The shortest day of the year was upon us, cold and gloomy. I wanted exercise, but could I bring myself to get changed and get my bike out? I hesitated, but the prospect of a workout in my living room had little appeal, and the desire to be outdoors prevailed.
A few years ago I’d decided winter cycling wasn’t for me.
The days were too short, the weather too cold, the sun too low – shining in my
eyes and, worse, dazzling the drivers, increasing the chances of a bike-car
collision. For a year or two my bike lived in the shed from December to
February. But in the last couple of years I’ve realized it can be worth getting
out cycling even in the depths of winter.
I’m not getting carried away here. I’m not advocating
cycling through snow and ice. I might be fooled by a dodgy weather forecast and
get caught in a shower, but you won’t see me setting out in the rain. I’m not
going to follow my partner’s example and ride 200 km on one of the shortest
days of the year in chilly fog and drizzle, plunged into darkness for the last
60 km or so. No, I’m talking civilized, fair-weather cycling, getting out for
an hour or so in the middle of the day (a perk of self-employment) for a blast
of fresh air and physical exertion.
On the shortest day of the year I follow my shortest route,
a circuit northwest of Chelmsford. At first the chilly winter air cuts through
my leggings, numbs my gloved fingers and makes my eyes water, but I soon warm
up. Within about ten minutes of leaving my back garden, I’m out of suburbia and
in the countryside, in Hollow Lane. On the left, gateposts mark the entrance to
a long driveway leading to a large
house, plain and dignified, with splendid oversized chimneys. Shortly after, on
the right, comes a house of a completely different character: Scravels, with its
colourful façade of cream walls, red roof and finials, green trim, and a
decorative motif of leaves below the gables.
When I first discovered this route a few years ago, Hollow
Lane was entirely rural, but its western end has now been swallowed by a new housing
estate, and the road surface is thick with the mud of construction traffic. I’m
soon out again, though, heading north on the oddly named Woodhall Hill (there
is no hill to speak of).
At some point, a sign announces the beginning of Chignal
Smealy, but it’s hard to see where the village starts and stops: there’s the
Pig & Whistle, a pub transformed into an upmarket restaurant, a few houses,
and a neatly thatched cottage at the corner of Breeds Road. Then fields and
hedgerows again, as the road narrows and curves westward, then another cluster
of houses around the pretty red-brick-and-ivy church of St Nicholas. Next door
is Church House, a picture-postcard half-timbered building with a distinctly
discouraging sign announcing “No enquiries”. Whatever I might wish to know, the
inhabitants of Church House are clearly not interested in telling me.
At Church House the road makes a sharp turn south, and soon
after that I’m heading homeward along Mashbury Road. This takes me through the
equally sprawling Chignal St James: a cluster of houses, a brick schoolhouse
converted into a dwelling, a smart modern village hall – and then another
substantial stretch of countryside before the village resumes, with a few rows
of cottages, a red phone box, and a small flint church (St James, presumably),
converted into a house.
Passing the ex-church and the cricket green, I have to pedal
harder to get up a little hill, then I sail past more houses, one of them
previously the village pub, the Three Elms. Its days as a pub are not in the distant
past: I sat here in the garden with a beer a few summers ago, and sang carols here
with my choir one Christmas (anyone remember which year?). Another tiny hill,
more barns converted into luxury housing, and before I know it I’m back on the
outskirts of Chelmsford.
Apart from the well-spaced charms of the Chignals, the real
appeal of this ride is the countryside itself. Its beauty is a lot less obvious
at this time of year: no exuberant blossom, lush greens or gorgeous displays of
autumn leaves. But adjust your expectations, and the beauty is there. Trees
that might melt into a mass of green in summer reveal their individual shape
and structure in winter, bare against a pale sky. Oak with its sturdy, sharply bent
branches ending in a delicate tracery of twigs; ash with its thick, upward-curving
twigs and fat black buds; blackthorn and dog rose revealing their full spiky
nature.
The landscape isn’t completely devoid of colour, either. The
sky isn’t a monotonous grey, but mottled, multi-shaded, a watercolour sky.
There’s light green grass, a darker green field of winter cabbages, and the
still darker green of ivy. There’s the pale, pale yellow-grey-brown of dead grasses.
The twigs in the hedgerows are not just brown or grey, but show, from a distance,
hints of colour: some are a dark purple-grey, others a faint orange-red. And close
up there are small splashes of contrasting colour: a few dark red haws, the
feathery white seed heads of traveller’s joy (aka old man’s beard), a scattering
of small, bright yellow leaves, mostly blackthorn and dog rose. Brambles, not usually
my favourite plant, redeem themselves at this grey time of year with a riotous
mix of green, yellow, red and brown leaves.
Most of these things, of course, could also be enjoyed on a
walk, but cycling gets me out of town quicker – the alternative would be a long
trek through the suburbs or a car trip, braving Chelmsford’s traffic and the
hassle of parking. Walking warms me slightly, but cycling really gets my heart
pumping. Country walks in winter can be lovely, especially in good company, yet
there are times when trudging alone along muddy footpaths fails to thrill me.
On my bike I can stick to sealed roads and whizz past any less appealing bits
of scenery.
I could potentially get some of this from running – the
pumping heart, the faster-passing landscape, the distracting effect of physical
exertion. For me, though, running is all effort and no fun, whereas cycling is
a delightful mixture of both. Running is supposedly good for my bone density,
but it’s a strain on my hamstrings, shins and feet. Cycling gives more movement
for less work, and doesn’t exacerbate my middle-aged aches and pains. Running,
I’m sluggish and heavy; cycling, I’m as light as air. Running makes me feel
old, cycling keeps me young.
Anyone fancy a ride?
