Now, some of you may recognise that as the title of a track by Genesis, taken from the post-Gabriel era album A Trick of the Tail. Not one of their better songs, but the album happens to be the first album I ever bought, so I hold it in some esteem. Anyway, fear not. This isn’t heading towards some ramblings about the brilliance of prog rock, although maybe that’s something for me to consider at a later date (don’t say you haven’t been warned). No, this is about Tuesday 2nd January 2024.
The day began like any other, pretty much. My body took several minutes to come to life; my brain took several more; my heart just wasn’t in it. Still, it was the second day of the new year, and I suddenly felt compelled to get off my arse and make the most of it. Since I’d spent the previous afternoon in the garage, tinkering and fettling – bikes need attention, and I don’t neglect my bikes – I knew I should get to tidying up the garage . Bikes needed re-hanging on the walls and tools needed replacing in the toolbox; bits of old cables and cable housings needed binning, along with strips of old insulating tape following some handlebar tape re-wrapping. Plan formed in my brain, confirming that, once I’d finished, I could get out for a spin on one of said bikes. One of these, waiting to be put away:
Here’s where it began to take a turn; a sinister turn, if you will. Well, not that sinister at all, actually. Just a turn to upset my plans. How? The bloody car wouldn’t start. You see, to allow me the space and freedom to sort out the garage, that garage needed to be devoid of precisely one car. Dead battery said “No!” I said, “Oh, crap!”
Here, I should interject with an admission. I think I have only myself to blame. Some weeks ago, I opened the bonnet and spotted this:
Was that corrosion? Certainly a deposit of something not good for a battery? Dr Goooooogle soon advised me that it could be an indicator of imminent failure. I soon advised Dr Gooooooogle that a quick clean up and a liberal application of Vaseline would cure this disease. At best, I delayed it for about a month. Guilty as charged, m’lud.
Solution? Slap on the charger to (hopefully) give it enough oomph to get the motor started, phone Mrs T, arrange for replacement battery, dust off the credit card. That’ll do it. Except, during that the process of reconnecting the ailing battery to check that it was sufficiently powerful to start the old flat-four, I managed to drop the 10mm socket into the engine bay. I heard it land on what sounded like plastic. No problem, there’s a plastic splash tray under the engine bay, so I’ll find the socket in no time. Ha! 15 minutes later and the bastard socket was nowhere to be seen. I had 20 minutes to get the car to the garage to have the battery fitted, so off I set, convinced that young Master 10mm would either fall out, never to be seen again, or lodge himself somewhere nasty, either to rattle the sanity from my very being, or to henceforth break some pump or pulley or switch or thingummy. I told you, my glass is always half empty.
Fast-forward an hour or so. Can’t stop fretting about that socket, so I take the car into the adjacent car park where I can lift the front end, thanks to some handily placed kerbstones, and thereby have better access to the splash tray. I had to remove it, to satisfy myself that that shiny lump of metal was no longer hiding; hiding and waiting to wreak some kind of psychotic revenge. No problem. The tray is held on with eleven plastic clips, which are easily prised out with a flat-head screwdriver, and four bolts. Erm, yes problem. They are bolts, two of which are recessed so I will need a socket. A 10mm socket. Actually, no. A 12mm socket, but guess what…
Yup, my basic set has an 11 and a 13, but…
FFS!
Thankfully, being a relatively resourceful kinda guy (ha!), I managed to cobble together the means to undo the bolts by careful application of, not one, but two adjustable spanners. Thus, tray removed. No socket lodged on the tray. All ledges and whatnot near the battery checked as best I could, either with fingers or bad eyes or phone camera. Nowt. Fair enough. It was probably being abused on the asphalt, somewhere between home and the car dealer.
Of course it bloody wasn’t. Just as I knelt to begin replacing the splash tray, a glint of sunshine reflecting off something shiny caught my eye. The bastard, bastard socket was just there, tucked in behind part of the front bumper trim, and I managed to remove it within seconds by simply pulling the (plastic) bumper slightly to one side. F.F.S!
So there you have it.
Robbery – NT$5,600 from my credit card.
Assault – my sanity took a beating.
Battery.
Oh, and I stand by what I’ve been saying for years. Batteries will always let you down. Phone, laptop, Garmin, watch, singing Christmas hat, you name it. It happened in my Mondeo on New Years day back in the UK when Mrs T was 8 months pregnant. Sudden failure; no warning. I’m sorry, but I won’t be buying an electric car any time soon. So there.
Regular readers will know that I take a certain amount of perverse pleasure from posting images of Carrefour’s typos. I am very happy to report that they are in good company. Here’s one from our Trans-Atlantic cousins:
Crap photo (sorry about that) of a massive ad’ in the local Costco. I think it could even be an Aussie wine, so bonus points to me for a real international find.
Actually, the French have come up trumps again. There’s a new Decathlon superstore somewhere on this glorious island. I know this as an advertising flyer arrived in our post box the other day and this caught my eye:
I’ve no doubt that this would find a niche market, somewhere on this here Internet.
Taking a slight tangent with this one, as there’s nothing wrong with it – it just tickled me. Teenage boys will also be giggling, I have no doubt.
