Set out below is the text of an email I have just sent to my MP, a Liberal Democrat in one of the country’s most marginal constituencies, asking why he voted in favour of the forest sell-off and requesting he reconsider. Any response will be published here. 

Dear Mr L

I am writing to you to ask why you voted against the motion calling on the government to rethink its plan to privatise our woodlands.

I’m sure you’re aware of the huge campaign across the country to stop these proposals. I saw a poll that said 84% of the British people want to keep our woodlands in public ownership.

As city dwellers, we are all too aware of the restricted access we have to green spaces, and the proposals by the current Government to dispose – at no cost advantage to the nation – on long leases (the legal equivalent of a full disposal of title) of England’s woodlands and forests is a dangerous and undemocratic move. Nowhere in either the Conservative or the Liberal Democrat General Election manifestos was there any mention of such an activity, and neither is this a part of the Coalition Agreement. And, as there is no cost advantage, it is evident that this is unconnected with the Government’s desire to reduce the UK’s budget deficit.

The only persons who will benefit will be logging companies, whose sole interests will be profit and not the protection of our arboreal spaces. Further, the permissive access enjoyed by so many seems to be under direct threat. The proposals suggesting that community groups may buy woodlands at an open market price is laughable – a government that has at its heart the wholesale destruction of the livelihoods of so many of its ordinary people (those whom make up a significant proportion of your constituency) surely cannot consider this to be a realistic proposal; it is evident that it will only benefit the already wealthy and those immune from the draconian measures of the Coalition Government.

Given the Liberal Democrats’ usual stance of protection of the environment and the advantageous position your party finds itself in as the clear check and balance of a minority Conservative government, this seems to be a particularly regressive step.

I hope that you will not be swayed by whip-lead voting, and will reconsider your position. You have (from a separate organisation) been previously recognised as Parliamentarian of the year. Please do not forget this accolade when voting on an issue so close to the heart of so many people in England: the protection of our national assets. 

I look forward to hearing from you.

Yours sincerely,

A young man, Lewis Balyckyi, was killed riding his bike home on 18 January 2011. He was 18 years old. 

His death made the news not because it was especially remarkable, but because he was about to embark on a likely succesful career as a pro cyclist in Europe. Cycling is on the up in the press, and among the populace. It is still the new golf. Indeed, I wonder when golf will become the new cycling.

Lewis is not the first rider to have been killed on the roads. A friend has sought RoSPA information, and discovered that around 16,000 people are injured or killed riding bikes on the road. Of these 2,500 are killed or seriously injured. That’s around 50 a week who go out and never come home, or come home a fraction of their former selves.

A good week for me on the bike is around 250 miles. If I kept that up for the year, that would be around 12,500 miles. That’s the average annual mileage for a car driver. And yet, somehow, what I do has much heavier conotations of risk.

Even in the pit6ch dark of winter, I aim to ride to and from work at least three times a week. It’s an hour each way. It helps keep me fit. But every car that comes near me causes my heartrate to lift slightly and bring it a dose of adrenaline. To mitigate against the risk of that split second of inattentiveness that may put me in the 2,500, I have an armoury of lights: a front lamp so bright car drivers flash me; one rear light on the bike, one on my backpack, one on my helmet; reflective wrist and ankle bands (themselves having lights); the bike has a rear reflector; m backpack has a dayglo and reflective cover.

Share the road is often a refrain heard from more vulnerable road users. It is no surprise – there seems to be a particular mental closedown that comes over normal people as they slide behind the wheel and immediately switch off. Driving is, in effect, too easy and too comfortable; its comfort zone is way too big.

The law requires that each road user owes each other road user a duty of care. Fall below that standard, and you’ll be at fault in the case of an accident. Only, how can allowing oneself to fall below that standard ever be accidental. Driving a vehicle is a choice. It isn’t just a choice on switching on the ignition. It is a constant choice of convenience over difficulty. And the price to be paid for that is permanent attention and care opf those around us. Is the journey to work really more valuable than someone’s life?

