Matthew Parris, once a Tory MP under Margaret Thatcher, now one of the Times newspaper’s most popular columnists and a regular presenter on BBC Radio 4, writes today about a fantastic ride on an electric bike in Spain. A couple of years ago he published a column that urged people to set up booby traps to presumably kill competitive, lycra-clad, energy drink swigging cyclists, which went down very badly in the cycling press and online community. Very badly indeed.
However, it seems he’s not ideologically opposed to getting on a bike after all. He spends much of today’s column writing about the joy of riding an electric bike from his house in the Pyrenees down to a local fiesta and back. It was a transformative experience:
“For a 62-year-old boyhood cycling enthusiast such as me, it’s like being 16 again: wings to your pedals as each push on the treads pulses the bike forward… Coming back around midnight through the evergreen oak forest on a warm clear night under a full moon, the night air cooling damp brows and the soft hum beneath the bum reassuring us of continuing electrical assistance, was magic.”
It’s not clear from the following description which electric bikes he and his sister were riding, but he gives a fairly detailed description of their appearance and how they worked:
“[My sister, Belinda] bought four of these bikes from a manufacturer in Barcelona. She hires them out to holidaymakers; but we borrowed two and, as evening fell, set out down the hill to L’Esquirol — ten miles away — to watch the little town’s annual fiesta. Off we whooshed through the dusk on a lonely road on futuristic bikes that look anything but futuristic. Black, solid, old-fashioned-looking, with a wicker pannier on each side of the rear wheel, indistinguishable at first glance from the kind of thing that you might see a rural French nun riding. All’s as expected on a traditional bike, with five gears.
But welded to the frame beneath the saddle is a battery holder containing a plastic-covered rechargeable powerpack the size and shape of two slim bricks, end to end, weighing about ten pounds. Here the electric assistance is switched on or off. A display light indicates how much power remains. And that’s it. There are two levels of electrical assistance, high or low, plus a booster operated by the equivalent of a motorcycle throttle on the handlebar. But here’s the really cool thing: if you don’t pedal yourself, the electrics won’t kick in to help you. You can’t just freewheel. It’s so Tory! I just loved it.
You’re all in this together, you and your bike; and as long as you’re doing your bit you’ll hear the faintest of hums from the fat rear hub as the electrics lend a hand. Stop pedalling, the hum cuts, and you’re on your own.”
But then, oh dear, Parris’s feelings about a certain type of cyclist emerged once more…
“But you know the best thing? Encountering ordinary sports cyclists in their lurid spandex garments and absurd minimalist crash helmets (ours were disguised, one as a solar topee, the other in hunting tweed). These ciclistas, with angry, spittle-flecked mouths, look at you in shock, glance at your battery, then eye you as one might eye a piece of excrement. And you hum and whirr on up the hill, with all the exultation of an unashamed cheat. Ha!”
That’s a glorious feeling many electric cyclists will be familiar with. Good to have you on board, Matthew Parris! Let’s hope his experience on an electric bike turns out to be more than a holiday fling.
