Cyclokairos

My son isn’t much interested in cycling. Through the influence of his mum, basketball is more his thing. But on occasion I can persuade him to accompany me on one of my ambles by bike, in fact, I managed it twice recently. The first was just a short jaunt, heading out to the local beach* next to Packhorse Bridge on the River Blythe.

There was another family out and about:

A pleasing sight, as just downstream there’s a nature reserve where 300 odd Canadian Geese were wiped out by Avian Flu not so long ago.

The second outing was more substantial. Shropshire is close enough for a day trip, but as much as for the change of scene, we stayed a couple of nights and fitted in a ride up Long Mynd. It’s part of the Shropshire Hills, the collective name for the most significant lumps of the county – The Clee Hills (Abdon Burf on Brown Clee Hill is as elevated as Shropshire gets), Stiperstones, and Wenlock Edge are others that I’ve ventured up on two wheels. Long Mynd has various cycling options: sticking to tarmac, you can torture yourself on The Burway or Asterton Bank; or, there’s the network of bridleways, a grassy-gravelly-single-double-track lattice that takes you up, down, and across its entirety.

We were staying at Marshbrook and headed first to Minton; a steepish country lane the passage. Riding The Blue Bike (a.k.a. The Pub Bike, The-bike-that-never-gets-built-until-it-was-built, The-bike-I’ll-do-that-World-tour-on-that-will-never-happen, among other monikers), I soon became aware of the weight perched up above the front wheel. There’s the all-in-one-rack-basket Pelago Rasket, lined with a Wizard Works’ Pelagazam, that was stuffed with food, camera, binoculars, pump, spare tubes, multi-tool (and you know how heavy they are), and waterproof. But as with any bike, within minutes you adapt, the subconscious micro-adjustments unique to different bikes kick in, and it’s as if you’ve been riding the bike for a lifetime. In a previous life, the commute to work involved a train and riding a Brompton either end. I occasionally ride the Brompton and initially it’s as twitchy as a person obsessed with birds, and then it’s not – the adaption soon happens.

From Minton, it was quiet lanes, on through Little Stretton, and then Church Stretton, the largest village in these parts, and as a health resort in days gone by, it was referred to as Little Switzerland. The riding was very much in agreement with the cyclokairos ethos, one that is with ease, sights taken in, pedalling within the moment, nothing existing outside of the moment, as one moment dies and the next is born. “This is the bike to do The-World-tour-that-will-never-happen”, I think (of course I do, I’ve ridden for about 30 minutes not 300 days – who doesn’t feel good after half an hour of gentle pedalling?). Its features are how bikes should be: simple, practical, beautiful. Not motorbikes-in-all-but-name that mountain bikes are seemingly becoming. The comfort of skinny steel tubes and a leather saddle; the practicality of cable operated brakes and gears (which aren’t indexed but changed through friction), and mudguards (with flaps!); the look of shellacked cloth bar tape. Church Stretton reached, it was time for a pit stop at the Co-Op. An advantage of a basket soon became apparent: a readily accessible place to stuff, err, stuff, and opportunity for a shameless product promotion.

It was then on towards All Stretton. The Burway was closed (perhaps by bike it was possible to ride) but it was never intended to be the route up Long Mynd (the horror of previous ascents still haunts me) and we ignored Carding Mill Valley too (a rocky climb that the last time I attempted I certainly didn’t have a basket as company and still ended up taking my bike for a walk). Castle Hill was the planned route up; a sealed road but with a couple of steep sections, just not The-Burway-steep. My son on The Red Bike had a lowest gear of 18 inches, The Blue Bike offered me 19 inches – we plodded up and at Jinlye swapped tarmac for gravel and took a breather. Looking back from where we had come, The Lawley and Caer Caradoc Hill were prominent.

The final push to Long Mynd’s highest point, Pole Bank, took us across heathland – ponies and sheep grazing, heather thriving on the acidic soil – the slopes gentler than those before. My son, not a particular adherent of the cyclokairos ethos, put in a dig on the final gravel track before the toposcope – I denied him the glory of a victory, naturally. Lunch, taken sat facing west, provided a view of the Stiperstones and its outcrops of Shephard’s Rock and Devil’s Chair. Wales lying beyond, inscribed a mental note to get back there soon – still so much cycling to be done there. The to-do-list for rides the other side of the border keeps lengthening.

Rested and fed, time to decide on the descent. For previous ones, I’ve used The Burway, Carding Mill Valley, The Batch, and Minton Hill. A different one today – Minton Batch. Different as a descent that is, having once attempted to ascend Long Mynd via it. I say attempted as it was the scene of another of my bikepacking stories. I was headed for a camp spot at Pole Cottage, trundling along the bridleway when I found myself in a stream. Not the the main stream that flows down the batch, but a stream nonetheless. Not realising I was still on the bridleway, albeit a flooded one, I convinced myself I’d taken a wrong turn. Looking across the batch I could see a service track through a tree plantation. That was going to be my way up, despite the fact I would have to carry my bike, fully loaded with camping gear, across the main stream, over a fence topped with barbed wire, and up a steep incline while bashing my way through the bracken that covered it. Sweaty and disheveled, having reached the service track, I looked back to where I had come from, the bridleway was clear to see – yes, flooded in places, but most definitely the route to take.

The bridleway was once again flooded in sections, but perfectly rideable and we stuck to it. Even on a bike with a basket and flap-adorned mudguards, the stony ribbon of dirt was navigated. In fact, having mudguards was the best way to tackle the flooded parts. My son, lacking them on The Red Bike, ended up with the tell-tale streak of mud up his back.

Back on sealed roads, it was quiet lanes back to Marshbrook. A good ride, lacking anything too technical on the off-road sections, The Blue Bike coped admirably and the company of my son made a nice change from my usual solo rides. He enjoyed it too – still prefers basketball though.

*a local riverbank that actually only exists at times of drought and is probably referred to as a beach by me alone.