Dangerous Sports today.
Well, I unwittingly found myself in a perilous situation rather than a glory seeking or charitable intention involving sky-diving, bungee-jumping, wing-walking, hot air ballooning, hang-gliding or other activity which would be likely to null and void my life insurance policy.
I was just out and about on my bike on what turned out to be the most windy of days for some considerable time.
The weather forecasters over the last few days had been warning of storm force conditions and as early as monday I noticed that, unusually, the motorway gantry signs were already giving notice of high winds for the approaching weekend.
This caused me to pay more than my usual level of attention to the TV bulletins after the evening and nightly news and even the broad Northern Hemisphere Map on the Al Jazeera Channel on their 11pm Newshour programme had a red alert covering the UK. I wasn't really concentrating that late at night or rather I was fascinated by the depiction of thick snow falls in Turkey and through the Middle East perhaps another consequence of climate change.
It was not until thursday night that the map of the British Isles was hidden under thick and closely paralell isobars that I suspected that something was coming to our shores.
I should have been more attentive in my O'Level Geography when the syllabus was on weather patterns and what were the implications of high and low pressure respectively. Cloud types and names, not a problem but being aware of conditions to make sure I have an umbrella, raincoat or sun cream with me, well that is another thing altogether.
Whatever the weather I was determined to go out for a long ride on the mountain bike as I can cope with most that the atmosphere can throw at a committed cyclist.
The roar of a gale through the bare branches and boughs had given me a disturbed nights sleep as had listening out for the rattle of the loose TV aerial or rather the cessation of the rattle which would mean it had worked loose and fallen somewhere in the neighbourhood.
Strange noises came from the loft above my pillow which I put down to the ripple of the bitumen felt under the tiles or that we had been infested by one or more of the squirrels that frequent the City Park on our doorstep.
It was therefore not a surprise that the promise to myself to go out riding was tempered by a fuzzy head and a state of exhaustion.
I took on plenty of carbohydrates in anticipation of a tough early January exertion and even more so as it was only my second outing of the year and the initial 2015 effort had been a sober indication that I was far from any recognisable fitness.
Breakfast consisted of a few chocolate chip brioche rolls, a couple of pints of sweet black coffee and a leftover mince pie that my Mother in Law had made for Christmas.
Outside the lids on the wheelie bins were rattling like a frog chorus and I could hear the clatter of the overnight beer cans as they made their way down the street and a flapping which could only be discarded pizza boxes in attempted flight.
Leaves skipped and danced in a tight circle in the eddying wind on the brick pavers of the drive only being interrupted by getting trapped under the tyres of our parked family car.
The sky was remarkably clear and free of clouds apart from a few rapidly moving high altitude examples of, sorry, I forget whether cirrus or strato-cumulus. These were scudding across to the due east and soon disappearing out of sight beyond the tall chimney of the paint factory.
I set off in full winter riding gear only to immediately be confronted by a full westerly as soon as my front tyre cleared the shelter of the next door house which is set slightly forward from mine. That was the pattern for the rest of the day.
A golden rule of cycling on a blustery or worse day is to ride into the wind on the outward leg whilst energy levels and conviction are strong and then use a howling tail wind on the way home when tired and of less than enthusiastic intentions for a freewheeling experience.
It was a constant struggle for the first two hours, even with a strategic positioning behind my son and benefiting from shelter and the slipstream effect.
The wind was relentless and although still westerly there was considerable turbulence and buffeting as the air bounced between buildings, was deflected by hedge-lines and wooded copse and overshot our route if hitting a hillock or embankment.
If unrestricted, such as through a gap in a hawthorn field surround, a farm gate or where the land was just flat and open we were completely exposed to the full force.
I do not think that I have wobbled so much on a bike since my father removed the stabilisers on my first serious two wheel bike some 45 or more years ago.
My forward motion was positively infantile as well as exposing me to the perils of being cajoled into the middle of the road or into the muddy verge.
Luckily most motorists seemed to be aware of the stormy conditions and gave us quite a wide clearance, There were a couple of slight inclines head on into the gale which tested my resolve and indeed my life-long love affair with cycling.
There is nothing quite as demoralising as the reality that speed is being cancelled out by the force of the wind. It is like someone hanging onto the seat of your pants when trying to run away or walking through mud.
My son was not having as much as a struggle and I put that down to his youthful strength and perhaps a more streamlined physique which cut effortlessly through the air.
At long last we reached the far north-westerly point of the ride which gave us the advantage of a cross wind rather than into our faces and the prospect of, imminently, the luxury of a tail wind.
If completely knackered even the most raging of wind assistance is little real help but nevertheless welcome as a change.
The constant sound of the storm was by now causing a bit of ear-ache. As well as trying to stay as upright as possible, although the first twenty miles had been ridden at a body angle of 30 or so degrees there was also the added hazard of twigs, dead wood and larger debris any one of which could have thrown us over the handlebars.
A puncture some 7 miles from home gave some respite as we took shelter behind the high wall of a Squash Club to do the necessary tube change.
The exertion of riding had kept us warm but after a few stationary minutes the chill set in and it took the rest of the trip to restore body temperature to normal.
The last few miles seemed easier which I attributed to the flat roads of the city flood plain and the thought of a nice hot cup of tea and a plate of beans on toast. On reflection, fully warmed through it had been a bit of a breeze after all.
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