Silence

Short lapses of silence

I have many memories of fond outdoor moments.

Cresting a Beacons valley top and hearing a Raven’s wingbeat on a rare windless day.  

The crashing of waves on an exposed Anglesey beach as rain lashed my chin and wind tore at my cycling jacket.

Sat in a kayak, deep in the heart of a cave off the Coast of Skye, dangling my paddle carefully amongst a bloom of Lion’s Mane jellyfish.

Gazing down a valley in the Dovrefjell  and hearing nothing, but nothing, except the slow trickle of glacial melt.

This postcard from the Boneshaker and Bristol Project Team, brought many back in an overwhelming welcome flood. This is what motivates me to push myself. This is the reason I get on a bike. This is what makes me go out in the rain. It’s a reminder – this is why I exist.

Lovely cycle art by Kerry Hyndman for Boneshaker. Available as a postcard from the Boneshaker shop (or comes as part of your Bristol Bike Project supporters pack). 

3 replies »

  1. Reblogged this on golefty and commented:
    I’m reblogging this post from simonnurse on Kerry Hyndman’s graphic because it exactly fits what I’ve been daydreaming about lately. This winter is hanging on with teeth. Every morning that I go out into cold wind or hear rain banging on my Baltimore-chic aluminum porch roof, I mentally transport myself to one of those long, warm summer rides into the boonies, where all there is to hear is animals poking around and maybe a plane going far overhead. The warm weather cannot come soon enough.

    The most pressing silence I’ve ever heard (or not heard? experienced?) was outside of Moab, Utah, when my friend Katie and I drove cross-country. Not wanting to pay the entrance fee for Arches National Park, we instead took a “scenic byway” into the Colorado River Canyon, searching for something called the Jug Handle Arch. Turning off the paved road (and inadvertently driving right past Jug Handle Arch in the process), we headed off onto a dirt spur. Eventually realizing we were in the middle of nowhere, we stopped the car, shut it off and got out. I’ll never forget the very strange and extreme silence that seemed to press in on us. It was like standing in a vacuum. And actually, it was a little bit creepy.

    That was a bit extreme (however, I’m salivating to go back to Moab and ride), but in a way that’s part of what I’m looking for when I ride: Nothing, although preferably scenic Nothing. Short lapses of silence. Inner peace, even if it comes along with a big physical effort at times.

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