OK, this is a biggie: 2 general knowledge “deliberate mistakes”, one (non humorous) logical error, and can you explain the title? Usual rules: PM me if you want to play; keep quiet if you don’t.
It is a very long time since the Coker has been out for a run. Today I’ve had that sort of day when nothing else but a Coker ride would do to clear my brain so…
With some vague idea of covering a big distance non-stop, I drive to the car park of the Water Sports Centre. It takes a little while for the GPS to lock into the satellites, and I take longer than usual to check my helmet, wristguards, and Camelbak. I have done hundreds of miles on the Coker, but it is months since I’ve ridden it, and I’m slightly nervous about that first freemount.
It’s a bit wobbly, and there is rather more flailing of the arms than is consistent with elegant deportment, but I mount first time. As I set off, I hear a small boy behind me shout, “Look! he’s on one wheel!” How nice, simple and non judgemental: no lame attempt at humour, no rudeness, no effort to attract my attention. This boy should write a teach-yourself book on excited but acceptable responses to unicycles. He could then sell a copy to a small boy with a kayak who will appear later.
After only 50 metres of tarmac, I make a couple of tight turns onto an area of ballast which crunches and pops under my tyre, then I climb a small hill, reach the crest, and I’m back on tarmac. The rowing lake is spread out before me in all its glory. A strong wind is blowing and the surface is ruffled. Flags are flapping briskly on the building across the lake.
The short descent to the lakeside takes more care than I remember. I’ve been used to the light and controllable 700c, or the plodding KH24. Keeping the big beast of the stock steel Coker rim under control is more of a challenge.
Moments later, I am on the flat 3 metre wide strip of tarmac that loops around the lake. The lake is to my right, low green hills to my left, and the wind in my back. I am pedalling briskly. I glance down at the GPS: 10 - 11 mph (about 16 - 17 kph) and it feels fast. I accelerate a bit and see 11.9 mph.
Hmmm. Relying on a cycle computer and stopwatch for measurement, I used to average 12.5 mph for an hour at a time, night after night. Now 12.5 mph sounds like a distant dream. I need more Coker miles to dial those reflexes back in. Knee pads too, because I’m in shorts, and the tarmac looks a long way down, and more blurred than I remember it.
I soon reach the end of the lake, and turn right, so that I am across the wind. Moments later, I am heading back along the lake, but into the wind, and it’s hard work, and slightly chilly - after all, it is nearly midsummer. The tarmac is cluttered with Canada geese, and I clack my wrist guards together to warn them of my approach, then pick my way through as the geese scatter with charming unpredictability.
Further down the lake, there are more Canada geese, and greylags too, with their orange bills (has the man from Del Monte paid his orange bill?); there are great crested grebes, colourful mallard drakes and their drab brown mates, and the occasional coot. A few gulls wheel overhead, and I spot a telemark tern amongst them. Swallows swoop low over the lake, feeding on the wing. It’s a nice place to be - apart from the wind, which is slowing me down to about 8 or 9 mph.
Eventually, I make the end of the lake, where the boathouses are. I slow down a little to avoid colliding with the melee of rowing and kayaking enthusiasts who are milling about outside the boathouse door. Several small boys are zig zagging unsteadily around the shallowest part of the lake in plastic kayaks. One shouts to his friends, “Look! A clown!” Hmmm. Look - a plastic eskimo.
Back onto the long side of the lake, with the wind behind me, and I realise I am now sweating, and travelling in a bubble of smelly air as the wind follows me. I know that by the time I make it to the end of the lake again I will be really damp, and that the ride back into the wind will be chilly.
For some reason, I have always lapped this lake clockwise, whereas most cyclists seem to do so anticlockwise. The track seems to be a popular training ground for road cyclists, and an easy loop for people simply going out for a ride on their ill-fitting but over-specified mountain bikes. I start to recognise riders who passed me on the first lap. There is the pretty young girl who smiles uncertainly; the ugly bloke in top gear on his mountainbike, standing on the pedals and fighting the wind as his jacket flaps around him; his chubby young son, riding glumly 20 metres behind him; there are serious young men on proper time trials machines with those funny handlebars with elbow rests. Some smile, some glower, some ignore me altogether.
I notice three cyclists heading towards me in line abreast. Two of them see me and move to their left. The third keeps coming. There is something strange about his face. It is very hairy… very hairy indeed… and it has no eyes… or nose, or mouth… Er… He is in his own little world, head right down down, facing the floor and not looking where he is going at all. His companions attract his attention, he looks at them, looks up, sees me and his eyes widen in shock and he swerves to avoid me.
I’m feeling more confident on the big wheel now. Indeed, I’m just getting to that stage where I’m starting to think, “Is this all it does?” Coker: the high speed bar stool. I decide to try for a bit more speed, and see figures over 13 mph (21 kph) but I still need more riding time to get anywhere near the speeds I used to hit a few years ago.
Back on the upwind side of the lake, I pass the same bicyclists. The young girl smiles and nods slightly; the serious young men nod curtly - acknowledging grudgingly that I must be some sort of fellow rider. I recognise some elderly joggers from my previous rides around this lake, and they seem to recognise me, which is surprising as I’m wearing a different helmet from last time they saw me.
The weather is deteriorating, and there is rain mixed in with the wind. The things I do for fun!
There are a few rowers out on the lake, but no sailors - perhaps it is too windy. As I approach the boathouses again, I see three K1 racing boats - that’s narrow wobbly open canadian canoes with the single bladed paddles. As always, I wonder how the canoeists would react if I shouted, “Where’s your other paddle, mate?”
As I pass the boat houses, the boys are still out in their plastic kayaks, and one shouts, “Look! it’s that clown again!” I hope the little so and so gets eaten by a plastic polar bear.
Back down the lake with the wind behind me, and I glance at the GPS. Miraculously, after just over 6 miles, I am averaging 11 mph. That’s not much compared to the high 12s I used to average, but with the strong wind, and my lack of recent experience, it’s respectable. That’s respectable until I’m overtaken by a portly man on a mountainbike, who, being of a rebellious disposition, is going against convention by riding clockwise.
Ahead of me I see a big black 4x4 crawling along as the driver shouts instructions to some rowers. What an excellent sport: sitting in an air conditioned vehicle, shouting instructions to some other poor sod stuck in the middle of a windy lake in a boat the width of a curtain pole. I could do that. I look across and see about four boats. Others are approaching down the lake. I wouldn’t like to be rowing into this wind. I overtake the vehicle cautiously. I hear one of the rowers shout a comment to him about me.
grrrr…
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