At least, I hope it was a fly. When it hit the back of my gullett at 60mph (our combined speeds, me flying that way, it flying this way) i thought it was a sting and therefore a bee or a wasp. Yet, this had happened to me once before and I knew that the impact itself of a solid object on a tender surface could feel like a sting. At any rate, last time I coughed the poor little blighter up (what a 'buzzkill' that was!), but this time, in spite of my best efforts, nothing surfaced, except for a mild panic. There was no anaphylactic shock however, my airwaves were still open, I guess it was a fly. Thank God because the idea of performing an auto-tracheotomy on a country lane in the middle of nowhere did not fill me with enthusiasm. And so I downed the rest of my water, shook my (now shower) head, and got back in the saddle. With big mouth now emphatically closed.
Up Behind Barrhead
What a route! What a root!
Do this often enough and you'll tap into the Earth like a tree. And tree is truth in the Druid tongue, so go figure!
From Barrhead train station take the gateside road for about two hundred metres before veering onto the Hillside Road on the left. You can't miss it. It's the steepest 'street' in Scotland! 800yds later and you're a different person. Take the farm path to the top of the hill just beside the golf course. Then, scoot across a couple of fields to the kissing tree. It's all downhill from here to Paisley Canal train station. But wait awhile. There is spirit up here. Gather it before you leave.
Mr. Motivator: Terry-Thomas
Mr. Motivator is not some spandex-wielding action man doing a hundred squats a minute but a wheelchair-bound, dribbling and drooling, goggle-eyed invalid who cannot do anything for himself any longer and who needs constant attention like a baby. This is your Mr. Motivator, that moves you off your fat ass and gets you moving: this image not of your death (death is nothing) but of your impending decrepitude if you don't look after your body. All anguish and suffering derives from neglect of the essential. That 'essential' is your body, is what you put in that body, and how you move that body. You are not just what and how you eat, you are how you move. When you neglect this 'how' you also neglect your own spirit and it's this spirit that guides your mind which then advises the body. The other day I came across an old Thames Valley news item on the once famous Englishman Terry-Thomas. He was the bumbling Brit with the mobile eyebrows and gap-toothed mouth who starred in such notable films as It's A Mad Mad Mad Mad World and Those Magnificent Men in Their Flying Machines. The article showed him with a few months to live dying from Parkinson's disease. He was unrecognisable as the smiling bumbling fool he had once made his name with. He was also skint and 'living' (actually dying) in a shoddy little bedsit in Surrey being looked after by his loving wife. The scene was grim and it was a far cry from the extravagant Beverly Hills and Balearic island lifestyle he once led. This is the image you look at when you just can't be bothered engaging your engines. The code of the Samurai, the Bushido, states that every samurai warrior should meditate upon death daily, and being ripped apart by the enemy. Mikey's code states similarly, though with one or two minor adjustments: that one should meditate upon decrepitude daily by looking at the last days of Terry-Thomas. It's like a picture of Christ for the inverted.
Baffled
Occasionally, when I'm up in the hills I hear the most god awaful sound coming from down below. No, it's not an eruption of one of Glasgow's volcanic plugs, or a tsunami coming in along the Clyde, but a motorbike (with moron). I wonder when I hear this roar firstly why it is legal (!!!), and secondly of the tye of person that buys these machines (whilst removing the baffler).
A video shown by the BBC some time back showed that a single noisy bike travelling across the city of Paris disturbs more than 11,000 people on its trip.
So, today, I had a chance to get some payback. Some moron outside my living room window (my top floor living room window) decided in the interests of noising up the neighbours to roar his petite little yellow scooter. I was in the kitchen on the other side of the building but it didn't stop me from jumping and thinking that there was an earthquake going on. I went to the window to see a guy on his scooter taking his time to put his gloves on etc. He was a delivery guy who was obviously delivering something. And he knew what he was doing. I saw about three other curtains move from neighbouring flats, so it wasn't just my hyper acute hearing at work. He saw me looking down with the evil eye, and so he revved his engine and waved. So I went back into the kitchen and took an egg out of the fridge. Just as he was taking off I aimed it at his front wheel. It smashed beautifully on the ground just in front of him. Perfect! He stopped on the corner, got off his little moped, and did a little dance with his phone.
Direct action! It's the only way to deal with these morons.
And never underestimate the power of a projectile egg ;)
Bucolic
I recall when teaching for the British Council, Warsaw, in one of my advanced English classes, a girl who thanked me because she had learned a new word that day, which I had spoken earlier in the class, that of 'bucolic'. It was the way she said it, as if that had been the only thing she had learned, and yet she was beaming as if she had just found an uncut diamond lying on the classroom floor.
She repeated the word to me - bucolic, and I smiled, as I had not long learned it myself. It is a marvellous word, is it not? And yet, I never really knew what it meant until I looked it up today and saw that it meant 'shepherd' or 'herdsman'. It derives from Greek boukolikos "pastoral, rustic," from boukolos "cowherd, herdsman," from bous "cow" + -kolos "tending," related to Latin colere "to till (the ground), cultivate, dwell, inhabit". The bucolic then becomes a form of culture and cultivation, where the shepherd leads his self (out of its cocoon).
Indeed, the Scots Gaelic, buchaille, is a mountain in Glencoe that I ascended with my brother Patrick years ago. The buchaille is the herdsman for it leads all others not as wise, not as wily, not as wild. It seems fitting then that as a teacher I should use the word.
Bunching up & The Peloton
The wild cyclist never bunches up into a peloton because he never rides with anyone else least of all a peloton. If the wild cyclist does ride with others then they do as the great migrators do and 'fly in formation'. Yet, flying in a formation on what could well be a dodgy road full of speeding cars can be dangerous. So, the wild cyclist rarely shares his way with predators and 'machines of prey'. There is always a quieter way. Trouble with road cyclists (and human billboards) is that they are beset by speed and distance, and measurement. They are car drivers in other words on bicycles. Which means they behave like car drivers. Which means they 'bunch up' so that they even resemble a car when cycling. The wild cyclist by contrast is a walker on a bicycle. Which means that they behave (and even sometimes look) like a wild animal.
Battle Mode
BATTLE MODE
The warrior dares to face the only war that is worthwhile: the battle for awareness.
Carlos Castaneda
Does this path have a heart? If it does, the path is good; if it doesn't, it is of no use. Both paths lead nowhere; but one has a heart, the other doesn't. One makes for a joyful journey; as long as you follow it, you are one with it. The other will make you curse your life. One makes you strong; the other weakens you.
Carlos Castaneda
I heard a woman cyclist the other day refer to cycling as 'getting into battle mode'. Naturally, she was sharing the road with cars that encouraged this mode of cycling and this battle-ready attitude. As a wild cyclist I have only one mode on my control panel, that of awareness. The dial is pointed to it constantly. To be sure, I am battle-ready, always, but this readiness emerges not out of fear but out of awareness, and heart. Thus, it is awareness that is the real battle. And if you're still sharing your path with cars then maybe you should consider wild cycling as an alternative. That doesn't necessarily mean cycling on pavements but being aware of alternative routes that are safe and (relatively) car-free. After all, the wild cyclist is a true warrior (whose battle is with awareness) and will always choose a path with heart before anything else. As Castaneda writes:
A warrior chooses a path with heart, any path with heart and follows it; and then he rejoices and laughs.