Nodding (and Waving) at Strangers

There's a pleasant camaraderie in cycling; in the nod or the wave to a like minded stranger, heading in a different direction.

Some friends have a VW camper van, and I delight in the quaintly tribal ritual they enact whenever they see another such vehicle on the road. It's almost masonic in its performance, in their cheerful adherence to the peculiar process, in the ritual.

In short, they wave at other drivers. Yes, there's a particular gesture - a secret handshake, if you like - a configuration of fingers and thumb known only to those in on the secret. But fundamentally it's a wave, a salute, a greeting.

That this seems rare and unusual and exotic is a sad reflection on the daily horrors of driving that we collectively endure. Why shouldn't we wave at other drivers? Why shouldn't we connect with the strangers we pass by every day (more likely to recognise the registration plate than the person behind the wheel)? Rather than the begrudging little raise of the finger that we offer when someone has offered us the right of way (although they have stopped we, after all, deserve it) why shouldn't we raise our entire hand in greeting and welcome and thanks?

A strange, sweet camaraderie, then, that camper van owners enjoy.

Sweeter still is that experienced by cyclists, themselves tribal creatures with their team colours and club jerseys, on the brief and fleeting moments when we pass one another on those twilight roads in the commuting hours.

It's a small gesture, usually - there is no need for an extravagant salute at the cyclist's speed. And it is tailored to the conditions. When the weather is better, the light brighter, the eye contact longer, then a raise of the fingers from the hoods will suffice, particularly from those tucked into an aerodynamic position, when lifting the hand off the aerobars is as welcoming as a kiss.

On the grey days, the cold dark foggy days, then something more is needed; a deeper connection, a more strident acknowledgement of a fellow. On on those days a nod or a even a cheerfully-shouted Morning! is required.

And even that small connection is enough.

Is Pragmatic Environmentalism Still Relevant?

As I reactivate this blog after a couple of years of absence, and return to actively posting (rather than drafting article after article without publishing any), I've been asking myself whether the main topics I chose to cover when I started - almost four years ago - are still relevant to me; whether they're still something I'm passionate about, and also whether I still have some expertise in them.

Cycling was the easiest topic to answer the question. The amount of active cycling I do has decreased in the past couple of years, partly as my son has grown older and required more of my time as a taxi service. At the same time, my job has developed to a level that I have less readily available slack, and the cycle commute has fallen out of favour.

But cycling is still a part of me. I trained for and rode my first ever (and perhaps last ever!) century ride last year; I still use my bike to nip to the shops or to collect a takeaway. I still delight in the feeling of the wind on my wheels.

As for Design Matters - user experience - my change in job role has meant that I'm not as active a practitioner as I used to be. But my eye is still drawn to detail; I still embrace those same philosophies and see good (and bad) design in all kinds of everyday places. It's still close to my heart, and I want it to remain so.

Which brings us, then, to Pragmatic Environmentalism. Is there still space in my life (and this blog) for my homegrown approach to environmentalism? Is it still relevant to me?

It's certainly true that the ethics that led me to environmentalism are still part of me. Yes, I have made more compromises along the way, some of them as a result of being a parent. But I've continued to draw the line too; refused to do what I felt was wrong or inappropriate. I've continued to delight in seasonal food, for instance, and am currently stuffing myself with good old asparagus.

What about that word "pragmatic"? As I reflect now, I realise that I first used it to make environmentalism palatable to people who saw environmentalists as tree huggers with beards and hair shirts, to tone down the dark green. And I think that I also used it as an apology for my dilute brand of environmentalism; a justification, or an excuse for my failings and limits.

But yes, a green life for the 21st Century - pragmatic environmentalism - is still important to me. And this is, I think, my chance to rediscover and re-develop what it means to me, and how relevant it is to my life now. A chance to re-launch and re-boot and, where I can, recycle.