I’ll end on my favourite topic. Cycling is about to hit town as the Tour de Taiwan 2014 kicks off in a few days. I happened to be browsing the website and clicked the ‘translate’ option. I think the Gusto Team may struggle (you may need to click on the image to appreciate this one):
There are no top tunes about the Tour de Taiwan, so you’ll have to make do with this:
There are many things about life in Taiwan that your average Westerner would find a little unusual. In a previous post https://fiftyyearsandcounting.wordpress.com/2013/09/23/be-carrefour-what-you-wishfour I presented an image of the wonder of an Iron Man display in one of the many huge temples dotted around the island. Pretty strange by anyone’s standards. Then again, back in December, I was on an early bike ride when I was confronted by a truck pulling a trailer on which a scantily-clad young woman was pole dancing. When I say December, I should point out that it was actually quite cold (around 7 or 8 degrees Centigrade); when I say early, I should point out that it was just after 7am; when I say a scantily-clad young woman pole dancing, I should say it was a scantily-clad young woman pole dancing, freezing her wotsits off while a couple of dozen old blokes looked on, comfortably wrapped in puffa jackets, hats and gloves. Did I mention that it was 7am and 7 degrees and she was pole dancing on the back of a truck? Sadly, I had no camera to hand as I was belting along at about 25mph behind a couple of local cycling monsters riding Cervelos with deep section rims and wearing Biketime Cycling Team jerseys. (This in itself is noteworthy as I am used to riding steady pace at the beginning of a ride [and we were less than 30 minutes from the start] while cranking-up the pace in the final hour or so.)
Anyway, this is not what I wanted to illustrate today. Sorry, but I’m going to have to have a bit of a gripe about driving again. More precisely, a gripe about the bit that comes at the end of the driving bit: the parking. I’ll forgive you for switching off now, but I’ll be brief.
Friday. I drove across town. I got to my destination and spent 10 minutes driving around looking for a parking space. Here.
While circling the block, I had to pass the car in the background a couple of times. This one:
Essentially, my gripe is this. I spend 10 minutes looking for a space. I park. I get the legitimate ticket and I’ll pay my $NT20 next time I go to 7-Eleven. It’s a good system. Meanwhile, Mr Nissan parks on a red line (equivalent to double-yellow back home) on a junction and he is completely ignored. He was there before I arrived and he was still there when I returned about 30 minutes later.
As with most of the road behaviour here, there is no justice. There is no enforcement. There is no deterrent. Plod simply pick on little old ladies on their scooters turning right on a red light.
Ah well, it gives me an excuse to entertain you with a road-themed classic:
Since my last effort to amaze and amuse, I’ve amassed a tidy little collection of images I need to share with the world.
As ever, Carrefour is a magnificent source of material. I’ll start you with this:
Since you ask, no, I wasn’t in the musical instrument section. Proof? This was in an aisle nearby:
The neglect shown towards all those little infants saddens me immensely. Still, if you have a hungry little monster to attend to, there’s always provision. Just be careful to avoid the cashier:
Sorry, crshier. I have visions of a really uptight individual cursing all and sundry through clenched teeth. You don’t want to be messing with him/her.
That’s enough for now, but fear not! I shall return to Carrefour before I conclude this feast of visual delights. It’s probably my favourite, so you’ll have to stay with me, and anyone caught skipping to the end will be placed in detention.
A change of venue brings me to the park just around the corner from our house, where there are strict rules by which we must abide:
Funny. We had been thinking of traipsing round there and firing up a barbeque, but the sputum issue had been a bit of a worry. You can imagine how we were simultaneously relieved and disappointed, but that was nothing compared to the abject horror at being denied the chance to don our alpine gear. (It is still winter in these parts):
I should point out that it’s as flat as the proverbial pancake in this part of Taiwan. Oh, and I should think the last time Tainan experienced snow or ice, the British Isles were still joined to mainland Europe (if you see what I mean).
I’ve been lucky enough to hook up with a fellow Brit cyclist in the last few weeks. I don’t have a picture to prove it, but I do have another cycling image to illustrate how bikes are revered out here:
Rest assured, this is not an exceptionally valuable machine with delicate paintwork, it is not brand new and parked outside a bike shop, nor is it very cold here so keeping it warm is not an issue (see above), but there is this peculiar trend for leaving bikes partially clothed in bubble-wrap. Any locals reading? Please explain. Ta.
On the subject of unusual clothing, there was some kind of religious festival the other day. Many, many people passed by our house over a period of several hours. Lots of what you’d expect. Drums, dragons, lions, screechy-type music, firecrackers, gongs, bright colours, scooters, blokes chewing betel nuts, scantily-clad young women pole-dancing. You know, that kind of thing. However, what struck me was the number of these on show:
That’s trilby hats, not Audis, in case you were wondering. [Sorry, chaps. Didn’t feel it was appropriate to snap the pole-dancers!] Who’d have thought that the good old trilby would find a home in this society, let alone in this kind of festival and procession?
For those of you disappointed by the lack of car focus in this post thus far, feast your eyes on this little beauty:
Hilarious. Even more so when I tell you that it has curtains fitted. Made my day.
Now, we are often accused of stereotyping the Chinese, and I admit to having posted the dreadful Harrow gag a few months ago. Then again, it’s difficult not to smile at stuff like this. (Not a vely good pic, but look carefully near the blight light reflections):
Makes good coffee. I take care to purse my lips and brow it gently before I take a sip.
