Cake for a good cause

I’ve been baking again. Possibly more than I’ve ever baked in my life. You see the brownies in the foreground of the picture? That’s one of four trays. And the flapjacks? Each tray is double-quantity. My mother would have a heart attack.

And I’ve put a lot of effort and imagination into this. The brownies come in two flavours (walnuts and mixed berries); the flapjacks come in three (lemon and poppyseed, raisin and almond, mango and coconut).

And why am I going to all this trouble? Tomorrow’s a very special day.

It’s Cycle Courier Appreciation Day, as organized by Moving Target and the lovely chaps at the LCEF. And various lovely people are going to be standing around where Shaftesbury meets Bloomsbury, handing out coffee, (my) cake, various freebies, and bike repairs. My controller (Andy) even said he tried to get time off work to go and help out, but was turned down – a shame, as accepting a coffee from your controller whilst bombing down into Covent Garden would be rather surreal.

I’m actually quite excited about it – I love events like this, where you end up with a big cloud of goodwill and mutual regard floating above you, and everyone’s happy and being nice to each other. And it’s a bit like birthdays and Christmas – we’ll all feel special and important for once. (Well, except me. I feel special and important every day.)

I’ll try and get some photos of the event itself tomorrow. And keep my fingers crossed that a) it doesn’t rain and b) the brownies aren’t reduced to rubble in my bag on the way down.

Guardian Podcast

It’s finally arrived!

Well, it’s been up for a while, but I couldn’t listen to it for some reason (so had to listen to everyone telling me how much they’d enjoyed it, and worry that it had been entertaining because of all the stupid things I said).

But thankfully it’s OK:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/travel/audio/2009/nov/03/cycling-london-tribes-bikes

Cranking it up

I was riding along Margaret street at about 5:10 this afternoon, and suddenly fell off. I promise you this doesn’t often happen. In fact (aside from that unfortunate incident on the way home from the pub last week, which doesn’t count anyway, because I was wearing jeans), I haven’t fallen off properly since …ooh, at least last year.

Luckily it was a fairly minor fall. I was going fast, but luckily I slid, and ended up tangled up with my bike, in the path of a taxi, who had very kindly stopped. And my first reaction was embarrassment – as usual. I instantly assumed that everyone around me was terribly concerned about the poor girl who’d fallen off her bike, and that at least half of them would be thinking it was because she’d put the bike together incorrectly. In fact, I couldn’t help but suspect that myself. So I leapt to my feet, brushed off the gentlemanly concern of taxi drivers and passers-by (probably far too rudely – but I was keen to avoid Knights in Shining Armour), and then noticed that something appeared to be stuck to the sole of my right shoe.

‘Bugger’, I thought, ‘that’ll be my almost-brand-new cleat falling off’. But when I looked down, I saw my whole pedal still attached to my shoe. Improbably, the end of my crank had snapped right off.

This made me swear even more. Because replacing the cranks is a fairly major operation (and there I was feeling all proud for having changed my tyres and brake blocks last night), and I don’t have a crank puller – so I’d have to go to a bike shop. And of course they were all about to close, so I’d have to walk the bike home, and then walk it back into town tomorrow morning, and miss hours of work, and have to explain to my controller… Urgh.

But anyway. I legged it to Cavendish Cycles, full of high hopes, because they’ve bailed me out a lot in the past, and are just the kind of nice people who’d stay open a bit longer to help a courier in distress. But they turned out not to have any of the parts. They were suitably apologetic, but by now the post-crash shock had set in, and I was very close to tears, so I very abruptly said ‘fine, ok, I’ll got somewhere else’, and turned and left before I broke down in front of them. They probably think I’m frightfully rude.

So I walked all the way to Condor. By the time I got there it was ten to six and, although they’ve saved my life in the past (most notably when my forks snapped at 5pm and they fitted new ones then and there, right in the middle of the rush hour), I didn’t hold out much hope that they’d be able to now. I showed them my pedal (with the end of the crank still attached) on the off-chance, and expected to be told to come back tomorrow morning, and prepared to phone Lawrence to ask if he could possibly lend me a bike so I could work while mine was being fixed.

