ego.istic.org

I open on a denial, lest you think I am one of these fresh-air freaks: I didn't mean to get up quite so early. I set my alarm for 0715, with the aim of getting an hour of cycling in while the roads were clear, the alternative plan being to go back to sleep if on observation the rain appeared too bad to go out in. Now, I commute by bike, which means I'm on the road in all weathers except the worst winds, so I'm no fair-weather cyclist, but I'm not a masochist either, and if I'm going out for fun, I'll avoid Arctic conditions.

But the power that controls sleep, be it Hypnos or melatonin, decreed that I should awaken at 0600 this morning. I spent half an hour looking out the window dubiously, then decided to take the chance and head out. I wore my long-sleeved jersey, anticipating the promised rain, but it failed to materialise, and by the time I'd gone five miles I had to stop and change into a short-sleeved one.

I did my tour of the villages to the South, as usual, a 27mi route: not that far for a serious cyclist, and my pace was slack enough coming back through town that I felt I could do the same distance again, but it was a bit of exercise before breakfast. I got back about 0920, and the traffic was noticeably picking up by then.

On my way to the shower, I promptly smashed a full-length mirror over my forehead by knocking it over while I was in an inopportune position. Other than a scratch on my left palm I was hurt, but the same cannot be said of the mirror. It was a bit of a “one day I'll look back on this and laugh” incidents, and “one day” was slightly later today, as the event was really quite hilarious, if inconvenient, and I was fortunate to avoid injury. The seven years' bad luck has started already, as I followed that up by knocking the letterbox flap off my front door, but this latter mishap was easily undone.

The most notable difference between early Sunday morning and other times is the amount of traffic. From entering Hauxton to just before Comberton (slightly less than 20mi) I wasn't passed by a single car in either direction, or even another bike. My lycra-clad brethren were still tucked up in bed, though a few were emerging as I got back into Cambridge. The only place that was busy was the golf club between Toft and Comberton, but that was alright as, being golfers, all the attendees had even sillier clothes than me.

I like those country roads because on the whole you can move right out to the middle of the lane instead of pootling along a metre from the edge of the carriageway like you do in town, but usually you do have to move back over now and then to let cars pass; today I was free to use the whole lane for most of the journey. This is particularly welcome on the A10 from the M11 junction through Hauxton until the turn-off to Harston. Usually, even outside rush hour, the traffic is bumper-to-bumper. The road has a 50mph limit and it is not really wide enough for cars to overtake bikes. I'm hardly traffic-shy, but if I tried to cycle it I would be afraid of getting lynched. The off-road cycle path is a shared-use bidirectional one, varying between one and two bike-widths, crossing maybe a hundred private driveways most of which are completely blinded by large hedges. The tarmac is ill-maintained and is full of potholes and disturbed by roots. The foliage itself is quite overgrown and I've scratched myself on brambles before now. This is exactly the worst sort of path, and there's not much to choose between that and the impatient motorists, but usually I go with the path, which forces my speed right down almost to walking pace.

But this morning the road was empty so I took to the main carriageway, which was a very refreshing change. The light wind was behind me at this point so I was into gear six on the back set (third on the front, as usual), and I was, as they say, tearing up the tarmac.

Owing to this lack of traffic the journey was uneventful in the main. I crossed the Greenwich Meridian twice, as you'd expect, and on separate occasions nearly ran over two bunnies, a cat, and a crow, but managed to avoid them all. I was so carefree going round I could have done with what they call ‘driving music’, but I never wear personal music devices when cycling because hearing is so important to spotting other vehicles and to awareness of the state of the bike and the road. I contented myself by singing Toto's ‘Straight for the Heart’ (composed by Paich and Williams), which had been going through my head all morning anyway, and which features the quite ridiculous couplet:

He's too young to be taking such a chance
She walks the streets in the name of romance

I am continually surprised by how much one can get done in a day at the weekend by the simple expedient of not having a lie-in. (Besides, lies-in are bad for the soul.) The obvious next step, of getting up earlier than usual and having what amounts to a whole extra morning before most people are out of bed, has the additional benefit of granting you almost sole use of the roads in (at this time of the year) full sunlight. I wouldn't do it every week, but it's a resource, an opportunity, that recreational cyclists, and other people who want undisturbed access to public spaces, can't ignore. As far as I'm concerned, keeping the populace in bed of a Sunday morning is a much better reason to have restrictive Sunday trading regulations than religious prohibitions or protecting workers.