I can just about manage to blow my nose regularly. This sucks.
Pete Hindle
Pictures and stuff from a guy who likes coffee.
Posted in December 2007 …
Camping
I’ve returned from my Christmas break, back to ‘my’ house. Those apostrophes are there because really, it’s not my house. It’s the house of Terry Kirkham, the landlord. The house I had before that belonged to Mr Agawhal. The one before that? Same deal, different name.
This isn’t the Englishman’s grouse against renting. I believe renting housing can be a good thing, but I’ve not had that experience. And what throws my experiences up into sharp relief is going to the one place I call home. Not my house, but my home – where I feel I live, even though I’ve been in Newcastle for nearly seven years now.
Those other places? The ones I mentioned above? Just places to camp for the night. Makeshift. Uncomfortable, but you put up with it because you are just passing through.
Alan’s got a sweet new bike.
My flatmate Alan has been having a rough time with his bicycles recently. After I convinced him that cycling was a good way of getting around, he got his bike stolen. Our friend, Topsy, then lent him a replacement which turned out to be one of Matt Seaton’s bicycle-shaped objects.
But no more! I went down to recyke-yr-bike on Saturday and selected him a bike. It’s a shiny yellow bike, with front suspension, and the best gearset I’ve seen in ages. I always get jealous of people who have steel chainset’s because they look fantastic…
Mmmm, baby. Alan got me a fantastic christmas present (and card), so I changed his street tyres over to his new bike, which now looks scarily sexy. In fact, I’m pretty jealous of his bike, and considering using it for a few trips along the Tyne.
Of course, that’s all for next year. This Christmas, I’m taking a break from the glowbikes project that I’ve been working with Brian, and I’m not doing any more work until the 28th. The past few weeks have been continual soldering in order to make a large number of SpokePOV‘s, for display on New Years Eve. Until that point… I’m going to eat as much food as possible, open presents, and consume as much coffee as possible.
New Togs
So, last Thursday I found myself rolling around the floor near Shieldfield after coming off my bike. It was icy, and some learner driver was parked in the way, and it had nothing to do with the five pints that I’d had the night before. Thankfully, I was riding very slowly, so I only really bruised my knee.
I was one my way to do a day’s training at Isis Arts, a local organisation dedicated to doing new media things, and I frankly didn’t have the best time that day as my knee hurt and I was very hungover. So, in order to make myself feel better I brought myself a set of thermal baselayer clothes.
It’s winter, and it’s the North. Despite the fact that it’s been very mild, people here persist in the idea that living ‘oop north’ means that they are the same as the primitive tribesmen who first came to England by walking overland from France, way back before there was an English Channel. Sadly, this is not the case, because if it was there would be some Helly Hansen tops around in my size.
I ended up going to a less-than-reputable shop in the city centre, where I got a new baselayer t-shirt and a pair of longjohns. I tried the small longjohns on first, and was pretty chuffed when I found out that they hardly fit over my giant calves – yay cycling! So I got medium sizes and took my purchases home. However, when I got back I found that the top – which I had expected to be pretty much the same as my old one – was some ultra-fancy deal. It turns out that both the things I got were in the wrong boxes, and I’d brought a much more expensive top.
Temperature Drop
It’s cold outside. Riding home tonight, one of my fingertips on my right hand went numb, and when I stopped at the lights my knees were shaking. Over in the West End, the salt hasn’t been put down on the streets, let alone the cyclepaths, and ice is forming.
Locked out in my Pyjamas
Today was the recycling day, and as I nipped into the back alley to grab the recycling box, the wind blew the gates shut behind me.
Shit.
I was wearing my pyjamas and slippers, standing in the street, at midday in December. I realised I didn’t have my keys or my phone. And that I’d left a pot of coffee on the stove. Time was critical; I couldn’t slouch round a friends house and wait it out, because my home would burn down in the mean-time.
I tried to climb the back gate. I didn’t make it. Some workmen at the end of the street looked at me weirdly, but didn’t offer to help. I tried to stand on somebody else’s recycling box and broke it – sorry no. 21! Luckily, a young couple was just coming down the street, and I begged them to help me.
“Please can you give me a bunk-up over my back gate,” I said, “I’ve locked myself out and left something on the stove.” For some reason I said this looking at the lady of the pair, but the bloke took pity on me and gave me a great bunk-up, which made me conscious of how crap I am at giving them. I found myself about seven feet off the ground, lying along the top of the gate, looking down at them.
“Thanks, that was a great help!” I said, and dropped down onto a waiting pile of wine bottles. “Thanks so much!” I actually yelled over my shoulder, as I ran into the kitchen and turned off the stove. My coffee was just starting to boil, leaving dark brown stains on the hob.
So, if you were walking through Heaton’s back-alleys this morning, and you (or your partner) gave a bunk-up to strange bearded man, wearing pyjamas in the afternoon, thank you. Thank you so much.
Critical Mass, Newcastle
Last night, I rode through the streets of Newcastle with about fifty other cyclists.
This was part of the Star and Shadow’s Cycling Weekend, where they had organised a Critical Mass. A Critical Mass is part of the Reclaim-the-Streets style of social protest, where activities happen in public places as a reaction against the ‘hemmed-in’ feel of modern public spaces. In the USA, Critical Mass has spread across the major urban centres, and thousands of people take part in regular bicycle events that stop traffic.
In Newcastle, yesterday was either the second or third Critical Mass. It was cold and dark, and I can’t really say that it was a great time for it. Why Friday night? Why not Saturday day? I didn’t really fancy riding around for a while on Friday night, but the German market was on in town and I was starving. Myself and my flatmate Alan rode into town, got some Paella from the market, and met up with the other cyclists.
Me and Alan like to ride fast, and the Critical Mass ride was more of a slow crawl around town. That meant that we quickly found ourselves at the front of a long body of cyclists, taking up a lane of traffic, at the peak time of the day, in a city centre. Of course, there were some aggressive drivers – anybody who cycles sees that every day – and taxi drivers and bus drivers were the worst. But the Critical Mass tactic of taking up the road and riding very slowly doesn’t help to convert other road users.
I suspect that a lot of this is revenge against being treated like a second-class road user. But taking part in the ride made me feel shaken up, as I saw some pretty close shaves, and got pretty close to some cars, not happy and relaxed like riding my bike usually does. And it’s that happy and relaxed vibe that Critical Mass should be trying to share, rather than starting a war against car drivers.
