I suffer from a condition that has been little studied amongst cyclists: a reluctance to use lights. Whenever I get the chance, I switch off my rear light. A dirt track? Off. A wood? Off. A full moon? Definitely off. I save on light as if I had to produce it myself.
On top of that, there’s a serious case of battery paranoia. I’m constantly expecting some battery or other to let me down. And these days, batteries are lurking everywhere: in the gear system, seat post, front light, rear light, headphones, speedometer and mobile phone. The modern bike is a rolling electronics shop. The only thing missing is the bottle cage demanding an update.
The Trauma of the Yellow Lamp
The reason probably lies in my childhood. Back in the seventies, we had torches at my parents’ house that looked like a cross between a trumpet and a firecracker. The handle held batteries the size of a beer can. At the front, a little bulb glowed, spitting out a curry-coloured light into the world. It was only a dull yellow because I, or one of my four siblings, had once again forgotten to switch it off.
There was no sign of the flashlight. One could only guess that there must be a cellar somewhere. After a few minutes, the torch went out completely. The batteries were flat, and so was our faith in technology.
These days, LEDs are brighter than the car headlights of the past. Yet deep down, that yellow glow is still there. It whispers: Save your light. You never know what’s yet to come.
Just in case: three lamps
That’s why, on every autumn ride, I take enough lighting with me to kit out a small-scale rescue operation. As well as my bike light, my rucksack contains a Petzl head torch, a glowing LED lanyard for dog owners and an emergency rear light that clips on.
That doesn’t put my mind at ease, though. On the contrary: the more batteries I’ve got with me, the more of them might be flat. So, before setting off, the big checklist ritual begins. Is the light flashing green? Are the cables plugged in? Are they actually charged? Or are they just pretending to be?
Others check their tyre pressure. I scrutinise the charge indicators. Or I’d better just switch it off altogether.
2,000 lumens, strictly rationed
I’ve got a Sigma Buster 2000 mounted on my handlebars. It’s a ‘high-beam headlight’ with 2,000 lumens. It can turn night into day. In theory.
I’m dimming it, basically.
Not set to 1,000 lumens. Not to 600. But to the lowest setting, 300. That way, the stated runtime increases from a good two hours to up to 20 hours. An irresistible offer. I could light up the whole forest, but I’d rather cycle through the twilight – with a battery that would last until the day after tomorrow.
When the moon is out, I switch everything off. Then I roll through the darkness and rejoice in my power reserve. That’s about as sensible as turning the heating off in winter so it doesn’t run out in summer.
Dangerous, just to be on the safe side
Of course, this has consequences. I’ve hit branches and crashed into potholes that nearly wrenched the handlebars out of my hands. The rear light is an even bigger problem. I switch it off before I reach the woods. Once I’ve passed through the woods, I forget to switch it back on.
It’s usually motorists who remind me of this. They honk their horns. I get a fright, reach behind me, start to swerve and try to find a tiny switch whilst driving. And so the desire for maximum safety turns into a surprisingly efficient source of danger.
My brother sums it up succinctly: “You’re mad.”
He’s right. But reason is no match for paranoia.
Let there be light. Later.
Autumn is upon us once again. The days are getting shorter, the nights longer, and charging cables are strewn all over my flat like technological weeds. My misery is in full bloom.
I could charge all the batteries, switch on the lights and just set off. After all, that’s what it was built for. But no sooner does the light come on than I can already picture the battery level dropping in my mind’s eye.
So I dim the lights. One more notch. And another.
Until I can hardly see anything from my bike – but at least I know exactly how much further I have to go.
Dimitri Lehner
Editor