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Wednesday 11th 41-43F, bright between the clouds, dry but breezy. As soon as I had escaped from the shelter of the garden it was blowing a westerly gale. Up with my hood and press on at a brisk pace. I even detoured uphill on a junction to increase my exercise level. I blew my nose and there was blood on the tissue. High blood pressure or just a weak capillary? I will never really know.
The doctor said nosebleeds were not a normal symptom of high blood pressure. I was being offered and refused, a lifetime prescription drug with known side effects. I took up OCD tricycling instead. With all that entailed. All the side effects are laid out in this blog. The early years of constant pain s I built up stamina and distance from RSI. Where I would be paralyzed by sudden, excrutiating pain in hips, buttocks and shoulders. The endless tiredness and muscle tension. The saddle soreness. The vast and absolutely ridiculous expense of endless upgrading and replacing worn out items.
The constant search for perfection in machine and suitable clothing for every eventuality and ever-changing weather. Avoiding wet feet and wet everything else. Surviving biting cold and sweaty heatwave by turn of season. Returning near to exhaustion due to lack of preparation and having enough food. I would often do a longer ride up to 80 miles without eating at all. Relying instead on a muesli [porridge] breakfast. Usually followed by marmalade on toast just before leaving.
All of which must be balanced against the elation of being allowed out for a ride to pastures new in the sunshine. The wind in your hair as you speed along. The daily adventure of self and geographical discovery. The pride in having completed a considerable distance to add to the toll. New and interesting sights and landscapes.
The secret was always to have a clear destination. A proper goal for the midpoint of the journey. Once achieved I had only to [somehow] drag myself back home again. Often against the prevailing sou'westerlies. My ambition knew no bounds but was safely limited to the island of Fyn. The central landmass of Denmark. Where I have been exiled for over 20 years now.
The casual, sometimes almost imperceptible wave, from keen, fellow cyclists as recognition of your membership of the keen cyclist club. Overcoming a hill with greater speed and less effort than ever before. The ride through narrow and twisting, undulating lanes in shady, sun dappled forest and across high, bare hilltops. The views of distant seas and glittering lakes. The refreshing visit to new or rarely visited towns and villages. The quiet exploration of deserted rural villages. Or passing the noisy, junior school yard during the break.
The unique atmosphere of different places. Mysterious buildings and structures placed inexplicably in the complex landscape. Passing a very few, village people in their natural habitat. Enjoying their own individual society, concerns and mores. The factory worker having a cigarette break by the loading bay. Often surrounded in the most unlikely items. Some yards scattered chaos and others neatly arranged on tidy racks.
People would see me miles form home while travelling in their cars. The would stop to chat outside the scattered supermarkets where I would be required ot shop on the way home. Most of them were surprised to discover that the intrepid tricyclist was English but not an invalid.
Except at the very beginning. I had been sacked, along with many colleagues. As the rural factory I had worked at had moved production to China and elsewhere. By the fat Danish Goliath which had taken us over to destroy real jobs and decades of experise in a unique product by exporting them.
A series of hatchet men pretended they had valid reasons for the sackings. This was somewhere around 2010. At the height of the damage caused the Bank Crisis of 2008. I was 63 and spoke little useful Danish. I was expected to seek three jobs per week in a job vacuum. The industrial estates were festooned with weeds and literallly everybody was downsizing. Sad, solitary cars sat outside once busy buildings. As the owner sorted through the worthless remains of their dreams.
I chose to cycle to find work. To overcome my the forced limitations of my worn out body, preserve my dignity and minimize the cost of my pointless job search. I was the clown on the tricycle who rode far and wide to find myself a job. There was bugger-all in unskilled jobs at the Job Center. Except for the young bullies who worked there.
Then there were the regular courses, miles from home, where one learnt the art of job seeking. I was multi-skilled in weird and useless ways but there was always the problem of my poor spoken Danish and poor fitness. There was always a long queue of suitable staff in front of any 63 year-old foreigner on a tricycle. Some potential employers were sympathetic but unable to help. Others were clearly racist and belittling.
Everything comes down to real people in the end. They my house themselves in hovels and palaces but neither can claim superiority of existence nor meaning. It is all just putting off the inevitable. Wearing blinkers against mortality. The lingering headstone in the unkempt, village graveyard. Or the family mausoleum on the Estate. Each is equally chilly.
Did you add value to our world in your own humble way? Or were you just a complete PITA? I chose to be the jolly, tricycling clown and searched for a job for three years. Before I was finally upgraded to "retired." By which time I couldn't just stop cycling overnight. I was now fit and looked like a sunburnt POW. With distinctive tan lines I was managing close to 10k miles, per year, at my peak.
I was now using the daily shopping as my daily goal for gathering more miles. It became my reason for existence now my job was no longer looking for another one. With longer rides a bonus for being "a good shopper."
Sometimes I would even escape from Fyn across the old iron bridge. To reach Fredericia, quite often and on much rarer occasions, even Vejle. The far corners of Fyn were no longer distant strangers. Nyborg, Svendborg and Middelfart were all within reach. If they lay within 40 miles, I could always crawl back home in a state of starvation and complete exhaustion. Only towards the end of my late cycle touring "career" did I learn to eat and drink properly.
All of this holds little interest for most but I wanted to explain why I became a serious cyclist again in unlikely circumstances. I chose to be positive about the factory closure instead of angry. I reinforced my cycling initiative by blogging about it. I deliberately deluded myself that my "audience" would be disappointed if I stopped cycling and blogging. I took tens of thousands of photographs and shared my travels online.
I published my daily, weekly, monthly an yearly mileage without cheating. It all helped me to remain sane. As I trundled between half empty factories and workshops looking for work. Where my chances of success were almost nil. I met a lot of interesting people and only a little bit of prejudice. The ride there and back was the thing which drove me on. Even empty, weed infested industrial estates have their own charm. There's usually very little traffic, for a start.
