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the wind at my back; a cycling life. paul maunder. bloomsbury sport hardback. 266pp. £16.99

"You're a writer, because you write, and you have no choice in the matter. But if no f**ker reads it, what's the point?"

it's not only a bit of a cliché and an oversimplification to state that everybody has a book/novel in them, but i should imagine that in the majority of cases, it's just plain wrong. for starters, not everybody is particularly adept at writing and i seriously doubt that the insidious infiltration of modern-day texting is helping place that situation in a positive light. and though i have little in the way of difficulty scribbling these daily missives, i know for a fact that i could never sit down and write an entire book, one that traverses several hundred pages.

not fact and not fiction.

firstly, let me make it plain that the words are not the problem; i have more than enough of the latter and several that i have scarcely made use of (though i'd readily agree that there are far too many that have suffered from overuse). it's the strategy that's the problem. as one of life's untidier individuals, organising thoughts, phrases, paragraphs, even words, into a semblance of order that others might find interesting enough to make it as far as the last page, would make scaling the angliru seem like a walk in the park. let me put your minds at rest; i will not be publishing a book anytime in the foreseeable future.

fortunately for those who delight in prose that beautifully transcends its wide-ranging subject matter, books that are intellectually invigorating and engaging from start to finish, paul maunder has now published his second in less than a year. the predecessor to 'the wind at my back', concerned the intriguing world of international cyclocross, ('rainbows in the mud'). in my review of that particular publication i was wont to say "it's a strategically planned book, drawing the reader deeper and deeper into the world of cyclocross before they've even realised." it's a tactic that seems to be an integral part of mr maunder's innate writing ability, one that informs this latest outing and very much in its favour.

paul maunder has regularly contributed to the highly esteemed rouleur magazine and, to a greater or lesser extent, this outing effectively encapsulates his autobiography, an overview of the life of a writer slowly discovering that fiction may not be his best calling card. at this point, all i can say is thank goodness for ian cleverly's perspicacity.

but, at the risk of committing a second sweeping generalisation, aren't biographies and autobiographies (even if not flagged as such) more usually concerned with the rich and famous? though the author confesses to an average 'career' as a racing cyclist, the events in which he participated were probably not writ large on the wall planner at aigle. this realisation, however, in no way undermines maunder's acceptance of the underlying rules of cycling which he is astute enough to relate to the early interests of a teenager. (and i do not refer to the rules promulgated by velominati).

"Cycling pain is a kind of pleasure, so we might say it's a masochistic pain. Rather like being in love, then."

paul maunder's appreciation of cycling seems informed by the same set of specifics that would be applicable to the bona-fide touring cyclist, noting features of the landscapes through which he rode as a boy and a man. at the risk of being at the end of a pointing finger, i suspect they are hardly aspects readily associated with those immersed in the competitive realm. these are combined with a ready appreciation of those with artistic and literary designs upon the same countryside, learned references to which abound throughout his narrative.

"In 1967 a young artist called Richard Long, a student at Central Saint Martins, took a train out of London from Waterloo station. When the train reached open fields [...] (he) walked to a nearby meadow. There he walked in a straight line, back and forth until the weight of his footsteps formed a visible line of downtrodden grass."

in fact, to more closely examine his enthusiasm for the environment through which he rides his bicycle, as early as chapter two, maunder rests upon the very eureka moment when that became a concrete happenstance. "This lane gently winds past Elizabethan Pyrton Manor, past Home Farm and New Farm, over a stream that connects with the landscaped grounds of nearby Shirburn Castle. It was here that the joy of cycling first broke into my bloodstream.". though i do not count poetry amongst my many interests, i defy anyone to deny that writing such as that quoted above is the work of a poet.

and there rests the very essence of 'the wind at my back'. i hope that mr maunder will forgive me for stating that the story of his velocipedinally afflicted life is no more remarkable than that of many others; but the attraction of this book's 266 pages, utterly devoid of illustration as they are, relies on the way the tale is told; the words, the phraseology, the observation, the semantic awareness. i would seriously contend that paul maunder inhabits the same literary space as herbie sykes, matt seaton and possibly even paul fournel. yet his writing ability floats above his subject matter, offering enhancement, but never interference. if, as a reader, you are less than interested in such matters of literary excellence, fear not, for in much the same way that an episode of the simpsons appeals to adults without the kids ever noticing, 'the wind at my back' inhabits several levels simultaneously.

lest you think that i am guilty of over-egging mr maunder's pudding (and that of its paul nash inspired cover illustration), this is likely one of the most enjoyable books about cycling that's not about cycling, yet is all about cycling, i have had the pleasure of reading in many a long day. though i've no doubt that his endeavours in fiction would have ultimately borne fruit, it seems glaringly obvious that, in this case, truth is greater than fiction.

this is world class.

"To the external viewer...the fact that I had written fiction and was now going to try some non-fiction probably didn't seem ground-shaking. To me [...] it was bold, scary, exciting and disappointing."

tuesday 3 july 2018