Christmas is now a distant memory, but at least we didn’t end up under the hideous golden arches this year. I spotted this while we were in Taipei in November. Seemed rather appropriate.
Taipei also provided a couple of favourites. Park rules almost on a level with that other Fine City, Singapore:
Me and the boy needed to take a leak while we were enjoying the park; luckily neither of us needed a longer visit:
We never did find the toilet for a No. 2.
After school classes can be found everywhere. There’s one at the end of our little terrace that gives lessons on Lego. Yes, really. I took these for some friends of ours in Kaohsiung who are rather fond of Star Wars stuff:
Sorry, Darren and Conner, they’ve been removed from the window now, but we know the owners if you want to come and take a look.
I promised some more CarrefourtheloveofGodwhatweretheythinking, so here’s one of which I’m particularly fond. It also gives me the opportunity to shoehorn in an old favourite tune at the end:
Now, with a title like that, this ought to be a short missive on Hugh Grant – okay, that was a very long time ago, so you kids had better just look it up – but it’s a term that struck me one afternoon as I was sat in the car at one of the countless intersections in Kaohsiung. You see, red light creep is a condition or a disease, rather than an odious individual looking for a good time. More specifically, it is a condition seen across Taiwan if the circumstances are right; namely, a set of traffic lights and a road user. In my (admittedly limited) experience of the island, the disease is fairly well established in every corner, wherever road meets road and driver meets traffic lights. While the term itself has been gnawing away in my mind for a few months, only today did it occur to me that it could be a useful catch-all term for the bizarre, confusing, frustrating and crazy monster that exists under the name of road use in this glorious island.
Any regular readers will perhaps recall that in earlier posts I have been particularly concerned with cycle safety on the roads of Great Britain. Since I moved to Taiwan, my attention has been on other things, but I’ve been storing up ideas and now seems as good a time as any to unleash them on the world. Hopefully, the world to which I refer will include Taiwan (not Chinese Taipei – are you listening, WHO, UN, IOC and other world bodies*?) as this is for you.
I fully expect that some of you may be thinking “look at him, coming over here an telling us how to use our roads!”, and I realise that I may be being rather presumptuous for daring to offer some advice, but I do know a thing or two about road safety. I have been trained by the police in the UK and I passed my Institute of Advanced Motorists (IAM) test some 22 years ago, so I have some expertise on the matter and, ultimately, bad driving is bad driving, whatever the geographical location.
If you’ve got this far, I guess I should explain how the title is so pertinent. Essentially, there is an unwritten rule of Taiwanese road use which says “Thou shalt not wait!”, with the qualifying clause “especially at a red light for any longer than is absolutely necessary, and even then, don’t worry if you think you can get away with it.” There is a fundamental issue of road use which is epitomised at the traffic light junctions the length and breadth of the island; drivers simply cannot wait for the light to go green. Similarly, they cannot wait for other to pass, cross, park, turn, or any other legitimate activity on the road. Read on, and I’ll explain.
Hang on. Before I go any further, take a look at this.
I think it’s in China, rather than Taiwan, but it’s kind of relevant to the text. It’s pretty funny too, if a bit of schadenfreude doesn’t bother you.
I should make it clear that the road/driving system seems to work, and there is evidently some method in the madness, but the madness is there all the same. I have done countless hours on a scooter: scary. I have done hundreds of miles in the car: scary, but at least I have a steel cage around me. I have done many hours on my bikes: scariest. I have yet to witness an accident, but have been on the scene soon after on several occasions – mostly scooter related incidents. I should also make it clear that I have an old laptop that seems to work. It’s rather old and slow; it’s from another era; my new one is more efficient, nicer to use and makes use of the latest technology and thinking. Changing a laptop is easy – changing a nation’s attitude to road use is all but impossible, but here are some observations and suggestions from this weary old ex-pat.
This is going to be text-heavy, so here’s a short clip to set the tone. No schadenfreude here and it’s definitely not for the faint hearted:
This looks like a clear case of the driving simply jumping the red light, but it also highlights the fact that so many scooter riders and drivers seem to focus only on what is immediately ahead. Bearing in mind that red light jumping is also endemic, one would be foolhardy to cross any junction at speed, especially if you are faced with a clear road ahead.
If you doubt that there is a widespread problem, try this compilation:
Notice how they are pretty much all self-inflicted and/or avoidable with a little awareness or forethought on the part of those involved.
Here are a few examples of what could be improved, not just for me, but for the benefit of everyone, not least through a reduction in the widespread air pollution in urban areas.
