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

Today I have been on what can only be described as another wistful ride. I’ve tired a bit of the energy sapping country-lanes which have been in recent favour, so I set out for Nottingham city centre and its immediate surroundings. There’s nothing like riding around London so I knew full well I would be receiving stimulation of a different kind altogether – the weight of history, perhaps. Whether I like it or not, this place has seen me through formative periods of my life, and I find myself back here once again. Sometimes you can do nothing about circumstance, no matter how hard you try.

The weather was never less than good, occasionally very nice, and I was quite happy to amble about on some unfamiliar terrain without a route in mind, to just savour gliding around carefree. I even opted to ride a significant climb rather than double-back on myself, but my idea of a significant climb would be a stroll to others. This took effort and sweat, and an exchanging of glances with an expensively attired roadie descending in the other direction. Maybe he’d already had his struggles on his ride, and deserved his break. We were in opposition to one another, as well as heading elsewhere.

As I neared the summit a young lad on roller-blades came hurtling down the other side of the road, gaining speed with his pushing before gliding in a tuck position to reap what he had sown. He seemed untroubled that he was in the centre of a road and doing significant speed, and more untroubled still to pause to congratulate me on dragging myself up a hill. Rollerbladers must be selfish and unreasonable, I surmised in-between grunts and groans. Finally I made it to the top where no trouble had been made to erect a banner in recognition of my achievement, so I sulked for a bit.

After pulling myself together I stopped for a can of coke, a Mars bar and a smoke. Some skateboarders were pulling tricks with mixed success down a set of stairs, which gave me eyes something to do. I was just like them years ago, but now I was relegated to mere observer. Mentally I wished them well in their pursuit of a cleanly landed nollie backside heelflip down a set of 10, before resuming my ride. At this point it got interesting, at least for me, which is just as well as I was the only one having it. I headed off to a town on the outskirts of Nottingham, where once upon a time a friend of mine lived in a great house where we’d gather both pre- and post- flexing our minds on chemicals in this or that club.

He is now living the life of Riley on some exotic island somewhere in a capacity I’m unsure of, but we go way back, Jonny and I. We discovered the wonders of clubbing together, and drugs, back when I had all my teeth and a knocked-off purple YSL shirt I was overly fond of. I’m willing to bet he himself has never returned to this house since he left, but I take a peculiar satisfaction out of these sporadic visits to the corners of this world which were once well trodden. It’s cathartic, and I’m a devout proponent of having it out with myself. I couldn’t remember offhand whether the house number was 99 or 199, but there was no doubt I’d remember once I neared it.

And so it was – I’d forgotten too about the newsagents which was run by a guy called Tony I think; perhaps it still is. Maybe if I’d popped in he’d still be there, a living monument to a blast from the past. But I didn’t, as the shop proved its purpose that the house in which I’d many times left a fragmented part of myself still stood where it always has, at 199; just beyond the sound newsagent, who would let us have beer on tick and all that groovy stuff which fuelled the nights out we once thought about to the exclusion of everything else. Heady times indeed, as was passing the house for the first time in many a year. It looked the same, as it would, although I was grateful it was still standing – in that sense it had outlived our collapsing within it when it all got too much, as it frequently did, but now some other occupants were etching their own story into the hallowed turf of 199 Exchange Road.

I’m quite certain they were oblivious to my even being there as I rode past slowly before returning for a final glance, but I’m surer still that they’d have no clue as to my motivation for being there in the first place, my decision to look it up after so long or my contribution to what has since evaporated from its bricks and mortar, if not my memory. I could never have imagined when I used to weave up and down that road in mental euphoria/distress that I would catch something in the air so many years later which had me more assuredly ride along it again, a different person altogether. There’s no value in making predictions anyway, and had I tried to guess what I have become now in comparison to what motivated me then, I’d probably have been way off the mark.

Now I was cruising, literally and mentally. This ride had found its purpose. Next I headed to a tiny bungalow nearby where we rented for too long when we first arrived in Nottingham and were looking for a permanent house. It too was still there in this queer little development which reeks of retirement, but unlike most of the others it appeared unoccupied. Back then this place was run by a couple, Geoff and Lucy. He became sadly infamous as one of his other properties in town of which he was also landlord developed a gas leak which killed its tenant as he slept, or there was an explosion, I forget which. Naturally that did for poor Geoff, but he was a nice enough bloke. I have nothing to say about Lucy.

