Riding and Writing: Meeting Malachi O’Doherty

It is a clear afternoon after a long spell of rain, and I am sitting in the front room, trying to work. Although really I am looking out the window as I wait for my guest. He is taking the train from Belfast, then riding his bike the rest of the way to my rural dwelling. I have given extremely detailed directions and hope he finds the place okay. The kettle is on. I compose myself. I will keep it cool upon meeting him, and by no means will I act like an excited 12-year old. As I tell myself this one more time, I hear the unmistakable ring of a bicycle bell. 

Last year I posted a review of the book On My Own Two Wheels by Malachi O’Doherty - a Belfast writer who rediscovered cycling in his 6th decade of life. As part of his plunge into all things bicycle, Malachi had been reading my blog. Unbeknownst to him, all the while I had also been reading his writing - on the conflict in Northern Ireland. His books on the subject are a unique mix of personal and political, morphing effortlessly from sharp social commentary to novelesque memoirs, complete with details of his sex-life. Starting with I Was a Teenage Catholic and The Trouble with Guns, I went through the books one after another. I was drawn to Malachi's writing not only by the topic, but also by how organically he intertwined such seemingly disparate genres. I have done some political writing in the past, including co-authoring a (tearfully dry and boring) foreign policy book. But more recently, I've been working on some fiction/memoir type writing, which has been profoundly messy and frustrating. Reading Malachi's work helped me see that what I thought was impossible to write about, on my own terms, was in fact possible. Of course I never dreamt of approaching the author to discuss any of this... until we "met" through Lovely Bicycle. Life indeed can be stranger than fiction.

Now I'm in Northern Ireland, and Malachi O’Doherty is outside - in person. He looks friendly, simultaneously distinguished and youthful, and slightly out of breath. He is wearing a leather bomber jacket over jeans and a flannel button-down, an outfit in which he'd cycled 15 miles in the heat. At this moment I forget he is a writer whom I am eager to meet, and relate to him as cyclist to cyclist. I come out to greet him and examine the bike so vividly described in On My Own Two Wheels. It does not disappoint. Decked out in all manner of commuter and touring accessories, the steel blue Ridgeback stands out from the sleek racing bikes that fill the country roads around these parts. 

There are lights on every braze-on, and racks galore.

There is a handlebar bag, strategically positioned above the external cables of the Shimano shifters (notorious for interfering with handlebar bags).

There is an adjustable stem.

An enormous roadster-style bell is mounted to the drop bars

A heavy duty foldable lock graces the downtube in leu of a 3rd bottle cage.

An invisible ink security system provides extra theft protection.

A bar-end mirror is mounted so low I am compelled to ask whether he can actually see out of it ("Nah, not really" Malachi laughs.)

But the pièce de résistance is the forward-set saddle - which lends the modern touring bike an air of an antique pathracer. Malachi explains that, after some time, the bike's fit felt simultaneously too big and too relaxed. So he simply reversed the seatpost to solve both issues. 

Overall, the bike comes across as both amusing and somberly dignified - which I suspect is how the owner intends it. For over tea I discover that Malachi is one of those rare people capable of being both intensely serious and intensely funny, switching between these modes seamlessly. His speaking voice is that of a natural story teller. And there is also something of the “seen it all, heard it all” country doctor about him. I get the impression there is little one could say to shock this man: that whatever shameful thing you have to reveal, he will just chuckle and nod, as if it is perfectly matter-of-course, in the scheme of things. I imagine all this is a useful toolkit for a journalist, dealing with such a touchy topic as the socio-political climate in Northern Ireland. 

On me Malachi's manner has an immediate disarming effect. I feel at ease, and also like a younger, less jaded version of myself. We talk for several hours, and none of it is bike related. Then we go for a ride, continuing the conversation. Malachi is quite good to ride with. We meander easily as we talk, synchronisng speeds and weaving around each other. At one point a dog leaps out from a farmer's yard and, to my horror, goes for my companion's ankle. This does not seem to phase him in the least. "He's got my trousers!" Malachi remarks with a laugh as he shakes the angry little creature off. Then he continues with his train of thought. It occurs to me that this is how he's learned to deal with life's problems - and, more specifically, with being threatened, as a journalist writing about sensitive topics. 

