FREEZE FRAMES
Winter doesn’t stop real cyclists like Rob Ainsley from getting out every day...
“As one of my tatty old t-shirts says, ‘It’s not the miles per hour, it’s the smiles per hour’. It’s a good maxim”
Winter. Drab, wet, grey. And that’s just me. But while the days may be miserable, I’m not. Because – being an everyday A-to-B cyclist – none of my bikes get put away until spring just because the tabloids are doing their annual ‘Worst winter for 50 years forecast’ schtick.
Winter bike? I’ve got one, I suppose. The cheapish one: easy to park next to a much better bike as an anti-theft device. With mudguards, lower gears and wider tyres for those slippery roads. And panniers, kickstand and lights. And it can be ridden all year. In fact, what us utility-cycling lot call a ‘bike’.
If you hanker after a ‘winter bike’, great. Any excuse to scan eBay for an N+1 is a good one. But to me, ‘winter bikes’ – mudguards – are not a seasonal item like fireworks used to be. They’re year round, like fireworks now. Or strawberries. Or Easter eggs.
Because winter’s no wetter than summer. Here in York, typically for the UK, monthly rainfall varies little. In fact, August is wettest, February driest. Temperature is less surprising: hottest in July, when all of York show off their tattoos, and coldest in February, when only stag’n’hen parties do.
For non-Tynesiders, Britain’s bitter midwinter days need warm clothes. I’ve plenty for riding. Purportedly big-brand rainjacket suspiciously ‘Made in Vietnam’; M&S fleece; sweatshirt from Polish cafe; thin-sleeved top from once-trendy university; t-shirt with provocative eco-message. Examining the layers, a geologist could tell the story of my life.
But we also need somewhere to put them when the sun comes out. Hence the panniers. Emergency blankets can come in handy too if caught in a blizzard on a long ride trying to find a rural post office that hasn’t closed down, for instance.
My waterproof legwear of choice is not some lightweight, breathable miracle-fabric, but a pair of industrial-grade fishing trousers from a Decathlon sale. Robust? The emergency workers at Chernobyl managed on less. Not only do they keep every drop of rain out and every drop of sweat in, they might come in handy wading into York’s frequent floods if an angler needs some help landing a grey mullet.
Reliable lights for those dark mornings and darker evenings are a must. These days illumination, particularly strobing front lights, is reaching ever higher levels, both of visibility, and of induced neurological disorders for oncoming pedestrians. (The tunnels on Edinburgh’s urban railtrail network have explicit signs for cyclists: ‘Don’t strobe. Consider other path users’.)
Cycling through slush is a drag, but fresh snow is a delight. There’s something magical about the way it creaks under your wheels – assuming it’s not your bottom bracket. So, no sleet-dodging turbo-trainers for us. We’re out in the real world every day, even if ‘only’ on a supermarket run. We can still rack up the miles between key points of interest on our GPX traces: Aldi for chocolate, Tesco for cereal, Wilko for toiletries, Waitrose for knock-down sourdough. And our ride home from shopping is a great way to work off the frustrations of the day. Fury at seeing the ‘seasonal goods’ aisle in December already full of Easter eggs, for instance.
We’ll be doing what we do all year: shopping, socialising, work trips, visiting family, photographing sub-standard cycle facilities etc. As one of my old t-shirts says, ‘It’s not the miles per hour, it’s the smiles per hour’. (I once mentioned that in a book. The sub editor changed it to ‘kilometres per hour’. Our house style is metric, she explained.)
It’s a good maxim. Except you won’t see my t-shirt, because it’s underneath five layers. It’s cold and I’m heading to the shops for salt. Not for dinner, but for the driveway. Happy – and safe – winter cycling.