

416

Join me on a bike ride in an English city, where we will take advantage of the amazing bike-friendliness to be found there. The details of our ride are hopefully interesting, but not TOO interesting, as we don't want anything that might keep you awake... all my rambles and rides are specially written to incorporate sounds, sights, textures and even perhaps a few scents to foster your connection with your body and so help you relax and sleep deeply.

Relaxation Sleep Visualization Urban Exploration Nature Connection Mindfulness Community Cycling Sleep Aid Mindful Observation

Meet your Teacher

Meet your Teacher

Transcript

Hello there, It's Mandy here. Thanks so much for joining me. I'm going to be reading you one of my rambles. These are all walks or encounters of one sort or another that take place in various towns and cities or in the countryside and hopefully they're ideal to relax and fall asleep to since there's no complicated plot to follow. They just meander along. Although tonight's reading isn't actually about a walk, It's about a bike ride in a well-known city in the UK. And it's called City of Cycles. But before I go ahead, Please feel free to make yourself really comfortable and settle down into your chair or your bed. That's it. Relax your hands. Drop your shoulders. And soften your jaw. Lovely, So if you're ready then I shall begin. City of Cycles. You are embarking on a week's holiday in a little ground floor apartment in the north of an English city. It's midsummer. And the apartment has a tiny square back garden with a shed. The weather is fine, The flat is lovely, And so far the area seems quiet. The only disturbance being from children shouting as they cycle past the bedroom window, Or students talking in their back garden which neighbours yours. It is the first full day of your holiday. You arrived at six yesterday evening and decided you would stay in, Make yourself a meal and watch TV. Save your explorations until today. You decided to eat in the garden. Enjoying the warmth of the bench which had been soaked in sunshine all day long. But something funny happened almost immediately. You are just spearing a cherry tomato with your fork. When one of the students leaned over the back fence to tell you she was having a 21st birthday party that night. Perhaps you would like to come? You thanked her and, While realising it would be inappropriate to actually attend, You thought back to your own student days, Long ago. And to some of the parties you had attended, You mentally prepared for a night of lost sleep, For music pumping deafeningly out until four in the morning. For drunken shouting and people throwing up, Perhaps over the fence into your rented back garden. Oh well. It would certainly be a baptism of fire into your holiday. But you had nowhere to go, Nothing to do tomorrow. You could relax all day long if you wanted to. After your meal, You went for a short stroll around the square, Noticing how dead everyone's grass looked and how many hollyhocks there were, In bright colours, Springing up in the most unlikely of places. Hollyhocks are one of those plants you have tried to seed in your own back garden without success. And yet here were clumps growing virtually out of the pavement. Back home, You decided, You might as well stay up, Watching a very lame TV movie, Thinking at least it would distract you and get you through the first part of the night. Better than lying in bed trying not to be annoyed at the sound of other people having a brilliant time with all their friends, While you sat on your own, A billy no-mates. You switched the TV on and settled into the comfy sofa with a mug of tea. You always drink tea, No matter how hot the weather. But to your amazement, When you finally and reluctantly turned the TV off, You heard no thudding bass or drums, No repetitive annoying melody. The street was largely silent except for the sounds of people saying goodbye to each other, Car doors closing. You sat for a while, Just listening, Senses attuned to music starting up again. But it never did. Could it be that the party was over already? You were amazed. What a good job you didn't go! You'd still be there, Swilling down cold beer straight from the can, Ignoring your host's tactful glances at their watches. Well, Perhaps not really. But you remember how inconsiderate you and your friends were as students? How, When your next-door neighbour complained about your music at 1am? Noisy punk, Featuring loud and clashing guitars, Since punk musicians prided themselves on not being able to play their instruments very well. You were simply bemused. Ignorant of the working life, Of having to get up every morning at 6. 