We talk about writing, and how doing it every day becomes addictive, like cycling. You don't feel right if you don't ride. And you don't feel right if you don't write. It almost doesn't matter what and for how long, as long as you write/ ride something that day. In that vein, we also talk about "real" writing versus writing you do because it is easy, or a change of pace, or a tactic to deal with writer's block - filling those gaps when the real stuff does not flow. Lately Malachi has been submitting stories to an erotica magazine (here is one about cycling, if you're curious) that are exactly that. The stories flow easily and he has fun writing them. But he wonders about the relationship between these pieces and his "serious" work. I nod. As I see it, there is nothing wrong with erotica per se - except that it's a closed genre, that once a writer settles into, can be difficult to escape. A bit like vampire stories, or murder mysteries, or ...bicycle blogs for that matter. 

Before heading off, Malachi gives the Binevenagh climb a try - curious after reading my description. He tells me it is steeper than the Torr Road near Ballycastle I would not even consider the previous year. I am surprised to hear that, and now I want to give Torr Road a try. Riding, like writing, does grow easier over time.

The Bike Shop Next Door

It is the hottest day of the summer when I visit the finished space - a space I have watched transform from a dusty vacant storefront around the corner from my house, to Boston's only transportation-oriented bike shop. Carice and the Small Brown Dog are basking in the morning glow of the homey sun-drenched interior. The newly installed air conditioning is blessedly strong. The phone rings, and it appears that someone wants to order a bike. It is official: Bicycle Belle is open for business. 

I have known Carice for about 4 years now - an architect, local bike blogger, DIY addict and lover of vintage 3-speeds. On occasion, we would meet for tea. Funny to think it was only months ago that, engaged in that very activity, we discussed taking the cargo bike plunge. She was considering buying a Dutch bakfiets. I was leaning toward an Xtracycle Radish. We debated the pros and cons of each. 

Now both cargo bikes stand side by side in her very own retail space. It was that quick: from idea, to decision, to action, to completion, in just a couple of months. And yet, what happened felt neither hasty nor impulsive. Sometimes an idea develops dormantly, swirling around under the surface for years, ripening, just waiting for something to crack that surface open. In the Spring of 2013, Carice felt that something and the idea became reality. And once the decision was made, her organisational skills, work ethic, and industry contacts from years of bike blogging, made everything happen swiftly. A bit of luck with the retail space cinched the deal. 

The retail space had several compelling qualities to recommend it. First, the address. Situated on the border of Somerville and Cambridge (quite literally: half the building is on one side of the town line, half on the other), it sits at the start of Beacon Street - a bicycle super-highway through two of Boston's most bike-friendly boroughs. With its triangular footprint, the structure is distinct and no doubt an architect's dream. Windows on all sides, the interior is penetrated by gorgeous natural light. The wrap-around storefront also makes the wares on display highly visible to local traffic. 

Finally - and rather remarkably - the space was available for immediate occupancy. Carice saw an opportunity and took it.

At the start of July Bicycle Belle was soft-launched under the slogan "cycling for city life." At present, the core collection includes transportation bicycles from Bobbin, Papillionnaire, Beater, Paper Bike and Soma, cargo bikes from Workcycles, Xtracycle and Kinn, and a slew of accessories from the likes of Basil, Brooks, Cleverhood, Vespertine, Yepp, Burley, Iva Jean, Velo Orange, et cetera. With utility/ transport/ city/ family bikes (circle your preferred term) more popular in North America than ever, there is nothing unusual about the inventory - save for the fact that a store with an exclusive focus on this market did not already exist in Boston, a major US city teeming with bicycle commuters.

Over the years, many of us have wondered why that was so. Not only was there no transportation-specific bike shop, but many shops that did try to carry some of that merchandise would often drop it after only a year or two - citing lack of local interest. "Boston is too aggressive of a city for these types of bikes" bike shop owners have told me - meaning cargo bikes, utility bikes. And yet, more and more of "these types of bikes" kept filling the streets. Clearly locals were buying them, and they were traveling out of town to do so - or else ordering online. Bike shops in places as remote as Oregon, Florida, California and Washington State have reported routinely selling bikes to customers in Boston.