Detail Matters: Bad First Impressions (Poor English)

It's very easy to identify bad detail, even easier to laugh at it. But every now and again it's good to indulge in order to remind ourselves How Not To Do It.

Because first impressions are important. They say: we're a serious, professional organisation, and we deserve your money.

Or, they say We didn't bother proofing our promotional material. Or - perhaps worse - We have a limited grasp of the English language.

All of that in the first word.

But wait! What's that first FREE item in the Pack? An LED Tourch, you say?

Two spelling mistakes with every flyer. You can imagine that the product will be equally high quality.

Unexpected Delights: Discoveries when Slow Cycling

The old Mandatory Cycle Commute this morning, having left my car at the office last night, brought an unexpected delight.

I've said before that one of the things I love most about cycling is the pace of travel; the opportunity to pass through the world not at a blur, but at a speed that allows me to see it, to enjoy it. Last night, on the ride home, I noticed a strange construction site at the end of the little road that goes over the dual carriageway. It stood out because it's on a bridal path in the middle of nowhere.

Last night, I didn't stop to investigate - it's always better to get home, right? - and that knowledge was still niggling me this morning. That knowledge, and the thought that not every ride is a race, encouraged me to stop this morning and investigate.

It didn't matter that I was already late, and had a busy day ahead of me; what mattered was the thrill of discovery, and of taking the opportunity that cycling affords; to pause for a few minutes and explore.

And what an unexpected delight; the Weymoor Bridge Project, a volunteer-led construction project to restore an ancient bridge. I was rather pleased to have stopped.

And, of course, I arrived at work with a spring in my step and a broader-than-usual grin.

Tempted by a New Saddle

I discovered yesterday that Brooks - legendary saddle makers - now make their flagship B17 Standard saddle in a delightful Apple Green.

Given that my singlespeed steed (the excellent Pompino by On-One) is mostly green (right down to the tread on the tyres), I'm now thinking that I need to replace my existing saddle (the super-comfy and delightfully-named Charge Spoon).

Fun Does Not Mean Comic Sans

I was asked to provide some content for a new website, and in the process of looking at it, I couldn't help but notice the presentation.

The layout, for instance, was too large to fit on my 1280x1024 monitor. A collection of photographs and their associated labels were disjoint. There were typos, text was uppercase, apparently randomly. And the predominant font was comic sans.

Now there is much to be said about comic sans, and a great deal more to be said about the role of font in brand, in the look and feel of a website (or application, or book).

But for me it boils down to a question of the appropriateness of comic sans for the subject. For a comic, for instance, it may well be the most appropriate font. For a warning sign, perhaps not.

In this case, I presume that the use of comic sans is to promote a sense of fun; there are humorous (although possibly in breach of various copyright) images, and the tone is light.

All well and good. But does the use of Comic Sans add to this?

I think not.

Email newsletters: detail matters (even in the subject line)

This morning, I received an email newsletter from a company that has re-designed their website. The subject line invites me to "celebrate our new web site".

The email meets many of my criteria for a good email communication strategy - it's quite clear who the sender is, why I'm receiving the email. And the option to unsubscribe is right where I expect it to be, at the end of the message.

So far, so good.

Unfortunately, the email falls down on a small, but significant detail: there's a spelling mistake in the subject line. They've lost me before I've visited the website, before I've even opened the email.

Detail Matters, Even in the Subject Line

User experience starts before the front page. Yes, compelling content will win out, but you've got to get visitors to your website (or to open your newsletter) before they can discover your content. Any barrier must be removed, anything that stops someone from making that first click. Even a typo - something so apparently small, so easily fixed.

Because every detail matters.

What was the error? The subject line offers "20% of everything".

And I'm pretty sure they don't mean that in the same vein as Harry Brignull does.

Related articles:

• User experience and email communication
• User experience is about layers
• User experience starts long before the front page

Food Miles Oversimplify Local Food

There's an interesting article over at TreeHugger this week on how (and why) the notion of "Food Miles" oversimplifies local food.

