Adventure Rocket Ship

I am not a natural camper. I'm probably an unnatural camper because the sight of middle-aged blokes in shorts, long socks and brogues clambering out of a caravan at 8AM leads me to question my life choices, rather than nod in an English way and go polish the Caravan Club badge on the front of the car.

(NB: Does Not Exist. NT badge only. Tangentially, I never used to wonder at the number of CSMA badges I used to see as a small child. They were just there. Only very recently did I stop and think 'I lived down the road from GCHQ. Oh...')

Anyway. The weekend past (and part of the week) was spent in a field at the far pointy end of Cornwall, handy for both Porthcurno Telegraph Museum and the Logan Rock pub. Both of which we visited mob-handed. Because if you're going to go off camping with a mob of hackers (I think the 'and makers' goes without saying.) you might as well visit one or more of the key places of historic (and less so) interest.

It was fucking marv. Even though as first person on site (a terrible mistake for everyone else to make there) I didn't spot the direction of the prevailing wind until after erecting my tent on the 'wrong' side of the windbreak fences. Hey, and indeed ho.

Sat around, talked rubbish, drank beer, generated a set of fine ideas, walked around and looked at things, got a bit sunburned, drank more beer. Really didn't want to leave.

You know, I can't remember the last time I sat somewhere quiet and outdoors, talking rubbish until well past dark. It's a rubbish state of affairs, and something must be done.

I am mostly asleep and the weather is far too good for being indoors, so I went for a post-lunch wander. I accidentally the tradesmen's entrance of Jolly's and found myself deep in the underwear department, which was all a bit Father Ted.

Later I fetched up at the Assembly Rooms and pottered round the fashion museum. It seemed to be wedding-dress month. Those from the thirties and forties (and evening dresses ditto) were well into boat-floating territory. The influence of Modernist thinking, I should imagine. The examples from the eighties were a cavalcade of 'dear me what were you thinking?'

Well worth a visit. (Yes I would be up for another weekday lunchtime wander)

Some number of years ago, I rambled on here about a trip up to Easy Runner for the purchase of proper running shoes because a decent pair of same are splendidly comfortable and last for a sensible number of years. (See the Sam Vimes theory of economic injustice)

It struck me while watching the Giro (see title) that it was about damn time I went back for another set. It was also an excuse to beetle through #stokescroft to see what there was to be seen, and, well, nice day, bicycle, etc.

#stokescroft looked like Camden from the 90s, only peopled by Nathans of most genders. A fine vibe, but I was on a mission elsewhere. More crap t-shirts and middle-class young women in straw trilbys than you could shake a Twitter client at, mind.

Onwards I went past the Here shop, right at the lights onto Jamaica Street, right on the far side of King Square, left onto Dove Street, round past the flats and about to nip through the back of the BRI when...

... I am only slightly out of puff due to the climb. This is much progress since the last time I was there and had to stop halfway for a hyperventilate. I must admit to feeling rather pleased with myself.

The last time I went to Easy Runner, they made me pelt up and down St. Michael's Hill three or four times in order to check my gait in the progressively more stabilised footwear the nice people handed me. This time, through the magic of increased consumer choice, I got to do it six times before we were all satisfied. Apparently my feet wave at the ankles like someone giving it the Full Rimmer on the wrong set of extremities.

Out of interest, I trundled on up the hill into Kingsdown behind a roadie who was having a lot more trouble than I (and I should note I was on the Courier with only one front cog, so am without any dinner-plate special gear if it all goes a bit HC.) to see what there was to be seen.

Cobbles. And absolutely shiver-up-the-back choral music wandering up the side of the hill from King Square. It was one of those 'shit me only in Bristol wow' moments.

In the evening I was fit only for standing about and smiling peacefully at people.


I keep coming back to a throwaway line that Sean Kelly used when talking (as much as yer man there ever talks) about a particularly picturesque mountain stage in the Giro. It was one of those places where you'd 'just go out to enjoy your bike'. Which, I don't know, maybe it unpacks more for me than it might for someone else.

It's not just about being outside, although that's a splendid thing of itself. Nor is it just about looking at crops or listening to larks having an ascend in the Vaughn Williams style. Then there's the thing about being on a mechanical device which one has fiddled with until one can feel and hear it working as well as one hopes it should, which it is also not about. And the stuff about making all this stuff work by muscle power, a pocket full of fig rolls, a banana or two and a bottle of PSP22... I think it's about all of these things at once in different amounts at different times, but if the set of them are all present and you're firing on all cylinders then that would probably count as quite a good day and, y'know, enjoying your bike.

(The previous incarnations)

miss_soap called it last week, but things move slower out here on the western edge.

Later than last year, earlier than the year before. It's all good.