One possible explanation for the discrepancy, is that the shops citing a lack of local interest have not been sufficiently "into" utility bikes to successfully sell them. When you don't fully believe in a product, customers sense that and failure can become a self-fulfilling prophecy. By committing wholly to the utility bike target market, Bicycle Belle hopes to experience a more positive response.

Will the approach work? After only weeks in business, it is far too early to tell. It's worked for a dozen or so successful city bike shops that have sprung up throughout the US. But there are also those that have failed. Since opening its doors, Bicycle Belle has received a healthy amount of orders. But initial buzz does not mean long-term success. In other words: Let's wait and see.

Last Thursday night, Bicycle Belle held its official opening party. Due to limited space, it was intended to be a semi-invitational, low key affair. Yet the turnout was impressive and the atmosphere charged with excitement.

It was good to meet local activists, such as Jessica Mink.

And local bike bloggers, like Bike Style Boston 

and Car Free Cambridge.

There were also plenty of familiar faces, including cartoonist Bikeyface and fashion model Vorpal Chortle.

Many of those in attendance were dressed up - lots of skirts, heels, suits - all arriving by bike of course.

At first I thought they'd dressed up for the party, but actually this was simply what people had worn to the office, since the party was immediately after many finished work.

Another trend of the evening was pregnancy - I spotted at least half a dozen pregnant cyclists in attendance. (Perhaps a future group ride theme?)

It was a good evening of wine, food and sparkly conversation, that showcased Boston's utility and family bicycling scene. 

And all the while, outside, a steady procession of cyclists could be observed through the storefront windows.

Business as usual for the end of the workday commute down Beacon Street. 

Local reactions to Bicycle Belle have been mostly positive, of the "It's about time!" variety. As anyone in the industry knows, a bike shop is never a get rich scheme - not even close. But the business must prove sustainable, and I sincerely hope this one does. Boston has been crying out for a resource like this for some time, and it's exciting that we finally have it - in my very own neighbourhood, no less. If you're in the area, drop by and pay the Bicycle Belle a visit! More shots of the space and opening party here.

The Other Side of the Road

Back in Boston for a few days, I am in re-adjustment limbo - feeling tentative, not altogether present. Everything here is so familiar - the roads, the sounds, the smells, the people. And at the same time it all feels utterly strange, as if replaced with a hologram of the real thing. A muggy heat engulfs me when I exit the airport, giving the landscape that hazy, blurry, flickering look.

In this disoriented state, I decide to join my cycling club's Tuesday morning 100K ride. I need to feel more solid, planted, integrated into reality - and I realise this is the best way I know how. The thought irritates me. Since when did cycling turn into this? This... defining thing, this part of my chemical composition?

In the morning, logistics are irrelevant. I pull together a mismatched outfit from the hamper. I don't have my roadbike, so I grab the cyclocross bike that still lives at my house. And then I push off - on the right ("wrong!" my brain screams) side of the road, in morning commuter traffic. On autopilot, I weave my way to the Ride Studio Cafe and the miles between us disappear.

No one knows I am coming, not even Pamela. Reluctant to admit to myself that I miss her, I nonetheless watch the door in anticipation, until there she is - platinum braids thick as ropes, tanned slender limbs, Southern accent and all. She is duly surprised by my presence and we talk in bursts, in the way of friends who have not talked in some time. "You think I'll be okay on this bike?" I point to the fat all-terrain tires. Pamela waves it away nonchalantly, as if to say "Bikes! What do they matter. Let's go."

Of course everyone but me is on skinny tire racing bikes. The thought that this might be brutal drifts through my mind. The Tuesday rides are described as "social pace," but of course for me that means "best effort pace." My eyes are swollen from lack of sleep and my legs ache from the sum of all earlier rides. I realise that brutal might actually feel good right about now. Again, I am irritated at the thought. Now why would brutal feel good, what on earth is wrong with me?

It is obscenely hot and the turnout is low today. The 5 of us set off in a single file and stay that way for most of the ride. Remarkably, I am in the middle of the group, rather than struggling behind it. My legs turn the pedals as I play a little game I learned in Ireland, called "same cadence, bigger gear." It is a fun, but painful game. I have played it for 10, 20 miles at a time before. Today I would play it for 60.