The Red Light Creep
May I suggest politely that creepers just wait a few seconds until the light changes to green. Gradual creep and the almost inevitable subsequent minor braking (because there will almost certainly be someone jumping the red light across your bows) will increase the fuel burnt and the wear on both brakes and transmission. Try waiting – it will certainly save you money and may save your life. To be fair, the highways authorities could help with this one. At nearly all junctions it is possible to see the lights on the opposing side changing, so the stop signal also acts as a tacit go signal for those waiting for green. Furthermore, many junctions have a countdown to green, so you know that you will have to wait 90, 60, 45 seconds, or whatever. The problem is that at many junctions, the lights stay red for 90, 60, 45 seconds, or whatever, irrespective of whether there is any traffic. i.e. most lights, as far as I have been able to tell, are not traffic sensitive at all. Now this is a country full of high-tech gadgets and gizmos and the manufacturers thereof; surely it is not beyond the wit of a crack team of electronics nerds and geeks to come up with a system to address this. We have it in the UK and we’re a pretty low-tech society, by comparison. Imagine the fuel that would be saved and the pollution reduction if just a small percentage of the 22.5 million cars and scooters, not to mention commercial vehicles, were not sat needlessly at red lights for several minutes each journey.
The Right Turners.
For the love of God, why can’t people wait for the person in front to pass across the junction, rather than speeding past, slamming on the brakes and cutting across in front, thus causing the other party to have to brake sharply as well? I’d estimate that for the sake of delaying a manoeuvre by five seconds (on average), errant drivers could save themselves fuel and brake wear, and save the innocent party fuel, brake wear and excessive anxiety, while simultaneously reducing the risk of collision should the move be mis-timed. The same thing happens for left turns, only this time you can see the offender cutting across you path. The rules, such as they are, seem to go something like this: 1) If you think it unavoidable that the oncoming vehicle will hit you, hang on. 2) If you think the oncoming vehicle has enough room to brake sharply enough to avoid you, bugger it, turn across in front of it. To be fair, you get used to it and heightened anticipation is an essential element of any journey. It’s still intensely frustrating, however, and I can best illustrate this with a little more first-hand experience. Some months ago, while out on my bike, I was descending on a wide but wet road. Visibility was fine. Traffic was minimal. I spotted a vehicle looking to turn across in front of me, also descending. I saw the driver looking at me; he paused momentarily and I thought I was safe. Oh, what a fool I was! He decided to wait no longer – I was now some 40 yards closer. I dared not brake, so I accelerated past and screamed at him through his open window. He’d saved himself the obligatory 5 seconds or so. My shorts were close to taking a hammering from my arsehole.
It should be noted that it also works the other way. Namely, I can be signalling right for several seconds and gradually easing towards a turn and some clown, or several clowns (technically a pratfall of clowns, if Goooooogle and Wikipedianyoldnonsense are to be believed) on scooters will still want to try and pass on the inside. All for the sake of saving a few seconds. Just remember, you’ll have plenty of spare seconds when you are in you grave or on your life support system.
As a footnote to this section, I can’t resist the urge to clarify: I’m a Turner and I am usually right. ;0)
The I Don’t Give a Damn about Anyone Else Syndrome
I could probably cite dozens of examples of this, but a suitable incident occurred the other night. I was outside a 7 Eleven taking a quick break from my bike ride, guzzling on a bottle of Pocari Sweat (honest) and trying to refill my lungs with relatively fresh air. Parked immediately outside the store was a scooter, behind which I stood taking said breather. Sure enough, the scooter pilot jumped on and immediately fired up the engine, despite the fact that: a) he couldn’t possibly drive away from where he was, what with scooters having no reverse gear and all that, and: b) there was I, a 51 year-old, 6’4″ Lycra-clad stick-insect, dripping with sweat. A few litres of carbon monoxide fired straight up my nose was just what I needed. Could he have waited about 5 seconds and hit the ignition after pushing the scooter back to the road? Could he bollocks. Yes, it’s a petty example, but perlease, oh loverly people of Taiwan… how about a little thought for those around you? Again, there are cost and pollution implications – indeed, it seems to be common practice to reverse out of spaces with the motor running, irrespective of the presence of sweaty cyclists or other hapless passers-by. It makes no sense.
Crossing the Road
Back to the ubiquitous traffic light for a moment. There are usually little animated green or red men to indicate that pedestrians should cross, or otherwise refrain from doing so. The little green fella starts to speed up as the time to cross nears an end. Take a look:
The problem is that a green man is not any form of assurance that it is safe to cross, since traffic turning left or right into the road takes its cue from the green light. While technically, pedestrians do seem to have priority, this does not mean traffic will wait and allow sufficient room – cars, lorries, trucks, vans, buses and scooters will routinely cut across in front or behind with inches to spare. I have frequently slapped the sides of vehicles whilst uttering some Anglo-Saxon curse to fall on deaf ears. The situation is especially upsetting when I am crossing with my 2 year old son. In a society which apparently reveres children, allowing safe passage to the same is not a given. Once again, a pause of a handful of seconds would see pedestrians safely out of harms way.
Eye Contact
Whatever you do, never ever make eye contact. It seems that this implies liability in the event of a mishap. “It can’t have been my fault, officer, because I didn’t see (read: look at) him.” In truth, this is often an impossibility in any case, as a huge percentage of cars have mirrored or blacked-out windows. Frankly, you never get to see who it is who’s trying to kill or maim you.
The Speed Differential
The roads here are packed with scooters, and I often wonder what the scooter has done for this economy as they have a myriad of uses. I suspect that in terms of accidents per miles driven they are actually relatively safe. Indeed I hope this is so because it is not unusual to see kids riding pillion, riding in the foot-well, riding wedged between mum and dad. A whole family can get around on a scooter: mum, dad, two kids and a dog is quite normal.