30 to go to work, You assume they were just killjoys. It seems incredible looking back at it now. But that was then. This morning you are up and eager to go exploring. Your mode of transport is in the garden shed. You had a look just a few minutes after you arrived yesterday, Unable to resist, Already knowing it was there from the booking information. The Shad Door now opens once again to reveal its wondrous form. How sturdy its tyres are, How comfy looking its saddle, How black its pedals and shiny its bow. You feel a thrill that takes you right back to an early birthday, Nine or ten maybe. Or perhaps it was Christmas. But in any case, You remember the piece of coloured paper wrapped around the handlebars, The bright silver of the spokes, Glistening pristine, And most importantly, The vision of hedges, Trees and lampposts whizzing by as you pedalled. It brought the world to you, Yours to explore as you chose. Well, It brought the immediate area around your parents' house to you anyway. You were only nine after all. The bike in the shed now, There for the use of all who rent the flat, Isn't brand spanking new like your first bike was. Its paintwork is faded, Its mudguards wonky with a rough patina of rust. But that surge of promise comes just the same, A rush of optimism and joy. The only problem is you haven't ridden a bike in many, Many years. The last time was probably when you were a student. It was a long time ago that you last experienced that unlikely feat of balancing on two wheels made possible only by forward motion. You remember how impossible it seemed the first time. Pedal, Pedal, You remember your dad shouting as he ran behind you, Holding the back of your saddle, Growing red in the face. And you peddled. Managed a good 20 or so yards that felt like flying until the impossibility of what you were doing, The sheer disbelief in it, Rose up and robbed you. Your knees stopped pumping, Your handlebars wobbled, One of the pedals came up and whacked you in the shin, And suddenly you were tipping over into your neighbour's hedge, Which felt like falling onto a giant hedgehog. Leaves and little twigs poked into your eyes and ears and you could practically feel your dad's anxiety like a force field as he ran towards you saying your mother's going to kill me So, You pretended you weren't hurt. Part of you wanted to howl. Let yourself be comforted and reassured. Enjoy the sight of mum giving dad a good telling off before she soaked cotton wool with TCP and pressed it stingingly onto all your tiny cuts. But another part tougher, Almost grown up, Calculated that you might pay for those brief moments of comfort by not being allowed back out on your new bike, Even by the bike being confiscated. So you pulled your shiny prize out of the hedge and told dad you were fine. You would put on a long-sleeved t-shirt at tea so mum wouldn't see your scratched arms. And Dad, Because he was scared of Mum, And also to give him credit, Wanted you to be fine, Believed what you said, Against the evidence of his own eyes, The red lacerations all over your forearms. As you wheeled your bike back home, You felt that in some strange way you had won. Also, That nothing was going to stop you going out on your new bike again. Nothing. That brief feeling of flying had been worth the pain. All these thoughts run through your mind now as you wheel your trusty steed out of the shed, Down the alleyway and onto the pavement outside the flat. This city is brilliant for cycling. There are cycleways everywhere. And the saying, You never forget how to ride a bike, Comes back to you. You hope it's true. You are planning a short ride. You will cycle almost into the city, Then a little way along the river and back in a loop to your flat. It will take about 25 minutes, Which you think is fine for your first outing on a bike after so long. You will take a little break during the ride too. Clambering on, Rather inelegantly, You hope no one is watching, You push off from the curb, Thinking you will just free wheel a little with your toes near the ground to test the waters. But after only a few moments of propelling yourself slowly along like this, That old, Bolder part of you takes charge and your feet start pressing the pedals down without your permission. Suddenly you were actually cycling, Heading around the little square. It is, Happily, Devoid of moving traffic this morning, Although there are plenty of parked cars to swerve around. Luckily, It's not all daring do and the sensible part of your brain insists on cycling around the square a couple of times before you brave the cycleways on the main road. As you pedal around the square, The feeling of take-off, Of moving easily and swiftly forward, As opposed to the deliberate plod of walking. It's delicious. It's so good it seems almost illicit. One more loop of the square and you decide to brave it on the main road. The cycle paths there are broad and