The Boast Post Thread - They're long but better than reading the Popcorn Thread.

Rode/wrote this yesterday.

An enforced break from our fair lady London finds me back up in Nottingham for a while. As an aid to prolonging my sanity it was vital I brought a bike along with me, otherwise I’d have been shaving my head and voting Tory in no time; classical lunatic tendencies.

Today was my first chance for a ride, but our cockney sparrow neighbour Graham soon put paid to my leaving promptly. Spotting me cleaning my bike he came over for a chat, which from experience I know can drag on as long as his 70s mullet. It’s been a while since we’ve nattered on though so I was glad of his company. Talk turns to bikes and he brings over his Marin Hardtail which I have a quick spin on. It’s fine, but I’m itching to get on my own and ride some unfamiliar roads. Graham though hasn’t yet exhausted his high tales; the exhaustion of the listener occurs long before that ever does. We talk of London pubs he once patronised, a couple of which are still trading under the same names in Holborn, then climate change and the ineptness of Al Gore/science/weathermen/the Labour Party. He’s a good talker and an even better neighbour is Graham, but his politics are woeful.

By this time I’m tempted to feign a funny turn to get rid of him, as all the polite nudging I’d made that I wanted to end my period of listening to him while he ignores me and instead ride my bike had fallen on deaf ears; a nice symmetry really, as he was deafening mine. On and on he went, and the time I’d planned for being on a ride slipped by. Getting somebody to stop talking short of punching them in the face is a tricky task, but I’d endured enough as the clock struck 2 and the lure of my bike proved too much, so we departed having made no difference to the world with our talk, but at the same time feeling as though we’d mastered our own slice of it. This is about as much as you can hope for, standing on the drive of your parents house while a cod-philosopher drones on, so all things considered it was a decent enough build-up to getting on my bike at last.
Finally, off I went. I had planned to ride to Grantham for no particular reason other than it was a destination, but a combination of it being the birthplace of Maggie Thatcher and the drudgery of the A52 soon put me off. We’re hemmed in here by that major road and the A46, otherwise known as the Fosse Way, which is incredibly long, straight and boring. It has a history I’m not interested in, although authentic Stilton, the only place where a cheese producer is entitled to use the name, comes from a village just off it. Stilton is a protected brand, like Parmesan and Champagne, and it comes from up the road. Leaving my town I rode past my old school, which despite many visits back here since I left for London I’d not seen since I finally walked out of it for the very last time. It looked just like it ever did, perhaps even more dismal, and I felt a gigantic lack of anything at all for it. It’ll be just as long again until I see it the next time, if ever.

Soon enough I’d tired of the A52 so pulled off into Bottesford, a village where in a previous life my then mates and I would descend upon with beer in our bellies, weed in our lungs and anger in our veins, to cause pointless bother which even we didn’t much believe in. I’d not seen Bottesford nor thought of it since those times, and I didn’t recognise much of it. I did recall the lack of a bank which caused any amount of irritation when we were deluded teenagers, but this just gave us more to pitifully rail against. Still they’ve resisted a bank. I believe this would still make me angry though, despite being mellower. I don’t view the convenience of a bank branch as a treat, and you can call me a metropolitan fop for it if you like.

It was prettier than I remember though, Bottesford, and I found myself enjoying being there for the first time in my life, as I was without any daft motive. I was gladdened to find a better than decent skate-park which was certainly not there back in my day, which oddly enough was being utilised by more mini-scooter riders than I’d ever seen gathered in one place at any one time. The youths here clearly prefer them over BMX or skateboards and I doubt they’d appreciate this interloper attempting to convince them of the error of their ways, so I chose not to pause and admire their doubtless mastery of the radical possibilities of scooter tricks and rode on by, a couple of young girls walking along choosing to laugh at me as I did for reasons which remain unclear.

