The personal memoirs of Randi Mooney
After a painful couple of days without my trusty bicycle I am now re-united with it, courtesy of Mosquito Bikes of Islington (just round the corner from Essex Road station).
They transformed my creaky wreck into a gleaming, silent speed-machine. Their deluxe service is expensive, but the bike feels better than it did when it was brand-new, which means it was money well-spent. For what it’s worth, they have my seal of approval and my short-term gratitude, until I manage to wreck my bike again.
I’m not a superstitious man. Except in the dark or whilst alone. If I were, perhaps I would consider my bike to be CURSED. The first time I rode it (home from the shop) I got a puncture. The next time I rode it I was run over by a transit van.
Anyway I fell off last Friday - hurting my ribs. It was a very low-speed and unspectacular fall, but I was winded and my ribs were bruised. Because you can’t take bikes on the Underground, I had to cycle home at low speed, groaning and puffing, and I had to spend Friday evening in Casualty. Even the smallest things hurt - breathing, lying down, flushing the toilet. I haven’t sneezed in days…
Surprisingly for 8:10am, the polling station was doing a brisk business. I asked the official in charge if I could take a photo of his team, but he said no. I asked if I could take a picture of a ballot-box because I might find a use for it one day. I told him that I write a blog, and it would be somewhat entertaining to display and make sarcastic comments about the vessel that contains the dreams and wishes of our fair constituency.
This second request was also denied without stating a reason, possibly on the grounds that if Osama Bin-Laden were to know the exact dimensions of this recepticle of democracy, he would be saved one more task of espionage. I expect the election officials work on the principle that all actions not explictly allowed are implicitly prohibited; which is actually the same rule that most computer programs organise their security.
So anyway, here is my third-the-worst proof that I at least made it to the polling station. The smartly dressed man outside was collecting numbers for the Labour Party. I gave him my number in return for looking after my bike. Of course, thats not my bike in the picture. My bike is much prettier than that.
Yesterday was my first Critical Mass of 2005. I would like to present a collection of my photographic observances of this occasion:
Unsurprisingly for an election month, the political messagae in Critical Mass was in greater evidence. I think it’s great that people are taking politics back to the streets, however I do feel that incorporating overtly anarchist/marxist themes into the event only makes the primary message less effective.
For me, Critical Mass has allways been a protest about the de-humanisation of our city streets. This is demonstrated by the fact that the city is totally unprepared for a moderately large group of cyclists on the road; in numbers that would hardly seem extrordinary in Bejing or Copenhagen.
Regardless of your political allignment, I think we can all agree that the lifestyle of the average british commuter is one of hellish public-transport or stagnant roads. There has to be an alternative to spending over an hour a day in a state of misery.
The title of the event has a dual meaning: Not only a mass of people who are critical of the urban environment we live in, but the act of assemling enough people to briefly control the road and show how London might be with a more human-centric transport policy.
This weekend Doug and I did the Raw Dyfi Enduro, a 55km endurance mountain biking event in the Dyfi Forest, just north of beautiful Machynlleth. As ever, it was a very well-organised event, with heaps of enthusiasm put into the whole affair by the people from Summit Cycles and locals alike. There was a lot of climbing, but some great downhills, and the conditions weren’t too sloshy. Yes, they were very sloshy indeed, but this was Wales and the whole affair could easily have been much, much soggier. I would also like to express my thanks (somewhat cryptically for anyone who hasn’t done the event) to the drummers.
The fun of the weekend was dampened only by Telford. To be fair, it’s not Telford’s fault that we were diverted around our intended battered fish destination of Welshpool and overshot a chippie in Shrewsbury due to bladder constraints, but it is Telford’s fault that it’s a bloody ugly place. It consists of roundabouts punctuated by oddly-shaped office blocks or unhappily-clad residential towers, with little option for residents but to rely heavily on their cars for even the most minor tasks — the chippie we eventually found was styled as a ‘drive-in’.
It took us an hour of bombing around Telford to find our fishy treat, and it was worth it in the end (just about), although my tongue is still burnt from my mushy peas.
12:20pm:
Some photos from the event: I’m in the first photo, number 135, looking daft in my yellow helmy.
My buddy Andy has been working on his comparative search site, BikePimp. Although I dun know nothin about bikes, it made me feel strangely in-touch when I searched for Sturmey-Archer stuff and found 62 entries! They have 3-speed gear hubs!
Feel the power.