pink and are divided in two. One lane for cycles, One for pedestrians. So far so good. But it isn't clear whether they are one way or not. Should you cross the road so you are cycling in the same direction as the traffic? You falter on the pavement for a few minutes. Two cyclists pass on your side of the road, One on the other. They are all riding in the same direction as the traffic. It's a minuscule sample and you fear it would not pass muster in a scientific study. But there will be time for more research later. You decide in favour of crossing the road and set off towards town. Traffic whooshes past at a safe distance, Making a slight breeze that you feel on your bare arms. In the city where you were a student, Another historical place, And a city of cyclisme to boot, There were few cycle paths and the streets were narrow. These days some of it is pedestrianised, But cycling there back in the day was a scary business. You were always getting your bike pinched too, As everyone was. But here, The outskirts of the city seem made for cycling. The cycleways have their own traffic lights, Their own signage. And you notice immediately that unlike in the hilly northern town where you live, It is not a requirement to wear multi-coloured lycra while cycling. Everyone cycles here, Dressed just exactly how they like. Slender grey-haired women in flowery dresses, Elderly men in shorts and hats, People wearing pinstripe suits, Children who look barely old enough to walk, Teenagers in wraparound shades riding along no hands, Young mums and dads towing carts bursting with toddlers. It's all here, A city on two wheels. Cycling isn't a sport here, It's a mode of transport. Probably the best mode. Taking a bus or driving is all very well, But you've heard that the buses can be unreliable and also that it's virtually impossible to find a parking space in the city centre. And there's you of course, Adding to the cycling population today. You are bowling along with your sensible helmet, Your bicycle clip around your right trouser leg, What is the proportion of helmet wearers to non-helmet wearers you wonder? 20 or so cyclists later, Again a rather pitiful sample size, You decide it is about 50-50. You barely have time to digest this statistic when barrelling towards you on an electric scooter comes a youth wearing large headphones and scrolling on his mobile phone. You hold your breath, Praying not to wobble as he gets nearer. You may even close your eyes for a moment, Bracing for impact. But when you open them again, You are miraculously still alive, And he is long gone, Though a snatch of his hip-hop music lingers in your ears. You breathe out, And then you realise something. He was using the cycle path as a two-way track. Another question arrives immediately. Is that typical? Perhaps the young man was acting in a counter-cultural fashion, As young men are wont to do. But, As if in answer, Another man, Some way ahead, Not as young, Turns left onto the cycle-way, And cycles towards you. He does not look remotely counter-cultural, Either in dress or manner, So it must be a fact the cycle tracks are two-way. Quelling your impulse, Excited as you are to greet every single cyclist you meet, You can tell it is just a routine activity for them. You go on pedalling in the direction of the city centre, Feeling the muscles in your calves working, Finding the courage to pick up speed on the straight. But then you spot a sign to your right and immediately slow down. Bikes it says in bright red letters on a white background. In smaller letters underneath it says, Second-hand bikes for sale. Apply within. You can't really explain why you now slow down to a stop. You already have a bike, Well, A borrowed one. Perhaps it's simply because you are now attuned to all things two-wheeled. Perhaps it's also because the shop isn't really a shop at all, But the driveway of someone's house. This strikes you immediately as unusual and interesting. It's a small semi-detached house with a pebble-dashed front, And in front of the garage, Lined up in four rows that extend all the way to the pavement, Are bike stands holding a variety of bikes, Some with crossbars, Some without, Sizes and colors with homemade cardboard signs hanging from their handlebars. You peer, Seeing that all the bikes which are secured to their stands with quite substantial chains are priced somewhere between £50 and £100. There are bikes with wicker baskets, Bikes with wire baskets, Even one bike with panniers. There are bikes with racks, Bikes for children, Different sorts of handlebars greet you, Drop handlebars, Straight handlebars, Sit up and beg handlebars, Different wheel types, Different thickness of tire, Mountain bikes, Road bikes, Racers, And of course, Different saddles, The broad padded kind which is the kind