I soon saw my first remarkable thing; a company which manufactures clay pigeons. Now I’ve given no thought whatsoever to these things, except knowing they exist, until they’re shot to smithereens and no longer do. They capture my interest for an even more brief time than that takes. They’re like your elbow; just there in the world, beyond contemplation or interest. By that logic, clay-pigeon shooting is for people interested in their own elbows then, and maybe those of other people. Anyway, there stood perhaps the pre-eminent manufacturer of said item, a company whose name is muttered in reverential tones by devotees worldwide perhaps, as they continue to refine and unleash the potential of this dreary thing. This place was instantly memorable for me, as it rammed home that in every corner of the world there takes place any and every mundane yet vital activity which combine to push the world around, if not tip it off its axis. I’d never have known it was there had I not happened upon it on my bike, and that’s nothing if not one of the finer pleasures of taking a ride to nowhere in particular.

All of a sudden I was thoroughly enjoying this gentle meander, and what I was laying my withered eye upon. I crossed a railway-line several times throughout, the first time to continue along a lane as indistinguishable from any other. There was a humble bench on my side of the road, worthy of comment as that’s what it had that all the others lacked. I’ve always enjoyed sitting on benches. There’s a certain profundity to parking yourself on one, whenever the fancy takes you, and relishing whatever it enables you to ponder. I consider them to be council endorsed psychiatry. This one was the epitome of tranquillity, and so irresistible. I paused there for a smoke, with only a low flying light-aircraft for company, just far enough away so that I found its noise as soothing as I do that of somebody else using a vacuum cleaner whilst I’m just waking up on a morning. Life’s all about moments, wherever you find them, and this was one of those. Barely any traffic passed as I smoked, until a smartly-dressed elderly gentleman on foot appeared to my right as I was finishing my roll-up. Before he reached me he turned up a path towards a field. He was not a farmer judging by his attire, so I briefly wondered what he might be up to, until I realised I didn’t much care.

I headed back to Bottesford, to seek out further rural delights. I didn’t have to wait long. I passed for a second time the local supermarket, hub of the community and social mooring to the residents reliant upon it. Outside was your typical newspaper stand which displayed a headline which was anything but. I forget the name of the local paper but I feel sure it has a circulation of not many and a readership of even less. It’s a truism that there are things you cannot make up or imagine, as they’re just too daft. This doesn’t eradicate their truth though. Behold what was the hot topic in the pubs and fields of Bottesford; ‘Popcorn Shock Compo Claim’. It’s worth rolling that headline around your mouth a couple of times, or even to say it aloud. It’ll be the first and last time you ever do. What could it possibly mean? Had Nora Batty and Clegg conspired against poor old Compo in a fatal popcorn attack? Had Bottseford fallen under a mass delusion having just cottoned on to this dated sitcom but fallen deeply in love with it, believing it real? Did they see themselves in that classic rural farce? Doubtless the truth is more prosaic, but never let the truth get in the way of a good story I always say.

By this time I was missing my original plan on heading to Grantham even less, the absurdity I’d faced so far gratefully replacing the, I’m sure, relative monotony of a ride somewhere specific being quickly followed by a rapid turnaround and return. I was thoroughly enjoying myself now. I rode aimlessly still, finding a tasty looking descent which I couldn’t resist. About to tackle it I encountered a bunch of kids on bikes, only the second I’d seen in the time I’d been out. Joyfully, the first had been a young lad pulling a decent wheelie in Bottesford. One of the bunch of lads shouted encouragement at me to gain further speed as I flew down the descent, which was worth every bit of the all too brief time it lasted. Heading down the next lane I passed a fellow driving a tractor towards me; not literally you understand, he was simply going the other way. I pondered the ethico-political customs of rural tractor recognition. Do I wave? Nod? Am I making a value judgement by doing so? I decided to be passive; metropolitan to the end. I ignored him more than he did me. Further along this lane came a reminder of earlier on; a clay-pigeon shooting range no less. Supply and demand, I suppose. I lived in this area, or near enough, for about 10 years, without knowing here was such a thing. I heard the shots before I saw the range, which was populated solely by elderly men dressed in camouflage gear, taking their fantasises to illogical conclusions. There wasn’t a woman in sight, and they’d have had it no other way. ‘Pull...’; ‘pull...’; ‘pull...’; a mantra, a coma; or just a means to kill time. I bet they go every day and make unachievable demands on the company who supply whatever the lifeless clay represents individually to them.

