New Statesman Scotland - To cycle is to dream, to drive is to live
There is something magical and mysterious about a bicycle. The very fact that you can balance it so perfectly and to such amazing effect is a thrill rooted deep in childhood, in that moment of triumphant ecstasy when, at last, the stabilisers come off, the wobbling stops and all thoughts of skinned knees and scabby elbows disappear.
After years of car-bound commuting, I first returned to the abandoned youthful delight of velocipedal transportation in the early Eighties; unconcernedly overtaking Glasgow's buses and flirting with the rage of psychopathic taxi drivers on daily trips from the south side to the city centre and back.
There were hazards to contend with. The Clyde Tunnel's cycleway was, and probably still is, dark, dank and prone to having a washing line stretched across the bottom section by playful weans, just when you were touching a good 25mph. At least one green commuter was nearly killed that way. And you did get knocked off by drivers who simply did not see you. Not to mention arriving at work soaked in dirty rain or sweat.
Still, cycling in the city made sense, being cheap, fast and environmentally friendly, even if your own lungs were getting pickled in hydrocarbon fall-out. The simple enjoyment of freewheeling between jammed traffic, the whirr and rattle of 10-speed Derailleur gears, that wonderful ease of balance made most journeys a physical pleasure.
That bike was a cheap Elswick, ordered by mail from the Freeman's catalogue. The frame was heavy and clumsily welded, but I had never experienced anything better. Until I left the city for Shetland, it was followed by a succession of cheap, clunky bikes, hallmarked by increasing numbers of gears because, in my ignorance, I thought that was the sign of a good machine.
The scales fell from my eyes when I tried a Reynolds 531-framed racer and realised that, as in so many other areas of life, stiffness, rigidity was all. But by the time I could afford what my heart eventually learnt was its desire - an Orbit Gold Medal hand-built tourer - I was in Shetland, all open, quiet roads and hills ideal for hurtling down. And I hardly rode my metallic green treasure at all.
Because when you live in remote rural areas, especially ones with violent, unpredictable weather, being green in terms of mobility tends to get compromised by the need to get about while remaining free of hypothermia. Then there's the necessity of carting children, animals and gigantic quantities of supermarket food from the nearest serious settlement, 40 miles away. Bikes - and the whole family is now fully spoked - are used in the summer, for pleasure runs to the beach.
The truck and car, both substantial beasts capable of coping with the frequently rough and ready conditions, are essential prerequisites of survival.
It would be lovely to cycle everywhere but, in practical terms, that would be stupid. I would even like to run a small, efficient car of less than 1200cc, thus taking advantage of the Chancellor's road tax green dividend. Petrol hereabouts can cost up to 12p a litre more than on the mainland. But where would the children, the dogs, the sheep, shotguns and silage go? How would my medical wife power up boggy tracks at night on the way to an emergency call? I had a Fiat Cinquecento for a month and it was a complete waste of time. Not to mention being dangerously underpowered and prone to attracting ribald laughter from passing Cheviot rams.
I like Broon, the decent, cashless chancellor who cannot drive or carry change. But he has failed to understand that in the islands and remote outposts of the country, there are those of us who would love to walk, cycle and drive 900cc cars, but, if we want to live anything approaching normal, useful lives, we simply cannot. Then there are the Lib Dems, whose heartland this is, led by the increasingly adrift Charlie Kennedy and whose Westminster leg seems utterly disconnected from its Holyrood arse: Charlie is going environmental, big time, policywise, while his Mounded compatriots quite rightly and cannily demand financial help for rural drivers. But contradictions like that are grist to the Libocrat mill. All part of the same old irrelevant grind.
I will be servicing my beautiful Orbit this week, preparing for those summer rides. And longing for a subsidy on diesel for my 2.4 turbocharged Toyota Hi-Lux, back in the real, remote world.
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