you prefer and the hard slim kind that your bottom would not even entertain. Some have pedals with toe clips. If you were in the market for a bike you could definitely find one here. While you are standing, Gawping, A young woman in a yellow vest and a long skirt comes out of the French doors at the front and asks if she can help you. Oh, I'm just looking, You say. For the moment, You add, Hoping this makes your presence more acceptable. She smiles and tells you that the bike seller lives a few streets away, But will come round straight away if you're interested in buying a bike. It used to be his house she adds, But he rents it out now. This too strikes you as interesting and you wonder if she gets a discount in return for dealing with customers. But you hold back from asking this, Thank her and get back on your bike. A few moments further on, You come to a parade of shops, A cafe from which the enticing smell of coffee beckons, A hardware store, A co-op and, Perhaps unsurprisingly, In this city of bikes, Another bike shop. This one has an actual shop front where an array of bike locks, Bells and other accessories are displayed. You won't stop this time, However. You're beginning to realise that this city gives its citizens opportunity after opportunity to buy bikes and all items related to them, Even distantly. Sure enough, After only five minutes more pedalling, Just where the road leads onto a bridge that would take you into the city proper, You pass another second-hand bike shop By this time you are becoming blasé and barely glance in its direction. You have also been told that the council recycling tip is full of second-hand bikes in various states of repair that you can buy for a song. It really is wonderful to find a city so committed to two wheels, So determined to support and recycle its cycles. But enough of that. It's probably time to turn left and cycle along the river for a while. The river is a shining strip of grey that borders the northern side of the city. Teams of rowers ply up and down, Their coxes shouting muffled instructions through little megaphones. The path, Which at this point runs along one side of the river only, Is a ribbon of tarmac bordered by many benches. Cyclists embark on the path by cycling over a rumbling metal grid with gate posts each side. You decide to get off and push your bike over this as you're afraid of wobbling at a crucial moment and crushing your hand against one of the posts. You can see immediately that the river path is a different cup of tea to the cycle paths you arrived on. For a start, It is mixed cyclists and pedestrians with no dividing line. All ages mill along it at different speeds, Towing children, Dogs, Elderly relatives, Prams and pushchairs. As you cycle very slowly along it, You witness these walkers stop and start, Take photos, Point at things, Slow down to comfort a wailing tot, Or pick up doggy-do in thin black biodegradable bags. This would be fine, Except that some of the cyclists seem intent on not slowing down for anyone. They overtake you, Not difficult, Whooshing past. But they also weave in and out of the strolling pedestrians in breathtaking manoeuvres. As you progress cautiously through a series of grids with gateposts and a large common opens up on your right, You see them swerve through, Barely slowing down, Rattling over the grids and in general appearing to endanger everyone's safety. Life, Including their own, At every turn. The situation seems, In your eyes, To be made even dicier by the large herd of cows that nibble the grass on the common and stray occasionally onto the cycle path. You had heard about these cows who live on the common. But seeing them, And fairly close up, Is quite a wonder. They are huge, Rich, Brown and cream animals who wander at large, Seeming totally unfazed by the changing pattern of human beings who share their space. They tear up a mouthful of dry grass and raise their heads to chew. Gazing with shining brown eyes. You dismount and sit on a bench for a while to enjoy the spectacle and feel the unaccustomed nearness of large placid animals. The benches face the river so most of the cows are behind you. You aren't quite near enough to feel their hot breath on the back of your neck, But you imagine it. You are aware, However, Of them lumbering around slowly behind you, Heavy and peaceful presences. You are very unused to relaxing in the proximity of cows, So you keep a weather eye on them, Just in case. You are one of those people who would not walk willingly through a herd of these weighty beasts during a countryside ramble, Knowing that they can do a lot of damage by sheer virtue of their size. In fact, You have several times been chased by cows and twice injured yourself climbing too hurriedly over a wall. Once you climbed into someone's