Wednesday, November 9, 2016

Russet

I'm cutting into Winter in rude health, mobile, willing and motivated. Of course I'd rather be peering into a wine bottle but you can't have it every way. Isn't it an odd time though? In the last weeks bringing home pumpkins, soon to be Jack o' lanterns, surrounded by the sweet kick of huge apples in the background. Or enjoying the multi-rust carnage of the woods, watching as it all falls. I could do a poor-man's Shakespeare and compare the slow and beautiful decay to our own; of how I watched my Mother watching me as I climbed the ladder to harvest the crab apple tree at her house, feeling the moment slip by in total irony. But there is nothing in that scene that can't be better said in silence. It's not a season, it's a sense. And it should be a sense of your own self worth, as well as a timely reminder. I don't see it as a chance for one last cigarette as I sweep up the leaves in the gathering howl of dusk. I can't help but drink in the light and the chance to slow down a little imposed on us by nature. It's only a short, beautiful season, not long in the scheme of things. The mathematical buckos [first Irish builders] that knocked Newgrange together knew what it all meant. From December 21st it all widens out from quiet to a Springtime and Summer riot and then all the way back in again. Reeled in like a Marlin in the Gulf Stream. Its a beautiful, slowing time. Listen to what it says. Regroup, re-examine, relive, return.

The Art of Cycling

Kunst is the German word for art. Cycle racing is an art too. Its no wonder I try to cycle early on Saturday mornings with Kunst Racing Klub. It's simple really. In fact so simple its sublime. You throw a bunch of like-minded cyclists together, they cycle at a common speed with a common goal and go home smiling a couple of hours later. Simple. Except its not. What it takes to bring said like-minded cyclists together is, like Roald Dahl's short story about Hitler's birth, a combination of genesis and catastrophe. Happily the genesis is coffee. Cyclists like coffee. Lipid mobilisation is what the boffins call it. A good buzz is what cyclists want. And stimulated by coffee we spill the metaphorical beans about how we feel. Turns out there's always a common cause. Over the last few years of my life a bunch of us have discovered that cycling is a tough game. Tough and time-consuming. It requires inordinate amounts of patience and understanding from loved ones too. In order not to waste that time, cyclists knock back espressos [Never trust a cyclist that doesn't consume coffee], shake hands and make moves. The genesis of discontent therefore, can often be found in coffee grounds.########################## Then the catastrophe. We all think rapid disasters, multiple deaths, carnage.... In reality catastrophe can be change. Or more accurately, lack of it. Catastrophe on a slow, psychological, wear-you-down-in-a-Gulag kinda way. More coffee is consumed. Nerve-ends, once frayed, become exposed. Catastrophe leads to taking things into your own hands.############################# Saturdays after dawn. Like-minded souls congregate. Not everyone is of the same ability but everyone IS singing off the same hymn sheet. Park the ego, ride the same as your fellow cyclists, sameish effort, same endgame. Banter, and towards the end, a canter. No fascists allowed [yes cycling Nazis do exist], no rosey groups of elite that were introduced to cycling through the friendly patience of club members only for that kindness to be instantly forgotten. A plague on well meaning clubs. Jam novice/A4/A3 and A2 together into a functional assembly and get the work done. Cut out the middle man, meet when you can, ride your bike. Don't impact on your own club in any way. What happens at kunst Racing Klub, stays on the road.################### Kunst. You are thinking very apt. A right bunch. You are thinking of a crowd of no-hopers playing silly-buggers with the local club scene. Actually it's a concept full of hope. We have a hope by doing it right from the start. Anyone like-minded can come along. Just be warned, your say is only worth the same as each of it's participants. And thats the art of Kunst. This bunch, Kunst Racing, are a beauty to behold. Not because of the self-deprecating club name. Not the hairy, knarly racers themselves, just the concept. There's a fluidity, form and function to it, a joy too. I'm not claiming to be part of a moving art installation. I'm just happy to cycle unimpeded by psuedo alpha male codology, with a sound bunch of no-nonsense friends.