After this detour I headed for the river Trent, where an elderly gentleman on a gorgeous and pristine touring Mercian rode past. I enjoyed seeing this beautiful bike as it made me vow to treat myself to a similar custom bike from them one day, when my requirements shift towards that kind of refined approach. I look forward to that. Spotting a bench I sat down to smoke a roll-up and process the emotions which had been triggered thus far. As I did a gentleman, this time with his wife or perhaps his lover, I cast no aspersions, on another Mercian rode on by. His was not in quite as good condition as the other, but it was heartening to see another clearly well loved and utilised bike. I expect both men have owned and enjoyed their bikes for many years, and continue to gain pleasure from them.

It struck me as I smoked and digested my thoughts that this area and my enjoyment of it had occurred getting on for half my lifetime ago. That took some swallowing. Where has the time gone? What have I become? Such things are conducive to sitting on a bench gazing at water I find, especially if happening soon after tipping your hat to previous haunts. Thankfully I couldn’t mull it over for too long as a woman with a tremendous black Labrador engaged in a game of fetch neared. The dog bounded up towards me, ball in its sopping jaws, expressing its delight at meeting me in that way a thoroughly content dog does. I made a fuss of him while he decided what to do next, continue his game with his owner or receive more attention from me. Such is the lot of an animal. No worries. I wonder if they'd trade places with us.

He returned to me twice more, each time as if we were making our acquaintance all over again. After he’d run off for the final time I looked at my bike propped up against the bench, and considered just what this machine, and all others like it, is capable of. It had propelled me around the neglected backwaters of my mind on this journey, but it was never the star. It was the means to an end. This was not a ‘ride’, in the fitness/statistical achievement sense; far from it. The bike was a constant presence throughout though, obviously, which if nothing else perfectly illustrates the differing intentions of a ride and the various emotions they can evoke, as much as it does the versatility of a humble bike. I could have walked this route, but anyone who loves riding a bike knows it wouldn’t have spurred the same depth of feeling. It adds to the experience subtly but convincingly, as it carried me from one memory to the next.

Such is their power, and the profundity you can find in a ride. I’m not surprised by its ability to affect me in this way anymore, but I’m finding myself increasingly grateful to my dependence and enjoyment of them. They’re stimulation in replacement of the kind I used to throw myself at, albeit much better for me and rewarding in ways I could never once have imagined. It had served me well once again, so I decided to stretch its legs on the return journey, to let it have its moment rather than hog them all for myself. On the way back to my parents I took a slight diversion to a really astonishing road, which had never been more appropriate as a finale. Actually I’ve only ridden it once before as I found it quite by chance, but it’s instantly become one of my favourites, certainly around here anyway.

On that occasion I had my road-bike underneath me but I was fixed earlier, and there was just no comparison in which had the shivers up my spine. The road itself is undulating without ever being a struggle, and relatively traffic-free. It’s up on high so the views are staggering regardless of where you look, and its sheer openness just benefits from pushing the bike as hard as you dare, and I dared. The frame didn’t flex a millimetre, no budging whatsoever, as it stayed well inline and stable no matter how hard I pushed it. Truly, it was glorious. For a good couple of miles the road just beckons with inviting turns, which are a joy to string together. Several riders from I assume a club were heading in the opposite direction who had either ridden quite a way and were tired, or rather chose to take it easy and drink it all in.

I nodded to them on occasion but I had my mind set on stretching out on the bullhorns and getting as streamlined as I was able, while gathering as much speed as I dared, and revelling in the sheer joy of tanking a fixed bike along a tremendous road. There’s nothing quite like it, there really isn’t. After a while it became effortless, as if the bike was riding me, like it knew where it was headed. No words do justice to that feeling. Utter freedom and abandonment, but all with complete control. I carried my speed well along there and wished that I had my trip-computer with me, but this ride was never about data. It was more cerebral than that. The road finally ended, having given up the best of its seemingly purposely designed for cycling details, and I headed back to my parents house, where the railway crossing was closed as I arrived in the town once again. As I slowed for the first time in several miles before coming to a complete stop to wait until the traffic could move, I put my foot on the pavement and realised my entire body was shaking; adrenalin. There’s nothing quite like that either.