IT'S A BEAUTIFUL DAY FOR A BIKE

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Today I got back on the bike. Not unusual for me I know but it was such a lovely day I decided to go and see my friend Mike who lives in Dunstable. Now here I have to be fair to him, he's trying, again, to give up smoking. He's doing it in testing times. A couple of weeks ago, on the way back from White Hart Lane his car gave up the ghost on the hard shoulder of the M25. We had to be recued by the AA and they were value for money on that night I can tell you. And he has no job and no way to repair it. But I digress. A couple of days ago he called me to say he was going to buy a bike. He had seen one in the store that poses as a pawn shop but is really a place where knock off goods are sold. To prepare himself for this purchase he had borrowed a (too small) bike from a relation.
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Here I have to point out that Mike has spent most of the time I have known him deriding bike riders, identifying them as 'fair game' from behind the wheel of his (now defunkt) car. In true poacher turned gamekeeper fashion he is now to be found leaving his lungs around on a road somewhere in the local area. Good luck to him. I certainly will support him but rest assured, if I am EVER in my 4x4 and I see him in the near distance............
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Anyway the ride to and from Mike's was uneventful for the most part although I had the customary 'I'll pull out from the side road because you are invisible' incident. Now you have to have nerves of steel to ride a bike round here. Not only are the roads full of potholes due to the ravages of the last two winters, but they are also full of shitty drivers. When I tell people I cycle, they usually are incredulous, giving me a slighly weird look up and down, but I can tell you whenever the going gets tough on the road all I do is think back to last summer when I was in The Caribbean on the island of St. Vincent visiting Trish's mum then these roads suddenly hold no fear.

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For those readers who did not receive my diary during the summer, here is the relevant extract:
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MONDAY AUGUST 10th 2009: THE VINCY VAN

The van, tightly packed and sweaty, threw itself around the tight hairpin bend. A sheer drop down into a rainforested valley beckoned an inattentive driver. The engine screamed in pain as the vehicle surged round and into the tight climb on the other side of the corner. The chassis of the van swung back to the vertical and all inside went with it as one. The van headed on its' precarious way up and further into the interior of St. Vincent.

Our day had started in unremarkable fashion. The drive to Piarco airport was short and early. Of course, with their usual efficiency, Liat airlines not only contrived to make their flight to St. Vincent an hour and a half late but also contrived to have seemingly arranged for us to have no airplane to board after we had passed through the gate! As we emerged onto the tarmac expecting a twin engined 44 seater hopper there was nothing to see. All stood around wondering what to do. As usual someone took the initiative and went off to see if the plane in the far distance was the one we were supposed to be boarding. It was. Soon we were flying over a aquamarine sea and islands large and small towards our destination.

The runway at Arnos Vale airport is right by the sea. Indeed the plane comes in over the water and touches down instantly. To my right I saw The Arnos Vale Cricket Ground where the West Indies had recently and amazingly lost a test match to Bangladesh. A strong hit it seemed, would be 'six and out' into the Caribbean. We were met by 'Cousin Fred' a tall 46 year old Vincenzian who turned out to be our minder and fixer. He took us in a ramshackle taxi driven by 'someone he knows' to the Capital, Kingstown.

St. Vincent is an island much less traveled by the tourist. Few white faces in evidence here. Consequently one has the feeling that what you see is everyday life carrying on regardless of visitors. Fred took us to the 'van station' where we were to catch transportation to the north of the island and the village of Rosehall, Trish's family home. Fred seemed to know everyone, being constantly greeted by strangers and on occasion passing scribbled bits of paper which I took to be betting slips.

The van 'station' was an incredible place. Hot, noisy and busy. A concrete rectangle by the sea in the middle of town. The vans themselves are just that, vans but with windows and seats. Like a minibus but with less headroom. The old Volkswagon 'hippie van' style springs to mind. However these vans were modern, Toyotas, Nissans and Mitsubishi. Some were in better condition than others. Most of them were outrageously decorated and constantly roared in, beeping their horns for recognition and trade. The sliding side door would then open, often before the van had come to a halt, and the occupants,'conductor' first, would squeeze themselves out. As I was to find out later, these vans would be packed beyond bursting, every seat taken with young and old alike and where there was no seat, one would be fashioned using a wooden board. The conductor would then tout for trade among those waiting and once packed the van would take off on it's new journey.

Fred organised our luggage to be taken first. The two suitcases took up two seats and they were classed as two people and thus $10. The van filled up with passengers and roared away taking our suitcases and four our bottles of Duty Free with it. Fred had spoken to the driver and assured us that everything would be safe. I got the feeling that it would not be worth the grief no to carry out his request.