Imagine this in the UK – the Daily Mail would implode with righteous indignation and the parents would be locked up just as soon as the kids had been carted off to Barnardos and the dog to the local pound. However, the major risk for the majority of scooterists of Taiwan, as far as I can see (if you remove the very real risk of lung disease from the filthy air) is the minority of clowns who insist on blasting along at about twice the average of all other road users. I have had countless episodes of near misses on both two and four wheels where a scooter has appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, and fractions of a second either way could have proven catastrophic if I’d turned or adjusted my own line into its path. Mirrors get a lot of use on my journeys and the good old ‘life-saver’ check (thanks, motorcycle training men of Crawley!) has become second nature.
Out Here, we Drive on the Right, Right?
Wrong! Bear in mind that if you are not familiar with driving in Taiwan, we mostly drive on the, right, but if the place we want to get to happens to be just down the road, we’ll drive on the left. Thus, a scooter or bicycle could be heading your way – i.e. against the flow of the traffic – at any time on any road, at any junction. You have been warned. Yes, you’ve guessed it; there is no point using the right side of the road if you can save yourself a few seconds by risking your safety (and that of a few dozen others). Add in the family-on-a-bike scenario and here’s a recipe for disaster. Sooner or later.
Who’d Have Thought that a Red Light Means Stop?
A simple tip, folks. There is no point in accelerating at a red light, especially if you can see that there are still 90, 60, 45 seconds or whatever remaining until that friendly green light shows its pretty little face. Red means you are supposed to stop, so just relax the throttle and slow down naturally, using the brake if necessary if the light hasn’t changed to green by the time you get there. I’m constantly being passed by vehicles as I am slowing for a light. Similarly, if there’s a narrowing gap ahead – perhaps I should refer to this as a pinch point or bottleneck – there is no point in accelerating towards it. Why not simply back off the throttle and allow those in front to filter through first? If you charge into a narrowing gap, it creates the situation where everyone has to brake and (probably) stop; if you ease off and allow space for those ahead to negotiate the space…well, you work it out.
I guess I’ll add to this as new and/or forgotten issues arise, but I’ll leave it there for now. The eternal pessimist in me knows that nothing will change, but if only one person changes one aspect of their driving behaviour, it will have been worth it.
Slightly off topic, but in case you missed it in the news a few days ago, here’s one lucky, lucky bastard**:
*Disclaimer. I admit that, owing to the early onset of a severe bout of bone idleness, I have not researched this, so I apologise if I have misrepresented any of these venerable institutions. Then again, the fact that Taiwan is still ‘not recognised’ by any individual, government or organisation is disgraceful in this day and age.
I’ve tried to make a point of capturing a few more images during the past few days. I realise that for the hard of reading, more pictures = more attention. Furthermore, as I’m a bit of a lazy git, what with a picture painting a thousand words and all that, I can save myself hours on the old QWERTY.
Let me begin with the boy’s first felony. He took a shine to a rather spiffing Lamborghini and promptly relieved its owners of said Italian loveliness. Exhibits A & B, your honour:
I believe this is known as a TWOC in police-speak. No doubt Dan will correct me if necessary.
On the way out to the scene of this heinous crime we passed some roadworks. We’d have crashed into the truck if it hadn’t been for this chap:
This is a pretty standard device on the roads here. The best bit is that the arms wave, but I think he could do with a sandwich or a bowl of noodles.
The journey home found us getting thirsty, so we stopped for some banana milk (cue Lizzy) and a packet of seaweed crisps. We did share them, but the boy was too busy to photograph his dad:
I know it’s seaweed, but the photograph in the middle reminds me of a line in this:
Spinach in your teeth (@1:42) is definitely not a good look, however cute you may be.
Yesterday was quite warm, so I set off reasonably early for my weekend ride. I followed the river up to Hengshan and then crossed the bridge before starting to climb the mountain. This is before the painful bit, looking at where I’m heading and back down the river to where I’ve just been:
As I started the climb, I spotted another cyclist just ahead; I had him pegged at about twenty seconds in front, but I could not close the gap, and after twenty minutes I simply had to sit up and creep up the final few hundred metres. I stopped at the junction, scoffed a banana, downed a bottle of Pocari Sweat (yes, that is the name of a sports drink – Japanese, I think?) and tried to capture the moment on digital celluloid:
A welcome, fast descent awaited, marked by this bridge at the bottom. An old boy was walking along the centre line for some reason; perhaps he doesn’t like heights?
The views either side made the pain of the climb worthwhile, and I still had a long steady descent along the valley to come.
This was a timely reminder that you never quite know what is around the next corner:
Actually, it’s usually dogs just wandering around. You can never be sure what they are going to do, so I always prepare for a sprint should the dastardly mutts suddenly turn and give chase. (I must have passed hundreds in recent weeks: just two have decided to have a little dig, but no contact made with my flesh as yet. I still get that cold feeling and goosebumps when I fear that a dog is going to start ripping chunks out of my calf.)
