Wind farms and bicycles – two technologies appropriate to a sane, sustainable future.
But more than that, they’re symbolic of that future; there are surely no objects which better symbolise the age towards which we’re moving, too slowly, but surely.
For me the aesthetics of technology is ethical. I love wind turbines like I love bicycles because they’re good, pointing in the right direction.
Of course I know both bicycles and wind farms are hugely, strangely controversial. They’re sometimes ridiculed. But it feels like both are gradually becoming more accepted as inevitably necessary. And though not nearly enough, both are proliferating – wind turbines off our coasts and over our hills, and bicycles … well, where exactly?
A Parliamentary Inquiry is currently investigating how to get Britain cycling. Pay attention to our London-centric media and you’d be forgiven for thinking we’re on the brink of ‘a cycling revolution’. Use of the bicycle is probably rising across some towns and cities, yet so slowly it’s barely a trickle.
My own hunch is that bicycles are proliferating most in people’s imaginations and aspirations. For many Brits their status has upped a notch, and the idea of cycling is less outlandish than it was a year or two ago. And cycling has moved a tiny bit further towards the centre of our collective cultural ideals of good lives and good cities.
There’s a zeitgeist to convert, and we’re waiting for politicians to convert it, because the changes necessary to get Britain cycling must chiefly be made at national level with a huge reallocation of resources away from the car and towards the bicycle.
It’s because I love cycling that I’m involved in debates about cycling’s future, but it’s because I love riding that I’ve some immunity from the emotional roller coaster that involvement in those debates can bring. Sure, I’d like everyone to have cycling in their lives, but at least in the meantime I can enjoy having it in mine.
But I’ve still no road bike. It’s still cold and icy. My world has shrunk. I’m feeling hemmed in.
Parts of north Lancashire and Cumbria close to the coast are clear of snow, but the world just a short way inland remains white.
Unable to go farther afield, today I jumped on my mountain bike to explore little known places close to home. I’ve lived and cycled here 15 years, but there remain roads and tracks within ten miles I’ve rarely been.
I rode east across the city, up past the Town Hall and Cathedral, up past Ashton Memorial in Williamson Park, up over the M6 and onto the Forest of Bowland’s north-westerly fringe as it falls unevenly towards the River Lune. (There is no forest by the way – the Forest of Bowland is in fact a vast area of moorland.)
Right onto Little Fell Road, then down Stock-a-Bank towards Littledale. Past Baines Cragg and sharply down to Artle Beck. When my kids were tiny and driving me crazy, these lanes – so quiet yet so close – formed my escape route; an hour away from the house, out here, would lift my spirits and send me home closer to sanity
Up ahead the wind turbines’ slowly rotating blades strike brilliant white in the low winter sun. Their slim white lines have the elegance of the egrets we sometimes see at Leighton Moss, a short way north on Morecambe Bay.
Depending on my position the turbines seem at times close, other times distant. They sometimes take me by surprise, the blades appearing suddenly above, disturbing the point at which land and sky meet. I love riding this compact yet complex topography.
To reach the wind farm I must drop down almost to Brookhouse before climbing up again on a lane I’ve not taken in years. It rises steadily to Caton Moor, the wind farm all the while drawing closer. Up here the drifted snow is deep in places.
This was one of the UK’s first commercial wind farms. When it came into service back in 1994 it produced 11% of the UK’s total wind energy. Wind technologies have developed fast, and in 2005 its original ten turbines were replaced with the current eight. Their combined capacity is 16 MW, enough energy to power 10,000 homes.
I ride reverentially between the white giants standing in the snow. They’re so high (55 metres) they make me and my bike feel really puny.
Standing alongside one I turn my head to see its blades (35 metres long) tumbling one by one from the sky toward me. It’s like staring into the heights of a great cathedral, only better, much better. I feel giddy, overawed.
Cyclists know the wind’s power. We feel its pull and push. When it lends a hand the world seems easier. When it’s in our faces we hunker down and push harder. We know its noise too – the way it roars, at times so loud it’s hard to hear the words of the person riding beside you.
Where would cycling be without the wind?
A bridleway follows Kirkby Gill off the moor down to the Lune. Where it’s not covered with ice its surface is full of brick. I drop out of the snow and under the aerial ropeway which until recently took clay from the pits above to Claughton brickworks below. Just before Claughton a little track goes east through Farleton where I join the main road.
I follow the Lune downstream to home. I’m glad to have been forced into this little ride, but I’m a coiled spring waiting for my road bike and milder weather to return so that my corner of the cycling world can open up again. It’s snowing now, as I write, but a thaw is on the way.