We arrive in Harvard, MA, eat lunch, then climb to the Fruitlands. On top, we stop at the side of the road to take in the view of surrounding mountains. After Northern Ireland, this strikes me as funny, that there is a specific destination with "the view." Over there, the landscape is so open that the view is everywhere. As you're riding, you can see for miles and miles - undulating glens, the sea, the entire Sperrins mountain range, even the hills of Donegal across the water. By contrast New England is so woodsy that you seldom see beyond your immediate surroundings; it is as if you are riding through a tunnel the entire time. Psychologically this feels very different. Riding through forests turns me inward; riding through glens opens me up.

The descents here feel tame compared to what I've been doing in previous weeks. On the other hand, the condition of the roads is even worse than I remembered - enormous cracks, ridges, gaping ditch-sized holes in the crumpling pavement - stunning when you're not used to it. But the texture of the pavement itself is smoother. In Ireland, the tarmac is a sort of chipseal, its surface nearly as rough as gravel at times.

By the afternoon, the heat has reached its apex and we all feel it. We start to take breaks now. We groan, we pour water over our jerseys. I am drained, but also lulled into a pleasurable trance by the intense scent of pine trees in the heat - this is something I've missed. My legs are leaden and I am caked in salt, but I give it one last push, inspired by Scott's relentless pace. Scott is a strong rider, whose compact, muscular body looks like a purpose-built machine when he pedals. I focus on staying on his wheel. Even though I know he is controlling his speed for my sake, just being able to follow him like this feels unreasonably good. Then I push further still and lead for the last couple of miles.

Back at the club house I hear "Hey, you're back!" The familiar voices are as welcome as the blast of air conditioning that greets us. Suddenly shy from the attention and the disconcerting sense of ...what's the word I'm looking for, belonging? I mumble "Yes... Well no, I'm only here for a couple of days." But with my legs weighing me down, Pamela sipping iced coffee at the bar, and the jungle of bikes suspended from the ceiling, I do start to feel more grounded, and Boston starts to feel realer.

Pedal and Coast

A friend of a friend flies gliders at the Ulster Gliding Centre down the road. I was encouraged to visit. "He used to race bikes. He restores old planes. The place is amazing, you'll love it."

Terrified of flying and armed with only the vaguest notion of what gliders actually are, I nonetheless head over there one evening. The phrase "restores old [fill in the blank]" proves to be excellent bait. In honor of the occasion, I ride a 1938 Tyrone Flyer, handmade in Northern Ireland.

Astride the 75-year old machine, I race down the winding coastal road, at length turning onto a narrow lane toward the Lough Foyle. I ride past pastures, chicken coups, a thatched cottage, and a field of parked caravans, until finally a meadow comes into view - spread out along the water's edge and littered with small aircraft. From a distance the scene resembles a vegetable patch.

By the hangar, Owen waves me through, bike and all. We exchange greetings and straight away his eyes are on the bike.

Owen used to race 100 mile time trials. He was good, right up there at the top. Then he stopped. But I can see the cycling has not left him. If he sees a bike, he can't not look at the bike. Then it's my turn to look at the planes.

A hangar is basically a garage for aircraft. This one is dome-shaped. The interior is well illuminated. There are little planes everywhere and I wander through them as if through a forest, stepping over tails and wings as if they were felled tree branches. Some planes are colourful and others are white, some fairly new and others quite old. Owen restores the old ones.

I ask about the materials, the paint, the provenance. Most of the machines are British or German, WWII era. We talk about plastics, and how they've changed over the years (a topic I'm familiar with from my fountain pen collecting days). Then he shows me the cloth used for wings - stretched so tautly and painted over so smoothly, I would never have guessed it was cloth. 

The planes are so light and small, they seem toy-like. "I could take you up in one of these if you like?" I shake my head in horror, which I quickly try to disguise as a polite "I wouldn't want to impose."

So what exactly is a glider? Put simply, it is a small airplane without an engine. A non-motorised plane. Visually, gliders can be distinguished by their lack of propellers (although there are also motorised gliders, which do have propellers) and their unusually long wings. 

Because a glider does not have an engine, it cannot take off under its own power and relies on a tow-plane to bring it up to the desired height, then release it. 

Once airborne, the glider uses streams of rising air (thermals) to prolong the flight, as the pilot steers it. In this manner, the glider can stay up in the air for hours and even travel cross-country. "Cross country without an engine?" I said, growing interested in the mechanics of the thing.