Other hazards include pretty much anyone who happens to be on the road. Not far from home yesterday, some old bloke decided to get on his scooter and pull out into the road with nary a glance. I anticipated that he may well do this, but he kept on going, right across the lane into the space at which I was heading at about 25 mph (*cough* slightly downhill and a following wind *cough*), so when I eventually arrested my speed and swerved back to the nearside, I turned to give him the most severe of my withering looks. Of course, he was completely unfazed, unlike my shorts which had a few moments of abject terror foist upon them. Thankfully, chamois shame was averted, dear reader.
I have to admit, since I arrived on 6th December, I’ve not ridden my bike anywhere near as often as I had hoped. One decent ride out of Kaohsiung with four others on the 29th December, memorable for a pretty grim trek to get out of the filthy air of the city followed by about 1000 feet of uninterrupted climbing, fixing two chains (Shimano, obv’) and a total distance of 50 miles in three and a half hours (but 5.25 hours door to door – i.e. a fair bit of waiting around.) One of the lads took a few photographs:
Well, I say lads. The two Taiwanese chaps here are both recently retired naval officers; both are 51 years old but neither have been riding very long. I reckon they did pretty well to get up the climb as quickly as they did. I appear to have swapped my own legs with those of a stork.
This is my wife’s cousin’s husband – also a naval officer, but still serving. I told him it was sacrilege to have Shimano on a Bianchi; I should have stressed that the chains are made of chocolate. I’m also trying to persuade him to stop smoking.
We stopped here for a breather and repairs; I didn’t feel the need to offer any prayers. It is a MASSIVE temple. What you see here is probably about the equivalent of a garden shed when compared with the full size of the site. We (me and the Chens) visited it a few years ago – it is so large that you wouldn’t believe me if I tried to describe it properly.
Anyway, here’s the ride profile, courtesy of my Garmin Edge 800:
Here in Zhubei, the weather has been so grim for much of the time and I didn’t bring any winter cycling gear, I have hardly had any opportunities to ride in comfort. I did manage a nice ride on Saturday. The profile was not dissimilar to the one above:
According to my GPS, I climbed for over 12 miles on leaving my front door. I can’t think of anywhere in the UK where I’ve done that. To be fair, the incline was hardly noticeable for the first 10 miles as I simply followed the river, but on the climb proper, up through a rather lovely orange-growing area, I could have done with a smaller gear at times. A compact chainset may be a worthwhile investment if I’m going to be out here for a while. The descent was pretty hairy in places – lovely smooth tarmac, but not always still clinging to the hillside. Mental note: landslides appear to be an issue.
The good news is that my local bike shop (LBS in cycling parlance) is much better than I could have expected. It’s a Giant store, but it is not exclusively Giant. The proprietor, Erick, has some interesting stuff in there and he seems to know his way around the spanners. Best of all, Campagnolo kit can be seen on frames in his store. All is well with the world.
As a final point, here is my new daily ride:
Me and the boy get around this city on two wheels now, whenever we need to go more than a block or two. It ain’t big enough, but we manage. The sharp-eyed among you will have noted that it’s none other than the Dianar-X, City Sprinter. Just remember, envy is not an attractive personal characteristic.
This phrase cropped up again the other day. It bothers me. Similarly, there are signs on some motorways which shout confidently that tiredness kills and that I should take a break. Maybe it’s the analyst in me that won’t accept these statements at face value, but probably it’s the fact that such statements are well-meaning but misleading. I’m pretty sure that I’ve travelled at speeds in excess of 500mph many, many times, and that I survived the experience. (I suppose I could be dreaming, but let’s assume it’s not all in my imagination.) I’ve also been tired on more than one occasion and, although I have probably opined that I felt like death, it has never actually killed me.
Anyway, the titular phrase cropped up in a debate about – quelle surprise! – cycle helmets and road safety. Somebody was advocating the wider implementation of 20mph speed limits in certain areas; somebody else (post Bradley Wiggins’s comments the other day) was arguing for the compulsory wearing of helmets by those of us on bicycles. On the face of it, both of these ideas appear to be perfectly reasonable and beyond criticism. Surely they will improve road safety and reduce the risk of serious injury to drivers, cyclists and pedestrians alike. Surely I would be daft to question the wisdom of such thinking. Fortunately, I’m convinced that I’m not (yet) daft, at least when such matters are under debate. The statements should be scrutinised very carefully.
My issue with the speed thing is that it implies that speed is inherently dangerous. It is not. As my earlier comment confirms, it is possible to go very fast and survive. If you doubt me, ask an astronaut. It’s no different to guns, I suppose; the problems arise when someone pulls the trigger. My issue with the helmet debate is the assertion, heard all too often, that they will save your life. Well, as I understand it, a helmet may protect you from a minor injury and maybe even a serious injury, but it may also cause injury. Most likely is that it will make no difference at all. A common statement made by those with some knowledge of a cycling accident is that “the helmet saved my/his/her life”. Perhaps it did, but how do they know for sure without recreating the exact circumstances of the accident minus the helmet? If you are wearing a helmet, this effectively increases the size of your head, and this may have consequences in a fall. I had my eureka moment on this several years ago while working on construction sites, wearing the obligatory hard hat. For several days after first donning said safety device I banged my head on countless occasions. Nothing serious, but I banged my head time and time again until my body and brain figured out that I had to compensate for the greater dimensions of my head space and for the loss of the sensitivity to close objects offered by my hair. Rest assured, I am not anti-helmet; I’d just prefer to hear both sides of the argument, rather than assertions that those who choose not to wear a few hundred grammes of polystyrene on their head are in some way irresponsible and only worthy of our collective contempt. Incidentally, I’m no scientist, but as I understand it, the arguments comparing motorcycle helmets and car seat belts are not valid. These are proven to have a significant impact in accidents; cycle helmets do not enjoy such empirical evidence.
