The Light Fantastic
by Patrick Field
It has been observed in
this column before that regular cyclists tend to show a high degree of smugness
and a larger than average self-righteousness quotient; but this does not prevent
a subgroup of this population being even more self-satisfied. These are riders
whose bikes are fitted with dynamos; not the long-term dynamo users who take
unfading light for granted, but recent converts who have been through disposable
and rechargeable batteries first.
This pleasure is not completely unalloyed, though. Any dynamo user is familiar
with the system's occasional temperamental behaviour; the wonder of the dynamo
-- I wonder why it doesn't work. What are the professional cycle mechanic's
most feared words? "Check dynamo," of course.
Another problem for the dynamo user living in the city is the chronic shortage
of darkness. In the over-lit urban environment the pose value of the generator
with its three watts of constant raw power is seriously compromised. The thrill
of passing the last street light and following your pure white halogen headlight
beam into velvet black night is drastically reduced when the background glow
of light-pollution is everywhere.
A member of staff from the Transport Road Research Laboratory once told me that
in a lit street bicycle lights are no use to a cyclist in light-coloured clothing.
(As in the phrase: "In a three-mile car journey I saw twenty-eight cyclists
with no lights on their bikes." Think about it.) Bicycle lights only really
come into their own when the sky is dark.
There are over 5 million street lights in Great Britain. They pollute the sky
with light, steal the moonlight and dim the stars. Use lights on your bike and
support the Dark Skies Campaign, c/o The British Astronomical Association.
******
Cycle-ogical
problem
I realized I had a problem -- galloping velomania? -- when I met a man, the
brother of an acquaintance, in a pub. He seemed quite personable and we chatted
for awhile. Later I noticed his bike outside -- an aged roadster. I had tightened
its cotter-pin some months before and explained the mechanics of the process
so he would be able to repeat the operation himself. (Isn't it disgraceful how
they sell hammers without instruction manuals these days?) During our extended
conversation I had no inkling that I had met this man before, but mysteriously
managed to recognise his bike instantly.
My first worry was that in identifying with the machine rather than the rider
I was displaying the first symptoms of the 'transmigration
of molecules' syndrome. Identified by the Irish philosopher Flann O'Brien in
his book The Third Policeman, this has it that prolonged riding on rough roads
leads to an exchange of molecules and hence characteristics between machine
and human -- until the machines sit by the fire conversing and drinking tea,
while the people stand all night in draughty hallways leaning one elbow against
the wall. Unfortunately this interesting phenomenon has been all but eradicated
by the universal macadamising of country roads and the widespread use of heavily
padded shorts among long-distance bike riders -- the chamois-leather seas of
these garments being virtually impermeable to even the tiniest atomic particles.
So it seems the roots of the problem are more likely to be mental than physical.
Finding you are more interested in bikes than people comes as a shock, but on
reflection it's quite understandable. If I pull a lever on my bike and the chain
leaps recklessly off the chainring, it's out with the screwdriver, a 90 degree
rotation and, before you can say "Ernesto Colnago", no more misbehaviour. Now,
I know it sounds selfish, but aren't there people in your life whose operation
you wish you could modify as simply? I can think of several who would benefit
from a few minor adjustments, and several more who are clearly in need of a
major overhaul; but life's just not like that, and if it were, what would stop
someone from tinkering with your own headset?
© Patrick Field
New Cyclist, July 1993