Long story short, I ended up in the glider. Owen - as most of the pilots there - has such a steady, reassuring manner about him, that the more we chatted the more it began to seem like a good idea - just a normal way to spend an afternoon. "There's no engine, so nothing can go wrong, you see. It's a bit like cycling really. Take your camera!" Yes, it would be like cycling. 

I was feeling pretty good as I approached the glider, until another pilot - Gary - handed me a parachute. "Here, put this on." I must have turned white and begun to inch my way backward (OMG why do I need a parachute??), because Gary sort of held me in place and swiftly began to put the parachute on for me, cheerfully instructing me on its usage while gently nudging me into the glider. "There. It's like getting into the bathtub." 

In fact, the thing is sort of canoe-shaped. The pilot/instructor sits behind the student/ passenger. There are duplicate controls. There is very little room, and once the top is down, you feel sealed off from the rest of the world. Once I was in it, my attitude was - If you're gonna do it, do it. Otherwise don't do it. No point being scared now.

As Owen began to rattle off a series of mysterious control-check messages into the radio, Gary grabbed the rope attached to the glider's nose and connected it to the tow-plane.  

This is what it looks like to be towed along the grass runway. We are taking off toward Lough Foyle. 

Here is the rope.

The take-off is quick and painless. Before I know it, we are being towed through the air.

View from the ground.

Finally, the rope is released. The tow-plane returns to the ground and the glider - well, it glides. I am in a small plane. Everything is completely silent. We are floating, coasting really. I am feeling fine. Calm, downright serene.

The landscape spreads out beneath. Familiar places from an unfamiliar vantage point. In that sense, it really is a bit like cycling. In an abstract sort of way.

We fly along the coast, then turn inland and head to Binevenagh Mountain. Owen explains how to work the controls to make the plane bank, turning it around. It makes sense and I give it a try. The plane turns. And there is Binevenagh, half submerged in shadow from a low cloud, half illuminated by intense sunshine. It looks quite tame from here, flattened out against the landscape. My heroic climbs and descents hardly seem like an accomplishment now.

On the very top of Binevenagh is a mysterious lake. It is up a rough gravel road and I've only made it up there once so far. The lake is eerie, prone to mists and unusual growths around its edges. When you're standing next to it, it looks as if it is about to pour off of the edge of the mountain.

But what you don't see from the ground, is that the lake is distinctly heart-shaped. It is also nowhere near the edge of the mountain when viewed from an aerial perspective.

My camera is with me in the glider. There is a small window that slides open to stick the lens through. I've no experience composing aerial photos, and my 50mm lens is all wrong for the task. Even as I take them, I know that my pictures will look generic, uninteresting. But they are mine and I take them with the same genuine enthusiasm as anyone would.

The sun fades gently in the silence. Over Magilligan Point, we see another glider in the distance and wave to them. Everything is beautiful. "You all right?" Owen asks. Yes! This is wonderful. "Want to try a Chandelle?" he says. "Oh. What's that?" It's a maneuver. A bit of fun. Not quite aerobatics, but almost. "All right!"

The glider does something that is part spin, part freefall and part loop. I see clouds. I am not sure which way is up. I feel pressure in my temples and my vision starts to go dark. A split second later, I am drenched in a cold sweat and hit with a wave of nausea. I sit very still and take deep breaths. "How was that?" Owen asks from the back seat. "Mmm hhmm hhmm!" I reply, mouth closed, worried I will puke all over the nice glider if I try to form sentences. Point taken. No more aerobatics. As the sun sets, we descend.

On the ground, I am soaking wet - hair, clothes, everything. Weird, the physical reactions we have. I don't remember feeling scared, but my body must have decided otherwise. We have a laugh about it. Then we steer the plane down the grass runway toward its next tow.

Is gliding anything like cycling? Hmm, I don't know. Maybe the feeling of landing is similar to that of a long descent. The view can be similar too. But on a bicycle everything feels open, whereas in a glider you are closed in, closed off - a bit claustrophobic for me. Not that I don't want to do it again. But perhaps no Chandelles just yet. It could be a useful skill, knowing how to fly light aircraft. 

Some day. But for now I get back on the Tyrone Flyer. I pedal uphill, coast downhill. That is more my style of gliding.