I’ve rather glossed over the question of speed, but it continues to bother me. Perhaps we could have a 20mph speed limit in some areas. In fact, why not make it 5mph? My view is that it is very dangerous to focus on a headline speed limit. Frankly, when I’m on my bike, my major concern is that I am not hit by another road user, whatever the speed. Tell some drivers that the limit is 20mph and you could well be removing their obligation to think about whether even this maximum is appropriate. I would far rather be passed by a car at 40mph, 12 feet away, than one at 20mph within a few inches. At risk of labouring the point, it is not the speed that will kill but the impact of the vehicle travelling at a speed inappropriate to the prevailing conditions. Here is the crux of the matter. Most drivers are simply not thinking about their driving; most don’t deliberately try to harm cyclists; most have no idea about how close they pass; most have done nothing about improving their driving after having passed their test, one, five, twenty or forty years ago.
I ought to digress for a moment, for reasons which should become apparent later. Perhaps it’s the latent hippie in me (although I was born about ten years too late to experience genuine flower power), but I fail to understand why we can’t just live happily and take care of those around us. Peace and love and all that, man. A few years ago, I was pondering the change to the law dealing with smoking in public places and wondered why we should have to legislate about such matters. It is barely conceivable that people are still unaware of the dangers of smoking and, more significantly, passive smoking. If you cared about your fellow man, why would you want to smoke in a place frequented by others? Imagine if I had a chronic flatulence problem. Would I park up every evening in my local hostelry and fart loudly and frequently like some malodorous, bean-fuelled gremlin? I’m pretty sure that most people in our society would find such behaviour rather unacceptable, even though extended exposure to passive methane inhalation is unlikely to be a cause of cancer (although I half expect the Daily Hate or the Daily Express to tell us otherwise fairly soon).
I think it is evident that speed doesn’t kill. Selfish, irresponsible, arrogant use of speed by those in ton-and-a-half metal boxes is the problem. I simply don’t understand why you wouldn’t want to do everything reasonable to ensure the safety of fellow road users. Paradoxically, it would be deemed outrageous for a smoker to enter a non-smoker’s house or car and sit puffing on their 23rd Marlboro of the day. Can you imagine the kerfuffle this would cause? In other words, people do care about how their behaviour impacts on others, so why isn’t this applied to the roads?
I’m the first to applaud the fact that Bradley Wiggins, the newly crowned darling of British sport, does not appear to have been to the School of Media Blandness, like so many other high-profile sportsmen and women. He wears his heart on his (Lycra) sleeve; put a microphone in his face and he answers and speaks as though he actually means it. Never mind that a few choice expletives have been known to slip through – he speaks the language of the ordinary man. My guess is that the ordinary man will actually listen to what he says. Make no mistake, this is a good thing.
Hot on the heels of Wiggo’s astounding win in the Time Trial yesterday, we were shocked to hear of the death of yet another cyclist on the road. The tragic irony in yesterday’s case was that the victim died under the wheels of an official Olympic bus. While we absorb and revel in the magnificence of those rides by Wiggins and Froome (please, let’s not forget this year’s quiet and unassuming nearly-man), cyclists around the country will have been instantly brought back down to earth by the bad news of this horrific accident. Of course, we don’t know the details and the circumstances, and it would be dangerous to jump to conclusions, but the fact remains that cyclists face life-threatening dangers every day.
For some time, I’ve been convinced that the British public simply need to be educated on the risks faced by those of us on two wheels, but the pragmatist in me realises that education on road safety is not seen as a topic of discussion. It’s just not cool. Or is it?
This morning I saw a brief clip on the television where Mr Wiggins was speaking about cyclists’ safety; then I heard the same excerpt from the press conference on the radio. While he mangled his words somewhat, suggesting that helmets should be legalised [sic], it was a first step in the right direction. Paradoxically, here is where I would like Bradley to have some form of media coaching. There is a message here which needs to be carefully co-ordinated, carefully communicated and carefully targeted.
Has there ever been a better time to have Hoy, Pendleton, Cavendish, Froome, Millar, Stannard and their ilk joining forces with Mr Sideburns to explain to other road users that cyclists are vulnerable and need some time, space and respect? With the media power enjoyed by Sky, surely here is the conduit to disseminate the message, but I wonder if I am naive to imagine a day when 70’s style Public Information Messages appear on our television screens or in our tabloids and broadsheets. The cost to Sky would be minimal in real terms – they have the TV output hours; they have the column inches. I’d like to see them working with British Cycling, the CTC and other cycling bodies to fund a joined-up policy fronted by these successful, high-profile, charismatic men and women who have brought British cycling to the masses. Is that so much to ask?
