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Sadness and joy
Sep. 9th, 2010 01:55 amI went and picked up my new bike today. It's an Optima Condor, a long-distance trekking recumbent. I was lucky enough to win it on eBay a month ago, but it's taken a while to find the money and the time to go and collect it. I even managed to ride the thing home from Marylebone Station to Mitcham, which is one hell of a first ride on a new and unfamiliar bike - right through central London, in the dark on wet roads.
As I reorganized the garage and put it away, something suddenly occurred to me which I'd not previously thought of. My new steed shared a name with one of the most famous bicycles in travel writing - the faithful ride of my personal heroine, Anne Mustoe. Mustoe cycled round the world twice on her Condor mixte tourer - one westwards, and then nearly a decade later, heading eastwards. She also followed the Silk Road, the American pioneer trail, the Roman amber route, Hanuman's route from Nepal across India to Sri Lanka from the Ramayana, the Way of St James from Le Puy-en-Velay to Santiago de Compostela and any number of other epic rides, and wrote about them all with a wonderful dry wit and lavish attention to detail and history. I finished her account of a journey across Latin America, Che Guevara and the Mountain of Silver: By Bicycle and Train Through South America, on the train up towards Banbury this afternoon.
She called her bike "Condor" as it was made by that fine bike manufacturer. Mine is a Condor too, but that's its model name - it was made by Optima in the Netherlands.
Thinking to mention this, I went to Mustoe's site, only to find it squatted by a commercial page. I wondered what had happened and Googled her - only to find a swath of obituaries, from the Times, the Telegraph and other cycling luminaries.
I'm dismayed. I had really hoped to meet her some time, or listen to her speak. She rode around the world the first time, alone, at 54, not having ridden a bike in 30 years. She hated camping, freely admitted she could not fix a puncture, and didn't carry lights as she disliked riding at night. She wasn't keen on the countryside, either, describing herself as a "city mouse". I started reading her books last year and loved them.
I am terribly saddened to learn of her death, which happened late last year in Syria as she was cycling to Singapore - on her own, of course, on Condor, at 76 years of age.
She was one of my greatest inspirations and I can only hope to follow in her wheel-tracks some time. I hope my Condor can take me to some of the places hers did.
I recommend her books to all of you, especially the wonderfully-modestly titled A Bike Ride.
As I reorganized the garage and put it away, something suddenly occurred to me which I'd not previously thought of. My new steed shared a name with one of the most famous bicycles in travel writing - the faithful ride of my personal heroine, Anne Mustoe. Mustoe cycled round the world twice on her Condor mixte tourer - one westwards, and then nearly a decade later, heading eastwards. She also followed the Silk Road, the American pioneer trail, the Roman amber route, Hanuman's route from Nepal across India to Sri Lanka from the Ramayana, the Way of St James from Le Puy-en-Velay to Santiago de Compostela and any number of other epic rides, and wrote about them all with a wonderful dry wit and lavish attention to detail and history. I finished her account of a journey across Latin America, Che Guevara and the Mountain of Silver: By Bicycle and Train Through South America, on the train up towards Banbury this afternoon.
She called her bike "Condor" as it was made by that fine bike manufacturer. Mine is a Condor too, but that's its model name - it was made by Optima in the Netherlands.
Thinking to mention this, I went to Mustoe's site, only to find it squatted by a commercial page. I wondered what had happened and Googled her - only to find a swath of obituaries, from the Times, the Telegraph and other cycling luminaries.
I'm dismayed. I had really hoped to meet her some time, or listen to her speak. She rode around the world the first time, alone, at 54, not having ridden a bike in 30 years. She hated camping, freely admitted she could not fix a puncture, and didn't carry lights as she disliked riding at night. She wasn't keen on the countryside, either, describing herself as a "city mouse". I started reading her books last year and loved them.
I am terribly saddened to learn of her death, which happened late last year in Syria as she was cycling to Singapore - on her own, of course, on Condor, at 76 years of age.
She was one of my greatest inspirations and I can only hope to follow in her wheel-tracks some time. I hope my Condor can take me to some of the places hers did.
I recommend her books to all of you, especially the wonderfully-modestly titled A Bike Ride.
