Cyclokairos

The procession towards perihelion, beech leaves the measure. Once green, now yellow and orange, a precursor to brown. Hedging in the back garden a match for The Green Bike.

Not that The Green Bike gets ridden. With no mudguards, not the bike for this time of year. Are the Autumns getting wetter? With storms now being named, it seems so, but having lived in the drier east prior to here, it may just be the contrast. Riding has been slow, and not through choice, not a case of being true to the Cyclokairos ethos: a slower life being one of greater depth, one of richer experience, one whose outcomes have the greater quality. Inevitable illness from spending your working day surrounded by thirty different kids every fifty minutes. Microdoses of virus eventually getting the better of you. COVID? I haven’t tested to be sure, and symptoms have been nothing like those when the delta variant was in full swing (now that was ill; brain fog bordering on delirium), but sloppiness of thought has been there, fatigue too. But, even in the rudest of health, teaching thirty different kids, every fifty minutes does that to you. Especially Year 10; especially Year 10 this year.

Well, you know the drill for emptying the mind – empty lanes.

A shortish drive away, I headed for the North Cotswolds. Last time out down this way, the car park at Dover’s Hill was the start point, but this time it was the picnic area at Fish Hill. The first challenge was crossing the A44 – in dodging the vehicles that barrell along, a reenactment of Frogger. Safely across, it was quiet lanes for the remainder of the ride, although I still encountered the odd driver trying their damnedest to match the speed limit of 60 mph, despite the blind bends and the single track widths in places. It seems crazy these roads are classed as national speed limit.

No bridleways on this ride, far too muddy. Mind you, some of the lanes were little better, tractor tyres having dragged and spread earth from the fields. The Black Bike, with its Honjo mudguards and 650b x 42 tyres, was the perfect choice – a bike for the worst of conditions, above and below. It was raining to start with, visibility low, the dynamo powered SON Edelux II headlight ensured I was seen. For my favoured type of ride – stopping often to take photos (rubbish photos), stopping often to stand and stare – The Black Bike is ideal.

Once past Broadway Tower, I dipped down into Snowshill before climbing back out and on to Taddington. Dozens of what looked like yellowhammers crossed my path; a charm the collective noun for these birds – agreed, such a grand sight with the sky grey. Blue though was soon the back drop, high pressure clearing the murk and bringing sub-zero nights in the coming, err, days, no nights, no I mean days, but the night bit. After Taddington, a descent and then a climb up Sudeley Hill. The views to the left towards Guiting Wood, those to the right towards a lump topped by Hailes and Thrift Woods.

A lot of history around here: abandoned quarries are numerous and you’ll find the remains of Roman villas too. I’m soon on a road the Ordnance Survey labels as Salt Way. Droitwich Spa (wich in a town’s name an indication of a place where salt is/was produced – growing up in Cheshire, there were a few of those) lies to north and I assume the road is an old route for transporting salt to other parts of Roman Britain. The road follows a ridge line above a valley with Cleve Hill the other side. Turning my back, I headed for Kineton and more history: the ford in the village provides passage across the river Windrush. The river that gave its name to a ship, the ship giving its name to a scandal. The river is little more than a stream here and was easily crossed. Another climb, and then another ancient route, locally called Buckle Street, it forms part of the far longer Icknield Street. It lived up to the reputation of Roman roads – straight – and back I was to my starting point with mission accomplished: mind emptied.

Mushin, the answer is mushin. I looked it up.