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  • This musing leaves me with the question: What is gravel? Is it a certain grading of rock size, between 5mm and 15mm? Is it 40c tyres? Is it drop bars? Is it an XC bike? I asked the question on Instagram, receiving a wide but similar theme of answers. Gravel isn’t a tangible thing. Gravel starts where tarmac ends. It’s the enablement of freedom, the freedom to ride further, into the unknown, into adventure. Away from cars. If gravel isn’t any one thing, then it’s everything. It’s whatever you’re on and whatever you’ve got under your wheels. It doesn’t matter if you measure the tyres in millimetres or inches (mountain bike industry please move into the 21st century). It doesn’t matter if you shave your legs or let them grow wild. Though, I go wild now.

  • 'All of this is preliminary to the admission of a huge and unpleasant prejudice, and here it is: when a bright, healthy and highly educated young man jumps on the sleeper train and heads this way, with the declared intention of seeking “#wildplaces”, my first reaction is to groan. It brings out in me a horrible mix of class, gender and ethnic tension. What’s that coming over the hill? A white, middle-class Englishman! A Lone Enraptured Male! From Cambridge! Here to boldly go, “discovering”, then quelling our harsh and lovely and sometimes difficult land with his civilised lyrical words. When he compounds this by declaring that “to reach a wild place was, for me, to step outside human history,” I’m not just groaning but banging my head on the table.'
    ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
    Kathleen Jamie on the Cult of the Wild, from 2008. https://www.lrb.co.uk/the-paper/v30/n05/kathleen-jamie/a-lone-enraptured-male

    Thanks to @pastry_bot for putting this extract in the context of gravel bros

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