The doctor said nosebleeds were not a normal symptom of high blood pressure. I was being offered and refused, a lifetime prescription drug with known side effects. I took up OCD tricycling instead. With all that entailed. All the side effects are laid out in this blog. The early years of constant pain s I built up stamina and distance from RSI. Where I would be paralyzed by sudden, excrutiating pain in hips, buttocks and shoulders. The endless tiredness and muscle tension. The saddle soreness. The vast and absolutely ridiculous expense of endless upgrading and replacing worn out items.
The constant search for perfection in machine and suitable clothing for every eventuality and ever-changing weather. Avoiding wet feet and wet everything else. Surviving biting cold and sweaty heatwave by turn of season. Returning near to exhaustion due to lack of preparation and having enough food. I would often do a longer ride up to 80 miles without eating at all. Relying instead on a muesli [porridge] breakfast. Usually followed by marmalade on toast just before leaving.
All of which must be balanced against the elation of being allowed out for a ride to pastures new in the sunshine. The wind in your hair as you speed along. The daily adventure of self and geographical discovery. The pride in having completed a considerable distance to add to the toll. New and interesting sights and landscapes.
The secret was always to have a clear destination. A proper goal for the midpoint of the journey. Once achieved I had only to [somehow] drag myself back home again. Often against the prevailing sou'westerlies. My ambition knew no bounds but was safely limited to the island of Fyn. The central landmass of Denmark. Where I have been exiled for over 20 years now.
The casual, sometimes almost imperceptible wave, from keen, fellow cyclists as recognition of your membership of the keen cyclist club. Overcoming a hill with greater speed and less effort than ever before. The ride through narrow and twisting, undulating lanes in shady, sun dappled forest and across high, bare hilltops. The views of distant seas and glittering lakes. The refreshing visit to new or rarely visited towns and villages. The quiet exploration of deserted rural villages. Or passing the noisy, junior school yard during the break.
The unique atmosphere of different places. Mysterious buildings and structures placed inexplicably in the complex landscape. Passing a very few, village people in their natural habitat. Enjoying their own individual society, concerns and mores. The factory worker having a cigarette break by the loading bay. Often surrounded in the most unlikely items. Some yards scattered chaos and others neatly arranged on tidy racks.
People would see me miles form home while travelling in their cars. The would stop to chat outside the scattered supermarkets where I would be required ot shop on the way home. Most of them were surprised to discover that the intrepid tricyclist was English but not an invalid.
Except at the very beginning. I had been sacked, along with many colleagues. As the rural factory I had worked at had moved production to China and elsewhere. By the fat Danish Goliath which had taken us over to destroy real jobs and decades of experise in a unique product by exporting them.
A series of hatchet men pretended they had valid reasons for the sackings. This was somewhere around 2010. At the height of the damage caused the Bank Crisis of 2008. I was 63 and spoke little useful Danish. I was expected to seek three jobs per week in a job vacuum. The industrial estates were festooned with weeds and literallly everybody was downsizing. Sad, solitary cars sat outside once busy buildings. As the owner sorted through the worthless remains of their dreams.
I chose to cycle to find work. To overcome my the forced limitations of my worn out body, preserve my dignity and minimize the cost of my pointless job search. I was the clown on the tricycle who rode far and wide to find myself a job. There was bugger-all in unskilled jobs at the Job Center. Except for the young bullies who worked there.
Then there were the regular courses, miles from home, where one learnt the art of job seeking. I was multi-skilled in weird and useless ways but there was always the problem of my poor spoken Danish and poor fitness. There was always a long queue of suitable staff in front of any 63 year-old foreigner on a tricycle. Some potential employers were sympathetic but unable to help. Others were clearly racist and belittling.
Everything comes down to real people in the end. They my house themselves in hovels and palaces but neither can claim superiority of existence nor meaning. It is all just putting off the inevitable. Wearing blinkers against mortality. The lingering headstone in the unkempt, village graveyard. Or the family mausoleum on the Estate. Each is equally chilly.
Did you add value to our world in your own humble way? Or were you just a complete PITA? I chose to be the jolly, tricycling clown and searched for a job for three years. Before I was finally upgraded to "retired." By which time I couldn't just stop cycling overnight. I was now fit and looked like a sunburnt POW. With distinctive tan lines I was managing close to 10k miles, per year, at my peak.
I was now using the daily shopping as my daily goal for gathering more miles. It became my reason for existence now my job was no longer looking for another one. With longer rides a bonus for being "a good shopper."
Sometimes I would even escape from Fyn across the old iron bridge. To reach Fredericia, quite often and on much rarer occasions, even Vejle. The far corners of Fyn were no longer distant strangers. Nyborg, Svendborg and Middelfart were all within reach. If they lay within 40 miles, I could always crawl back home in a state of starvation and complete exhaustion. Only towards the end of my late cycle touring "career" did I learn to eat and drink properly.
All of this holds little interest for most but I wanted to explain why I became a serious cyclist again in unlikely circumstances. I chose to be positive about the factory closure instead of angry. I reinforced my cycling initiative by blogging about it. I deliberately deluded myself that my "audience" would be disappointed if I stopped cycling and blogging. I took tens of thousands of photographs and shared my travels online.
I published my daily, weekly, monthly an yearly mileage without cheating. It all helped me to remain sane. As I trundled between half empty factories and workshops looking for work. Where my chances of success were almost nil. I met a lot of interesting people and only a little bit of prejudice. The ride there and back was the thing which drove me on. Even empty, weed infested industrial estates have their own charm. There's usually very little traffic, for a start.
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