But they spoke to the mechanic and he said he’d do it! And what’s more, he did it in about seven minutes flat. At 17.54 I texted my friend Julia, in the pub round the corner, to tell her that – yay! – they were fixing it after all, but I might be a little late – and by 18.03 I was in the pub, being handed a glass of wine.

It’s great being a courier. Most people who get their bikes fixed in Condor probably have to wait at least 24 hours – but they did mine with no notice, at the busiest time of day, and turned it round within ten minutes. I shall take them beer tomorrow.

Shouting at people

Every now and then, someone on a cycling forum will comment that London’s drivers seems extra-specially homicidal today, and someone else will opine that it has something to do with the moon’s phases – suggesting that motorists suffer from some sort of synchronized PMT.

Now I don’t know about that, but I had far more cause to shout at people today than I normally do. The first culprit was a chap who undertook me, and then promptly swerved across my path – and when I tried to take it up with him politely at the next lights, launched into a lecture about how I was far too far out from the kerb. Now, I’m always trying to improve my cycling, and to avoid doing things that might piss off other road users (and I have recently started hugging the kerb a bit more – because I don’t trust other cyclists not to try and undertake me, and also because I know now annoying it is when you’re trying to overtake someone and they haven’t left enough room to their right), so I might have been willing to accept that as constructive criticism, but his patronizing tone, and convenient amnesia as regards the second part of his misdemeanour, left me fuming so much that by the time I’d formulated a suitably scathing put-down, he’d turned off and the opportunity was lost. (Thankfully.)

And then there was the woman crossing against the lights who had the nerve to tell me I was ’stupid’ for riding through them. She got off lightly – I told her to “learn to cross the road!” And the bloke pointlessly cycling along a very narrow and crowded pavement, whom I shouted at when he bumped into me (I was being a good cyclist, and pushing my bike). I had the pleasure of seeing him stopped by a policeman just round the corner. And throughout the day there were all the usual iPodestrians and people on their mobiles, not looking both ways till they’re halfway across the road, by which time it’s far too late. And by late afternoon, when the strain of a long week was beginning to tell, a chap crossed in front of me as I was slowing down for some lights. It was a near miss, but I was going so slowly that it barely mattered, so I just said “Oop – careful!” in a fairly lighthearted tone – to which he responded with a volley of invective so obscene that I’m actually uncomfortable writing it.

So I gave him the finger. And immediately wished I hadn’t. Because that’s what people do when they can’t think of a suitably witty or scathing response. And it made me look like a hooligan, rather than the nice young lady my initial remark might have painted me as. And it dragged me down to his level, and probably confirmed all his suspicions. I think it was at least partly this regret that meant I was almost in tears as I rode away. That, and the cumulative exhaustion of a hard week. Oh, and my hormones. Because I actually am premenstrual – and now can’t help but wonder whether I’ve somehow been projecting this onto all the other road users. Hmmm.

(But the day ended well – I was given a very urgent package on Newgate Street EC1, and told it absolutely had to be delivered to Capper Street WC1 by 5.30 (or the nice postroom guy would lose his job), and it was currently 4.59, and I had another drop on the north end of Goswell Road. But I rode up (and down) central London’s biggest hill faster than I ever have before, and managed both drops within 20 minutes. Perhaps this will make up for some of my other misdemeanours.)

Spotted!

I appear 1 minute and 37 seconds into this very interesting YouTube clip.

My media domination continues…

Review: Swrve Milwaukee Hoodie and Ibex Indie Crew

I’m contemplating winter with a mixture of trepidation and denial. I passed my first anniversary as a courier last week, so from now on I know exactly what’s to come, because I’ve done it all before. And what’s to come right now are four, probably five, months of freezing cold, frequent rain, sharp winds, icy roads, dark mornings, dark evenings, and general misery and suffering. I know that I’ll get used to wearing all the clothes I own, all the time, and looking and smelling like a tramp by the end of the week; I know that my body will ache in a whole different way at the end of each day – from the strain of keeping the bike straight on wet and/or icy roads, as well as all the usual effort; I know that my horizons will narrow so dramatically that for hours all I’ll really be able to think about is how much my hands and feet hurt, or when I’ll next have time for a hot coffee.