back garden and a man came out of the house and shouted at you. You faced up to him and refused to climb back, But only because you were less scared of him than of the cows. Another time the cows were not so much cows as young bullocks and you can still remember the sound of their thundering hooves behind you. So you would argue that you are not so much a coward when it comes to bovines as experienced. The river is also home to many narrowboats on which people live. One wouldn't want to stare baldly into someone else's living space, But you decide it is OK to sip at the view, Glancing across repeatedly at the two nearest ones. The boats are so varied. One has faded, Peeling paintwork, Its deck full of junk, Including, Of course, Some rusty bikes. And the other is newly painted glossy black with gleaming brass fittings and decorated with flower pots full of red geraniums. Their location is superb. It can only be 10 minutes walk from here, Right into the heart of the city, With all its wonderful buildings dripping with history, Its excellent museums, Art galleries, Restaurants and music venues. Of course, Not everyone wants access to those things or can afford it, Although a lot is offered free here. Time, However, To move on. You wheel your bike along for a few moments to get used to the idea of mounting it again, And then you are off, This time cycling past the rest of the green before a residential area opens up on your right. On the left, One bridge moves past, Then another. The rowing teams continue to race up and down the river. There are so many of them. You also pass rowing clubs with rows of boats on their hard standing, Anchored by chains just like the bikes outside the pebble dashed semi. Although you pass different kinds of crafts, Some individually steered, Some steered by four oarspeople, The boat you see most commonly is an eight, Looking like a very long and sleek canoe, Containing eight rowers and a cox. You've heard it said that rowing is one of the most strenuous activities going, And you're sure that's right, Thinking back to the days when you used a rowing machine at the gym. Nothing was guaranteed to put you into a sweat as much as a rowing machine, Which seemed to tax, Rather heavily, Every single one of your body parts, Even your toes ached by the end. The speed at which these rowers pass amazes you. Sometimes instead of, Or as well as, The cocks, A Jack Russell Terrier and a man on a bicycle travel alongside the boat shouting through a bigger megaphone than the one the cocks has. The smoothness with which the rowers glide through the water impresses you even more than the speed. Their awes lift and dip, Seeming totally in unison, Though the man with the megaphone doesn't think so. The whole boatload of people work together like a machine. Too soon, You've reached the bridge by which you must cross the river and circle back to the flat. You are tempted to carry on down the river, But tell yourself that tomorrow is another day. You don't want to overdo things. As you would like to still be able to sit down after you get off the bike. Being able to walk, Even if it is like Clint Eastwood after getting off a horse, Would also be a bonus. You eye up the bridge. It is quite narrow. You decide to dismount, Even though three cyclists are even now cycling across it, Nimbly navigating the few pedestrians who are also crossing. To your surprise, One of the women pedestrians comes up to you as you stand there holding the handlebars and letting everyone off the bridge. Looking quite hot and bothered, She thanks you profusely for having the courtesy to dismount. She delivers a little rant about how scary it is to walk across this bridge with cyclists weaving in and out. Honesty compels you not to take too much credit for this. I don't think I could cycle over it, You say. I would probably fall off. But her gratitude remains undimmed. She thanks you again, Saying, It makes no difference, And that more people should follow your example. I'll take that, You think, As you say goodbye. You can't help but be warmed by the generosity of her thanks. You wheel your mount across the bridge, Which gives you a bird's-eye view of a pub garden, A conventional-looking place that nevertheless serves Lebanese food. A meal, Perhaps, On another occasion, You file the name of the place away for future reference. From there it is only another 10 minutes riding through quiet streets and then back to the little area which already feels a little bit like home with its mini supermarket, Big pub, Post office and kebab farm. As you turn into your square, Which is every bit as quiet as you left it, You congratulate yourself on a successful outing on two wheels. Depending on how saddlesore you feel tomorrow, You may well go out again, Perhaps a little further next time.