Whatever next? I was eager to find out. Delights were lining up to flaunt themselves at me. You think you know a place, and I find a lot of truth in the adage that familiarity breeds contempt. I don’t much care for this area. It’s lifeless. But my mind was substantially changed by this no longer inconsequential ride. I may not want to participate in the pursuits which lubricate the cogs of village life, but I don’t want to appear patronising towards it either. That’s not my stance at all. There’s a lot to admire, the scenery prominent amongst the mix. Between pleasures the eye was being treated to continual pretty things, albeit with an assortment of road-kill thrown in. There was a great deal of it. Earlier I’d been treated to a real sight, thankfully with animals very much in the land of the living. Just before a railway crossing was a cute little stream, with a traffic sign warning of ducks crossing. You can’t resist such a thing. None chose to cross as I rode across the bridge over the stream, but as I returned they were living up to their billing by doing just what the sign warned they would. Two were in the centre of the road, pecking at a discarded apple, so I slowed as I passed and off they waddled to join their remaining family who had thankfully navigated the road already, leaving the rest of the apple where it lay. I can only hope the lorry directly behind me managed to avoid it as he did the ducks themselves.

I was heading back by now, riding through a village by the name of Aslockton where an old-friend from school, Wilson, had once called home. I thought I might be able to recall which house he’d lived in, but the years had made me unsure if I’d even ridden along the right street. There may not be much there, but you can still miss what you’re on the lookout for. Time for one last surprise; perhaps the best of all. Aslockton merges into Wootton**, **nothing less than a glorious example of a serene, restrained place to live peacefully. The eye didn’t know where to lay next. I could never love it, but the next best feeling, admiration, wasn’t much of a stretch. Quite out of place and character, although I’d struggle where to place such a name short of Disneyland or some such horror, was Sunbeam Street, the sign mounted up on high on the frontage of a beautiful cottage, rather than it be your tawdry effort planted haphazardly at street-level. Up on high it was imperious. Despite the anomaly of the address the property to which the sign was proudly added couldn’t have been better chosen. I don’t believe I’ve ever encountered a Sunbeam Street. It has a lot to live up to, if you’re an idealist. Whatever, a chap on a bike owes it to himself to ride along Sunbeam Street, wherever he finds it. I’m sure those who have chosen to wash up in Wootton have an eye on finally moving onto Sunbeam Street. The romanticism of such an address demands a vase of flowers in perpetual bloom on the kitchen windowsill of each and every residence, and an elegantly tied apron on whoever bakes the perfect apple crumbles demanded by the connotations and heavy responsibility of doing justice to this mysterious Sunbeam Street. In reality it was tiny but perfectly formed, and I wouldn’t have touched a hair on it. Odder still is that Wootton itself is home to a prison. If you can’t afford the prices, accept an invitation at Her Majesty’s pleasure.

Having being partially lost on occasion I knew I was near to my parents’ house now, so I set about getting back, which meant tolerating the A52 again for all of 3 miles. Its insistence and rapidity cannot blight entirely though the relaxed and casual character of what’s on offer from these wonderful villages. Back in Bingham I took a detour to streets formerly well trodden in this previous life I’d once had here, without revisiting for many years. They’re still there, and are largely unchanged. I can’t say the same about myself though. All in all I rode no further than 20 miles. I was looking forward to my ride, but it became much more than that. It belied its length with the memorable things which it contained. It showed England in all its finery. This is a beautiful country, and it’s beautiful around the corner from you. I also shed some more skin during it, as I like to put it. This is no longer my stomping-ground. I have moved on. I know this anyway, but I was forever reminded of it sat on my bicycle throughout yet another landmark ride.