Megan Elvidge
Friday, 13 January 2012
Sunday, 18 December 2011
Thursday, 15 December 2011
Oliver Griffin
“––––––––– to Brighton”
I have never been to Brighton without a bicycle. The word ‘Brighton’
just seem to be a mecca for me and in some way, for most cyclists. I could even
place a wager that if you mentioned this subject to a Fixie rider in Tokyo,
they would understand what you were talking about and be interested. Within
this context the phrase: “London to Brighton run” within this international
community is one that is muttered over the inter-web in the same vain as the
infamous ‘tweed run’. An achievement to boast, but also a leisurely experience
compared to a ‘Tour de France’ stage. Plus there is always an ice cream at the
end.
The feeling of leaving the metropolises of the heart of England,
entering the suburbs of green that surround it and then only to hit the
glorious site of “London–by-the-sea” (commonly know as Brighton). Then the
climax, Running into the sea and leaving your faithful steel-lugged stead on
the cobbles behind you. All the memories are flooding back to me now… the
feathering of the brakes as to are forced down country lanes at high speed as
you follow the contours down to the destination that I speak of fondly. I do
sadly also remember the hill climbs and the rain and the punctures and the
getting up at silly-a-clock in the morning, so you don’t end up just seeing the
sun going down as you arrive…
But that seems a millions miles away, transplanting to the
humble & grey city of Plymouth… cycling seems not to have the same charm.
The emptiness of Dartmoor is not the same as the great blue void that you run
to, fleeing like rats from a sinking ship. These humble bicycle that arte
scattered around the Plymouth University are my contact with the famous seaside
resort in question. No not Plymouth, that ship has sailed, but Brighton.
Memories of long cycles and friendly banter during exhausting hill-climb
stages, calling each other “big girls blouses”, but you never now… one or two
of these racers might have one or two of their own
stories of bedding in with Brighton beach.
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