And yet, it is clear that the duties owed to cyclists (and bikers, horse riders and kids playing on scooters) are lower than those owed to other motorised users. The cyclist in particular is expected to go to extraordinary lengths to do the thinking for motorised road users in order to seek some equality of status in the event of a collision. And yet, in spite of that effort to take even greater care of myself and those around us, the value of that saftey prioritisation is only measured after the fact.

At this stage, the details of the death of Lewis are not yet known. Many will no doubt say he died doing what he loved. That is glib, and throws away the life of our fellow man in a patronising dismissal. I love riding bikes. I need to ride bikes. But I sure as hell don’t want to go out, early, and before I have enjoyed the glorious and shining beauty of each of my daughter and fiancee, and the great wonders of the world around us. I shall take as much care as always tomorrow morning, as I step out into the gloom. And I will think of Lewis.

I sit here listening to the music of my youth: James. It’s New Year’s Eve, and we’re making food and all in the kitchen. The sorrow of reflection on the past and uncertainty of the future to come is back. It’s not unusual for me to feel like this at this time of year – the Christmas break usually creates some calm with a sense of planning for next year’s activities, but NYE always has a sad edge.

I have never been one for resolutions. Instead, I find action comes through evolution, and I understand its place only as I look back. As the years accumulate, the sense that something needs to be done, something that will wrap the memories of old age in a warmth of some achievement, grow stronger. And, at the cusp of another changing year, the same is here. I need to do stuff. Small things are small victories, and are just as valid as big things. The joy of these achievements may wane over time, but it never ceases altogether.

So, without wishing to set myself challenges that I cannot fulfil, I’ll keep it simple. In 2011, I resolve to Be Happy.

May your heart be wide open, may your mind set you free. James, Manchester.

I’ve been quite stressed about the prospect of the Christmas break.
Work has been flat out busy for a few weeks now, and I hadn’t realised
just how tired I was until I’d had a “firm” conversation from (not
with) my boss. I paused, and realised that, apart from two weeks’
paternity leave in August, I have only had two days off work since I
started the new job in April. In short: I’m shattered.

The bike has been missing in a big way, what with weekends used up
with family stuiff, and the recent snowfall cutting short my commutes
to the end of the year. Weight has been piling on as I continue to eat
for its own sake (and the endorphin hit), and so the idea of spending
my first week oiff for months anywhere but home didn’t fill me with
seasonal joy.

However, two days spent at the inlaws have, in spite of the stress of
overloading our car with kit for the baby, been quite restful.
Allowance has been made, and I have barely lifted a fat finger. Sure,
way too much food has passed my lips on a near endless basis, but the
opportunity to spent maximum family time without external stresses has
been great.

I love my inlaws – they’re the kindest people.

My brain operates simultaneously in two ways. The most regular, and prosaic, is the constant hum of unimportant traffic budging and knocking clumsily through my thoughts. It’s like the Arc de Triomphe – little purpose if you know any other route, and not particularly effective as a means of intersecting other paths.

The second is irregular, and comes in fits and starts, rather like a kangarooing car on a cold morning. They are not lightbulb moments, and neither are they especially enlightening. But, as and when they do happen, I ought to show them the courtesy of allowing their brief fluttering of life to have space to breathe. Yesterday’s mild electric shock of a thought was the balance between consumption and production; I realised how much I draw in, and how little I put out. In essence, I am intellectually and culturally parasitic. Gaining knowledge through whatever means is rarely frowned upon, but what is the use of consuming others’ output without returning the favour?

But, I always seem to strike the iron as it has cooled, and squander these chance encounters with fleeting thoughts. Given that this latest is a direct representation of my failings to produce, perhaps 2011 is the opportunity to look upon this as an opportunity and turn thought into action.  

So, Thursday was meant to be a riding day. The late to bed and
interrupted sleep made rising, even to arrive at work promptly by car,
almost impossible. The morning sky was apple sharp, and without the
weight of any breeze. I could have been an arrow of the morn. Instead,
I looked on through tinted glass and rued my inability to rise as I
should have done. These opportunities are rare. Mustn’t miss them.

A lot has been going on lately: enormous career stress, and the birth
of my daughter. Through this I have found myself slipping back to the
inwards view of last year, and the sense of desolation that brings.

