After an uncharacteristically restrained Sunday night at Shindig, I’m up at the crack of 9am, feeling relatively fit for the ride home.
Packing Down
As is often the case on the morning after a festival, when I awake the crew is already hard at work packing down. I spot someone removing cladding from fencing that hides our backstage area. As he cuts some cable ties next to where I’ve secured my bike, I ask whether he’d like me to remove it.
Which is when I discover my keys are missing. Strange: I’m very methodical in where I keep such things. But no matter how hard I look, it’s clear they aren’t here. Eventually, I realise I’d pocketed the keys after locking the bike Thursday on arrival. There’d only been time to put up the tent and grab some food before my gig on drums with Made by Martians. I hate having anything in my pockets on stage, so had stowed the keys in my sticks bag.
Avoiding Car Use?
Last night, I’d made an abortive attempt to drop my kit off at Martians flautist Marick’s car. Ian – who’d been providing transport on his electric trike – very kindly offered to take it back to Bath. So now my keys were on their way home, whilst my bike remained firmly secured to the soon-to-be-dismantled fencing. Oh joy.
Fortunately, I was able to reach Ian and arrange for him to deliver everything to my wife, who – luckily – wasn’t working. She then, very generously, drove the keys back out to me at the site’s production entrance. So much for avoiding car use.
Home Comforts
Eventually, I’m ready for the bleary-eyed ride back to Bath. It’s not far – some 25 or so miles. I’m looking forward to a warm bath and home comforts shortly. It’s been an exceptionally warm weekend and I’ve left without having any real breakfast. So, I’m pleased to pull in to the car park of The Vine Tree pub where I took refreshment on my last return journey from Shindig.
As I do so, two things happen. One is the landlord appears to tell me he’s closed today. The other is my front tyre suddenly deflates. My bike is a hybrid with enormous tyres. I’d promised myself I would replace them with something less extreme as soon as they wore out. Now 8 years old, they were finally showing signs of imminent demise. When they puncture, these tyres lose all structural integrity, becoming floppy and useless (some kind of metaphor?). Worse still, they are fiendishly difficult to remove.
Another Problem
The pub owner is happy for me to carry out my repairs in the shade of his garden shelter. Which is much appreciated as it’s now midday and the sun is shining fiercely. Eventually, I manage to prize the mass of flaccid rubber away from my wheel rim. But there’s another problem.
As we left home on Thursday, my son looked up the baffling code from the spare inner tube’s packaging. He’d ascertained it should fit a tyre of 32 to 44 cm diameter. “Good” I’d said. But, a few miles into the journey, I’d remembered my ridiculous tyres had a diameter of 55 cm. So now I’m having to over-inflate the spare and hope it will hold up for the remaining 20-odd mile ride home.
Upside
So, gingerly I proceed, trying to avoid potholes (of which there are legion on this stretch) and hoping for the best. Fortunately, I get back without further incident, barring an encounter with the world’s grumpiest stool-pigeon at a pub near Grittleton. I’m somewhat relieved when he leaves the room and the locals all agree he’s an unfriendly old curmudgeon. Not me then.
The upside of the puncture is I’m prompted to order-in more appropriate tyres ahead of the long ride to come. In the meantime, I’ll use my spare bike for the short trip out to Inglesbatch for Protestival. More of which shortly…