But hopefully this time round I’ll have learned some valuable lessons. Certainly, I now appreciate what a difference good kit can make. In summer it barely matters what you wear – even if it rains, you’ll never really get that cold, and might even come home slightly cleaner than usual. But winter’s a different matter. The only time I’ve ever shed a tear at work was a bitter day in January when both my gloves and my shoes were soaked through, and had an icy cold wind blowing through them. So this year I’ll be investing in winter boots and Sealskinz gloves (I already have Sealskinz socks, and they changed my life). I can hardly wait.

I reckon the promise of new kit to keep me warm and dry will be one of my main incentives as the days get shorter and colder. Because new kit makes me happy, and being warm and dry makes me happy – and being warm and dry when it’s raining cats and dogs and everyone else is riding around shivering or calling in sick makes me extra-specially happy (because there’s nothing quite like schadenfreude). And after all, keeping the morale up is just as important as keeping the feet dry.

Today I broke out my trusty Swrve Milwaukee Hoodie, which has been keeping me warm and dry for the past three winters, and is officially my favourite piece of kit ever. I discovered it through Minx, who very kindly sent me one to test, and I realized its magical powers one dark and rainy January night, when I was riding along the A10 between Cambridge and Royston, and found I was so warm and cosy that I didn’t want to stop! Wearing the hoodie in inclement weather is reminiscent of being curled up in your sleeping bag, listening to the rain falling on your tent, and knowing it can’t get to you. And it’s perfect for sweaty types like me, who don’t get on with the plastic-bag effect of lesser waterproofs. The hoodie’s made of gore-tex with a fleecy lining, so it’s quite stiff, and stands away from your body, giving the air a chance to circulate. (That didn’t stop me creating new organisms in mine last winter, but most people won’t be wearing it 12 hours a day for five months.) And it’s got decent pockets (I love pockets), including an internal one for your phone. And it doesn’t look like an anorak. And I’ve never met anyone in a Swrve hoodie who doesn’t love it. In fact, if two people meet for the first time, and realize they’re both wearing a Milwaukee hoodie, the first ten minutes of their conversation will be spent singing its praises. This is a fact I have observed time and time again.

I'm currently restraining myself from getting another one in green.

And another thing making me smile at the moment is my brand new Ibex merino base layer. I tried on one of their outer layers last winter, and wasn’t impressed enough to buy it – the wool felt a bit harsh and stiff, compared to the other two jerseys (Sugoi and Swobo) I ended up buying. But this top is totally different – it’s soft and cosy, and because it’s made of merino, it doesn’t smell, even after several days. (I’m aiming to create fewer organisms this winter.)

And, naturally, the pink stripe both keeps me warmer and makes me ride faster.

The joy of cake

I’ve just got back from the LFGSS Bake Off. There was lots of cake.

Lots and lots of cake.

Some of it was brightly coloured.

Some of it was seductively drizzled.

We ate and ate and ate until the sugar did funny things to our brains.

Then we packed the leftover cakes into tupperware…

…and into shoeboxes…

…and rode home to bed.

Another foodie Saturday

Today I had another Urdu lesson, and then went back to the food market. This time I had a Moroccan meatball stew with vegetables and cous cous…

…followed by a slice of fig, honey and hazelnut tart:

And then I spent a very satisfying afternoon producing ratatouille, a carrot cake, and a courgette cake, for the LFGSS Bake-Off that I’m going to tomorrow. (I’m ridiculously excited about a whole roomful of cyclists and cake, and very much encouraged by how seriously people seem to be taking their contributions.)

The carrot cake was made to my mother’s recipe, which is a curious fusion of two others – Cranks and Sarah Brown. It’s crazily easy (I must have had it in the oven within ten minutes), and goes thus:

melt:
4oz butter
4oz honey
4oz sugar (Mum usually leaves this out; I compromised and put in 2oz)

stir in:
6oz SR flour
2oz dessicated coconut (apparently this really complements the texture of the carrot, but I didn’t have any, and so left it out)
8oz grated carrot
2oz raisins
1 tsbp (according to Sarah Brown) / 1tsp (according to Cranks)
1 tsp nutmeg

then:
2 beaten eggs (which I left out, in order to make the cake vegan)

oven:
180
30-45 minutes

And that’s it! It was made from start to finish while the courgette cake was undergoing its 3-hour oven marathon, and seems to have turned out rather well. I’ll report back on the courgette cake tomorrow, once I’ve checked it’s fit for human consumption.