Of course, Beatrice is a joyous, mesmerising little creature, and I
have found myself captivated by both the simplicity and fundamental
complexity of her life in my hands. I know this to be a sensation
impossible to recognise until the moment arrives and, irrespective of
the organisation and planning, I was quite unprepared to meet her.

Sadly, what should be a time of the simplest form of uyplifting,
light-soaked happiness has been somewhat drained by the career thing.
Just as I was getting comfortable in my own skin, the past has come
back to bite me heavily, and possibly fatally. There are moments of
blind panic, moments of resignation and acceptance, and other fleeting
glimpses of new directions and possibilities. None of this was
planned, but what use is planning for irrationality.

While the complex collision of emotion, the conflict of here and now
against the future, has landed on me with such force, I have had to
find a simpler resolve and seek help. It has come from many quarters,
and though it ought to be expected (and is given on such a basis, I am
sure), it has caught me off guard I have to say. But one area of help
was necessary. And it comes with a bitter pill.

The prospect of medium or long term medication cannot be right, and so
finding means of managing this is essential. And that need brings me
to my subject. Bikes and books. Wheels and words.

Time off work with G and B has resintroced me to the pleasure of
reading, and I am reminded of the many valuable assets of literature.
But the need to write is becoming stronger. Josiah has joined the
page, and I find myself here, blackberry in hand. The other, more
recently overt, pleasure has also returned: riding my bike. In many
ways, it represents my sole escape to victory. Not because it is the
answer the all my concerns, but in the way it creates a silencing of
the eternal rattle in my mind.

Paul Fournel writes of a need for the bike, and I know exactly what he
means. It is an inherent, instinctive desire to move, to glide, the
breathe hard and to live with such immediacy that the recent break
from riding has done nothing to diminish.

I must write and I must ride.

It’s always the bad things that knock you off stride. They arrive,
from beyond the field of vision, and slam hard into your face.
Shouting and demanding attention. Then pretending to disappear from
view, but creeping back and whispering, insistently, messages of
loathing and paranoia. The bad things can be hard to ignore, to push
back and lock away.

Sometimes, the bad things are here for a while; they know and you know
they are there. The bad things linger, pointing a crooked finger, dirt
beneath the nails. The fight will be a hard one.

But, I believe in good things too. Good things are not so obvious in
their approach, not pushy or nagging. They lift you up in their hands,
carried overhead, neck soft and eyes cast upwards. The good things
toch softly, with tenderness and care. The good things are momentary,
like glimpses of frozen webs caught between the sun and the morning.
The good things are the warm, light touch of the breeze, gently
brushing by and gone.

The question is, not just one of timing, but of importance: where we
value the good things and the bad things. Neither survives without the
other, but neither need be the only thing capturing our senses. We
balance, we tip-toe and totter, but the good, like the warmth of the
late afternoon sun, draws us naked into its arms. And to it we go,
naked and exposed. Naked and afraid. But we go.

The timing is not great, but the timing is also irrelevant. It is the
good thing to come, the explosion of colour and vigour. The timing of
that can never be wrong.

With the imminence of his or her emminence, it’s time to turn to bottoms. Mme North informs me that Number 3 is definitely mine – it’s got a big booty and it likes to shake it now and again. Me, I’m not so sure. I think that bump might be it’s head or something equally delicate. But definitely not its bot.

Of course, Number 3 is already a consumer. Not a particularly choosey one on the ethical front, but I can forgive a being that, while technically sentient, isn’t yet legal. Or, therefore, capable of independent judgement in these affairs. So, we’ll help it on its way – bottom first.

It seems that, after some research, Mme North has settled (so to speak) on nappies (diapers to our sepctic friends). And these are the chosen brand. http://www.bumgenius.com/. I rather like the name, even if it brazenly associates brain power with thrutching (they love their onomatopoeias in Yorkshire, I must say).

We’re warned off resusables, but it doesn’t seem right that a newborn baby’s first contribution to the world is to create a mountain of s**t encased in 400 years’ worth of environmental impact. So, Number 3, you may not yet be in a position to make decisions, to differentiate right from wrong, but the least we can do is help you on your way.

Backside first.