Lockdown has given me massive thighs. Perhaps that is a bit of an exaggeration. All right then, not massive but far more substantial than they were in March. It means that I can no longer wear the suit I bought for my daughter’s wedding two years ago. The trousers, already limb-hugging, are now as comfortable as a tourniquet. The creases have disappeared and you can see the veins throbbing underneath the material.
Yes, it’s biking that has done it and hill climbing in particular. Living in Tealby is not like living in Boston or Spalding. Tealby is seriously inclined. Any venture into the Wolds means a blood-vessel bursting ride northwards towards Thoresway or eastwards towards Binbrook. Without the aid of a battery pack, it is punishing. I worry that sometimes I must give the impression that my bike is powered by swear words - the steeper the incline, the coarser the word. However, you soon get to learn that the punishment is short-lived whereas the exhilaration is long-lasting. The sense of achievement I feel having conquered Walesby hill in one go and without stopping is something which I could have inscribed on my gravestone.
But back to the beginning of lockdown. I began regular biking for two reasons. First, because it allowed me to explore further afield and, secondly, it was relatively pain-free. With my dodgy knee and arthritic hips, walking for more than five miles these days leaves me with a hobble for the next twelve hours whereas I can cycle for twenty fives miles and suffer little more than an aching bottom and disheveled hair. Consequently, I have been able to cycle on roads and lanes as far as Hainton, Binbrook, Wold Newton and Swallow in the last few weeks. Not only that, I have ventured off-piste on many occasions, following bridle ways and footpaths across fields and through woods.
Take this morning, for example. I was on a mission to find some bee orchids. Having slogged up the hill next to the ruins of Bayons Manor, I crossed Caistor High Street at Kirmond Top, near the springs at Far Dickey Crook, and was soon driving a flock of sheep in front of me as I descended through the fields into Kirmond-le-Mire. By this time, it was raining which meant my trousers were soaked from a crop of rape and an avenue of meadowsweet. Taking the track past St. Martin’s church, I headed uphill out of the village towards Stainton-le-Vale, slip-sliding in the channels of gravelly mud. Once on level ground again, I could now head back towards Tealby and a grassy track where we had spotted bee orchids last year (or humble-bee orchises as they were known in the late sixteenth century). But, alas, when I arrived at the hedgerow where they should have been, not one of them appeared, even when I whistled for them. Mind you, I shouldn’t have been surprised. Not only do they have a very short flowering season, bee orchids are also very unreliable, often disappearing for a couple of years just for the hell of it.
Even though I was disappointed, I was lucky enough to see many other wild flowers en route. There were fine displays of ox-eye daisies, field scabious, hedge woundwort and lesser knapweed on many field edges with tufted vetch, meadow vetchling, red clover and self-heal clinging to the ground beneath them.
I think clumps of mauve field scabious are amongst the finest sights of high summer. An old country name for them is gypsy roses. As for knapweed, another name for them is hardheads. This refers to the globular flower heads on the plant out of which grows a display of red flowers making it look like a blousy thistle. In days gone by, knapweed was used to treat bruises, scabs and wounds. In fact, much like hedge woundwort whose oil, once extracted, has strong antiseptic properties.
So now you know which plants are the best ones to land near when you next fall off your bike, something I have experienced several times in the past few weeks. Most embarrassing moment? Falling off a stationary bike on the top of Claxby hill. It was the same hill where a few days later I got stuck in a deep rut created by a monster off-roader and had to fling myself off my bike before I was swallowed up into the bowels of the earth. Yes, there have been many mishaps. I have run the gauntlet through corridors of nettles and throbbed for the rest of the day, skidded into hedges, been chased by more than one Dalmatian and frightened stiff by boy racers as they have scared me out of my daydreams while speeding past me on a narrow lane.
My bike is only a hybrid, so I have been asking a lot of it, particularly when I have ventured into all-terrain or mountain bike territory. Perhaps one of the most painful injuries I have suffered is trapping a finger as I have lifted my bike over a stile. I have learned that front wheels have a habit of biting back when you are least expecting it.
Of course, there have been the common problems suffered by bikers. I have had one puncture which occurred on the way to Walesby leading to an awkward walk home. Then I have had slipping gears when a hard push on the pedals has led to a painful meeting of chin and handlebars. Also, the chain has come off several times and got stuck in the gear wheel more than once, leading to black hands and oil streaks on cheeks, nose and forehead.
No wonder then that I needed to get a new chain and gear wheel fitted last week. So now I am set up for another three and a half months of rustic byway adventures.
While we are on the subject of bikes, let me leave you with a fantasy I have been having for the last few weeks. It involves a butcher bike. When I was a teenager, my friend Rick used to ride his butcher bike to our grammar school every day. As an act of rebellion it couldn’t have been bettered. It was so anti-establishment. Imagine then joining the army of elite cyclists on the roads these days mounted on such a bike. Even better if you were wearing the right gear.
Me: Morning. Nice set of wheels. Fancy a swap.
Me: Only kidding, mate. I’m about to pick up my mum. Church starts in ten minutes. Bye.
Perhaps I should paint it in gold. No, keep it to dull black. Such an annoying colour.
Next time: ‘Can I have a word with you?’