The village of Rosehall is a fair trek from Kingstown and not many of the vans were up for the journey. Fred had actually organised it so our luggage would firstly be dropped off at the house and then the van would come back for us. As one particular van had taken the luggage we had to wait for it's return and travel with that one regardless of the fact that in the iterim, at least one other van would have been going in our direction. We went shopping for food.

On return, we waited for two hours. On more than one occasion I wished we had taken a taxi but then I would have missed what was to come. As we waited, we were offered trinkets and fag papers from numerous hawkers who Fred chased away with a few well chosen words or phrases that I had no understanding of. A witless Rastafarian took his shirt off and danced in front of us shouting, clearly either off his tree or brain damaged from years of dope smoking. Fred got rid of him too.

Fred and I became bored waiting, so leaving poor old Trish guarding the shopping, we sloped off through the packed market to a Roti Bar where we had a beer and got some take away food. When we returned, so had our van. Fred quickly commandeered three seats and we were ushered inside and took our places near the rear. Reggae music was blaring from the tinny speakers back and front. My knees were pressed tightly up against the seat in in front of me. I had barely enough room to move, and that was before the van began to fill up. And fill up it did.

In the hot the sweaty place it seemed as if all and sundry were suddenly making a beeline for our transportation. One by one in they came through the side door. The music blared and the conductor persuaded more and more that there was indeed enough room for them. Soon,even with the wooden board seat, it seemed we were full. I counted 17 people and I reckoned there were seats for 14. Desperately I said to Trish, 'surely we are full' as an 18 stone woman, laden with her shopping approached the side door which suddenly seemed tiny compared to her more than ample frame. But no, somehow and contrary to the laws of physics, she shoehorned herself into a space previously not in evidence. With the skill of a Tokyo rush hour metro guard, our conductor squeezed the door shut and we were ready for the off.

Our driver gunned the engine and we powered out of the square. I realised that the last time I had felt as I did now was in 1968 on the North Bank at Highbury when 67,000 people squashed themselves into the ground to see my heroes lose 4-0 to a mediocre Arsenal team. Soon we were roaring up and out of Kingstown.

Trish had warned me that the drive would not only be a long one but uncomfortable too. She forget to mention highly dangerous as well. St Vincent is a volcanic island. Vegetation is lush and the landscape is mountainous. The narrow road we were on wound it's way around and around hills and hairpins that the driver seemed to regard as part of a personal time trial challenge. Occasionally we would approach a village, usually a ragged straggle of small dwellings and shacks. Our road went straight through the middle. Instead of slowing, our driver actually accelerated, blaring his horn as he advanced. In the distance I could see the usual stray dogs wandering in the middle of the street. The West Indians en masse have a lackadaisical approach to life, never moving quickly, sauntering coolly their way through. I suddenly realised this included West Indian dogs, for as our van approached, they seemed to be playing some super cool version of chicken, waiting until the very last moment as we bore swiftly down on them, to languidly stroll out of the way. My buttocks clenched as small children next appeared as the dogs sped past but they seemed to be rooted to the side of the road as we hurtled by. I thought for sure one of them must dart out sometime in some village somewhere.

Suddenly a passenger in our helpless band would call out something incomprehensible and our driver would apply the brakes, hard. But we were so tightly packed in, we were like a human seat belt. I realised it was the way to signal that this was your stop. Then we were off again. As we rocketed along I started to compare the sensation of this trip, to the experience of the new ride 'Stealth' at Thorpe Park which I had ridden in the early summer, at the insistence of some of my Year 6 children. That was truly terrifying. The difference was that Stealth lasted a mere 26 seconds. After the best part of an hour I was still aboard our ride.

In order to take my mind off what I thought was to be certain death at any minute, I began to look at my fellow passengers. To my left was Trish whose fingernails were digging into the seat in front. To her left was a Rastafarian who looked like 'The Cat In The Hat' by Dr. Seuss. His tall, colourful, Rasta hat bending over comically as it jammed against the roof of the van. Behind me was a woman and her two small children who were singing along with some of the reggae and soca tunes blaring over the scratchy speaker. Meanwhile their mother was taking and making phone calls on her mobile screeching at the top of her voice so loudly I had to cover my ears. Then there was Fred looking cool and thinking about his winners, and bizarrely in front of me an elderly man and wife who were actually asleep! Then there was the fat lady, who luckily for those sitting in her row was the first out. The others, including the two young girls sitting next to the driver were soon out too, leaving us, and a few who were going further, to survive the rest of the journey to Rosehall.

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Not THAT Rosehall!