NED BOULTING SOUNDS OF CYCLING
NOT ALL CREAKS AND GROANS FROM THE BIKE ARE A BAD THING
My saddle has developed a voice. It has always had a distinct character; mellow, contemplative, not easily given to anger or petulance. But now it’s discovered how to articulate its deepest, darkest feelings. It groans.
It’s a Brooks: a squashy leather thing, studded with copper and oiled and buffed to within an inch of its non-vegan life. The springs are springy and the rivets are riveting. I love it. But it’s started to talk to me, mid-ride. This is probably because I haven’t got around to tightening it with that funny little spanner that comes with the saddle. This, in turn, is probably because I have lost the funny little spanner. I am not overly bothered. As it has sagged into compliance with the shape of my perineum, it has become ever more comfortable, like an old armchair.
When I exert myself even a little, as I just have battling an unseasonable headwind on my ride through a still-wintry Hyde Park, it creaks and squeaks and moans like the rigging on a tall ship on the North Sea. I long since abandoned any sense of coyness, let alone embarrassment, at the sheer volume of my saddle’s exhortations. After all, the upturned leathery shell of the saddle acts as a kind of timpani skin, allowing the scratchy aria to reverberate with orchestral depth of tone and sheer loudness. Put it this way, people can hear me coming from a mile off. Or, more accurately, they can still hear me, long since they have passed and I am receding into the distance. Decreasingly loudly.
This is not a noise like other bicycle noises. Most that emanate from a pushbike are irritating beyond measure. Things that catch or rub on a wheel or spokes are invariably horrendous, not least because they shriek of wasted energy. Even the illusion of something rubbing rhythmically against your rear tyre can provoke a complete collapse in morale. This is cycling’s equivalent of de-tuning a radio so that it spews static buzz, and placing it outside the cell of a hostage 24 hours a day. There are a few exceptions to this; spokey-dokeys are obviously timelessly cool, and the air-raid sirenesque, ascending whine of an old-fashioned dynamo light is as nostalgic to ears of a certain age as the theme tune to All Creatures Great And Small. I also adore the sound of my freewheel clack-clack-clacking when I push the bike along. But mostly, noises from bikes are crap.
Even I, the most slovenly of bike owners, cannot stand the highpitch mewl of a poorly oiled chain. It offends the ear like the scratch of nails on a blackboard. Commuting across London most mornings, I have to fight the urge to ride armed with a little bottle of lube, and apply a few unsolicited drops to strangers’ rusty chains when we stop at lights. I fantasise about it. Even if I have no such little bottle to dispense, London being London, I am always presented with the option of running inside a focaccia and prosecco delicatessen to score some Umbrian extra virgin olive oil. That would do the trick just as well, I reckon, and smell nice to boot.
Anyway, the point is my saddle tells the truth. Its grisly streamof-consciousness, as the springs contract and expand from buttock to buttock with each lumbering pedal stroke, is an exact barometer of the discomfort of the ride. I like the fact that, the more effort I have to put in, simply to get up and over the ludicrous little rise in the cycle track towards Speaker’s Corner, the more the saddle responds with its hoarse accompaniment of wheezing and squealing. It is not high tech, but I swear it’s as accurate as any power meter.
There is something heroic about riding a non-heroic bike, especially for the non-hero. It’s got a perfect old-fashioned, understated charm. It’s like riding a black bike from the 1940s, across a grassy airfield, chased by a Labrador, before neatly dismounting and, leaning the ‘old steed’ up against the ammo dump wall, hopping onto the wing of a Spitfire to go and do battle. A squeaky leather saddle is like the good bits of Brexit without the uncertainty. It inspires a reverie of William Blake and Elgar. At least that’s what I tell myself as I now freewheel, ridiculously, but suddenly noislessy, down towards Hyde Park Corner. Saddles, hey? If only they could talk.
The upturned leathery shell of the saddle acts as a kind of timpani skin