Ask anyone of a certain age what has changed since their childhood. Most will say that you just don’t see white dog pooh any more. This is probably a good thing. Maybe it’s because dogs are eating different food, or perhaps it’s because something else has changed. Back in the twentieth century, you didn’t tend to see owners following dogs around with polythene bags, ready to scoop the poop while still hot from the bot. Today, although the situation is not perfect, there is probably less chance of stepping in a steaming turd while walking in the park or going to the local off licence.
Now, there’s a thing – the local off licence. There used to be a little cubby hole in the boozer from where we could buy crisps and Mars Bars, or beer to take home. We were that hard-up, one Mars Bar had to be shared between four of us back then, and the cutter of the bar was last to choose a slice, while the ends were quickly bagsed by those desiring a greater chocolate to caramel and nougat ratio, but I digress. I remember trawling through the hedgerows and ditches to gather discarded glass bottles which we could take back to said cubby hole in return for a penny or two at a time. Deposits on glass bottles seemed such a great idea. It funded my Blackjack and Sherbet Fountain habit for several years.
Car seatbelts. It’s not that long ago that seatbelts were seen as some kind of optional extra. Seatbelts for passengers in the back seats were unheard of and babies and toddlers simply found themselves on mum’s lap or rolling around in the load area, if fortunate enough to be travelling in an estate car. One day, along came Jimmy Savile telling us that we should belt up or die a hideous death; later, some bloke came along and told us that we could be killed by an elephant (or was it a rhino?) coming from the back seat and through the back of our heads. Today, for those of us using motor vehicles, seatbelts are part of our daily lives. We clip-up with nary a thought, while our children are strapped into their personal pseudo Recaro bucket seats like some kind of dribbling, puking rally driver. Rest assured they will not be metamorphosing into Dumbo any time soon.
A more recent change in our lives was the banning of smoking in pubs. Imagine suggesting to some leather-faced, yellow-fingered puffer back in 1975 that smokers should assuage their nicotine cravings outside the bar. Unthinkable. Surely, smoking in bars was a good thing? I recall not recalling coming home after a heavy night out, but the following morning the primary evidence of beer-fuelled shenanigans was a festering pile of clothes simply oozing with the scent of countless Woodbines. You know how smells are brilliant reminders of particular times and places? Well, the stench of stale smoke on my favourite merino polar neck jumper was reminder enough to keep me out of the Red Lion for days, if not weeks to come. Today, the only evidence of a heavy night in The Jolly Sophisticate, or some other equally pretentious watering hole, is the massive hole in the finances or the faint whiff of Chanel No.5 picked up from the back of the sofa in the snug, (darling).
The Labour Party used to be Socialist. Now they are centre-left. For some reason, Mars changed the name of the Marathon to Snickers. That’s just nuts. The Royal Mail used to deliver twice in a day. How on earth do we manage now? Homosexuality used to be illegal. Mobile phones had batteries big enough to start a Mercedes. Berlin had that wall.
*Bland statement warning*. Things change and we soon forget what it used to be like in the good old days.
Most things change for the better, although I could do without the shift towards so much American English tripping off the tongues of the great unwashed. Can I get a coffee to numb the pain? I am so totally not able to ignore such bolleaux. Awesome.
I don’t really understand how things suddenly change and achieve an air of acceptability, credibility or popularity. There are so many avenues allowing even the most quiet and unassuming members of society to communicate with the wider world, how is it possible to achieve a level of interest that becomes self-perpetuating in a genuinely good way? Late last year, I remember seeing a Twitter campaign in which a man made a bet that he could reach 1 million followers by Christmas. The bookmaker stood to lose £10,000, I think. The winnings had been pledged to charity, so it was not a simple get-rich-quick scheme devised by some chancer in a Soho basement. In spite of several months of hounding and cajoling, begging and pleading, the campaign failed. The #twager Tweeter failed even to reach 10,000 followers. Now, I’m no mathematician, but I can see that if there were a successful retweet phenomenon in which everyone followed an instruction, the numbers could become huge in a matter of minutes. That charity could have made ten grand in an instant. Meanwhile, vacuous so-called celebrities such as Bieber, Gaga, Price and the rest have millions of simpering followers hanging on their every word.
Back to the nostalgia. In 1962, Tom Simpson was the first British rider to don the maillot jaune of the Tour de France. He never won the race. Today, the jersey sits on the shoulders of the British rider, Bradley Wiggins. With five stages remaining, there’s a good chance that Wiggins will achieve what no other British rider has done. Those in the know are asserting that the race is now his to lose. Cyclists from the black and white era of film and television will be beside themselves with excitement, remembering how Simpson was pictured as a British gentleman (bowler hat et al) and how Wiggins is now being labelled as a gentleman for his recent action in neutralising a stage to allow his rivals to recover after tack-driven puncture sabotage.
Wiggins didn’t become a great rider by sitting on his arse. He covers thousands of miles on public roads, throughout the year, often fighting for space on strips of asphalt shared with countless fast-moving metal boxes. If he does win the Tour, I hope this will mark the start of something new and we will be looking back in ten years, wondering why we ever viewed grown men and women in lycra as some kind of hindrance, or as fair game for our ignorant, selfish ranting and dangerous, unthinking behaviour.
Vive le Tour! May 2012 mark the watershed in the populace of the UK becoming lovers of cycling as a sport as well as a pastime.
fiftyyearsandcounting 