The most annoying loading bay in London

Something I worked out very quickly when I started couriering is that most of the larger buildings have two entrances: the swish one at the front, for employees and honoured guests, and the loading bay at the back, for the likes of me. Trouble is, you never know where the loading bay is, or how to get there, until you’ve locked up your bike, taken the package out of your bag, and waiting patiently to speak to the receptionist, who will have smiled sweetly whilst watching you do all this and who will now inform you that the loading bay is “out the door, turn right, turn right again, cross the road, turn left, down the ramp, and then follow the signs” or some such. Occasionally, you will end up in a goods lift that takes you back to the very same reception, just from a different side. I have never been able to work out the point of this.

But the very very worst loading bay odyssey in London is that which leads you – circuitously and frustratingly – to the loading bay of 2 Lambeth Hill, EC4. The front door is fairly accessible and easy to find, so you lock your bike up (they even have bike racks for you) and trudge in to find the receptionist…

…only to discover that the loading bay is actually on High Timber Street (why they can’t just save everyone’s time by accepting the envelope at reception, I’ll never know). So you check your A-Z. Turns out High Timber Street isn’t just round the corner – it’s right on the other side of Upper Thames Street – which consists of multiple lanes of fast-moving traffic, with railings down the middle. It would be easier to cross the Thames. It looks like this:

And, just to emphasize the ridiculousness of it, here’s Google Maps’ suggested route between the front door and the back door of the same building (they grey one you see straddling the road in the picture above):

View Larger Map

God only knows how many courier hours have been spent trekking between the two.

The cafe with no name

Lawrence making my mocha

I first met Lawrence on the Dunwich Dynamo in 2008, during the final lung-busting dash, once people pass the ‘Dunwich – 7 miles’ sign, imagine they can smell the sea, and crank up to race pace (forgetting that seven miles is actually quite a long way to ride at 20mph+, especially when you already have a century behind you). I was in good shape that year, so stormed past quite a few people on my pink Surly Steamroller (RIP), before getting stuck with Lawrence (on his old-skool Lemond gearie), with whom I was so well matched that we were neck and neck all the way to the beach. (Naturally I won in the end, otherwise I wouldn’t be telling this story.)

We celebrated over breakfast, and I quickly discovered Lawrence’s twin obsessions: bicycles and coffee. I’ve never quite worked out how many of the former he owns – he rarely appears on the same one twice, and is always trying to sell them off to make room for more. Nor have I worked out how much of the latter he drinks, though given that he is one of the loudest, chattiest and most unremittingly enthusiastic people I know, I suspect it’s quite a lot.

And ever since I first met him he’s been talking about uniting these two loves, and setting up a cyclists’ cafe somewhere in London, hoping that it would become beloved of bicycle and coffee fans alike, and planning to lure the courier community in with the promise of cheap coffee, a track pump, and somewhere to hang out when it’s raining.

Of course, the longer he talked about it, the more sceptical I became that it would actually ever happen. But then, about a month ago, he announced that he’d finally found the premises he was looking for, and within a couple of weeks he’d installed himself, a coffee machine, a workstand and an ever-increasing supply of second-hand bicycles – and suddenly I’m being offered a free coffee every morning!

It’s early days still – as yet the cafe has little in the way of interior design, and no name (though I believe he has something in mind). But he’s already shifted quite a few bikes (he’s connected to a workshop in Fulham, and is one of the few sources of decent second hand bikes I know who doesn’t have the whiff of Brick Lane). And his coffee is quite amazing – he made me a mocha this morning, and must have put extra KAPOW! in it, because I was simply flying for the first few hours.

Oh yes, and the all-important details: he’s at 74 Leather Lane, EC1 – just off Clerkenwell Road. All drinks are currently £1 (or 75p for couriers). And there are quite often flapjacks baked by yours truly (chocolate and cranberry tomorrow), all proceeds to the LCEF.

The cafe with no name