This article raises many of the points I wanted to address in a very popular article I wrote after watching a disappointing report on BBC television's Countryfile.

Local food is a good idea. It is likely to be fresher, which quite likely means more tasty. It's almost certainly going to be seasonal. And it's going to require less fuel to transport (which, ultimately, means less carbon - good news if that's your measurement of choice). Besides which, the money for the food is more likely to go straight back into the local economy. All of which, I'm sure, are very good things, and important to me.

But locally-produced food doesn't automatically guarantee decent welfare for animals; local food won't always be produced without pesticides or fertilisers. And for some people, local food might mean genetically modified food - it's got to be grown somewhere, right?

As for food miles, they are one (vastly over-simplified) measure of the environmental impact of food production and consumption - largely a measure of carbon impact (which, it could be said, is yet another oversimplification). They're certainly not the only consideration.

As ever, the choices come down to what's right for you; what's important according to your own personal principles.

Related articles:

• Why Countryfile Missed the Point
  
• My Personal Principles

"Please scroll down to select size & add to your basket"

If every page on your website says this, you probably want to look at re-designing your page layout.

Especially if the item in question comes in only one size. Much like the "Please scroll down" message. Because, in this case, one size does not fit all.

The fact that the website needs to use this message suggests that they've had problems with their users not being able to find their primary action buttons, their calls to action; Add to Basket, Buy Now, whatever they happen to be called. Which means that they're not obvious enough - perhaps because they're not visible on the screen at target resolution.

But writing a message that users need to look harder - work harder, take another step - and putting it on every page, is not the answer.

Users look for something to click; they don't want to be hunting around. Every moment that users spend looking for a link, a button, is a moment closer to them leaving your website in despair. They don't want to resort to having to read the little, unimportant text on the page; they want a great big call to action. Buy Now.

Cycling's Biggest Challenge is Not Motorists

The biggest challenge in promoting cycling is not other road users, truly it's not; the problem is a matter of perception.

In fact, the problem with cycling is soundbites. The desire for a good story. The need to moan rather than to celebrate.

Cycling is Safe and Easy

I have cycled pretty regularly for two decades; my love affair with two wheels started in the nineties. Although I am not a particular rabid cyclist, I have in that time cycled thousands of miles. And I have been shouted at by drivers twice. Both occasions, by the by, in the last few months, within a mile of my house - which I suspect says more of the area I'm living in than of motorised road users in general.

I have never been knocked off my bike by a motorist. And I have ridden on dual carriageways, with heavy traffic doing more than 70 miles per hour, in atrocious road conditions. I have ridden on country roads, with deep ditches, blind corners, narrow lanes. I have ridden in standing traffic, in cities where frustrated travellers wished for a speedy end to their journeys.

All without incident, without a story other than a Good Ride.

I have, in the main - in the vast, vast, vast majority of cases - been given plenty of room, and ample consideration for my own particular requirements as a two-wheeled fragile, slow road user.

People Like Horror Stories

But miles of happy cycling is not what people remember. Not what makes a good, memorable, recount-it, retweet-it, tell-it-down-the-pub story. Not what I write about, some of the time.

People like bad news.

Visitors to the house last weekend commented on my recent tweets and updates on Facebook, where I had fallen into the trap of maligning a couple of specific incidences of unhappy motoring. Two occasions where my morning commute had been marred by stupid, thoughtless behaviour from drivers.

Two incidents in two thousand miles.

Two times, in the mornings, in the dark hours when we must all commute, must all do the school run, must all do whatever we must do when everyone else is doing what they must, when we would all rather be in bed, in the arms of our loved ones, and certainly not out on the roads with all of them.

I'm not excusing these motorists, mark you; they acted dangerously, erratically, rudely. Morning grumpiness does not, will not ever excuse that. There is no license for unsafe conduct.

But my point is this: people (and I include you, dear readers, in that noun) do not remember the thousands of happy miles; the countless glorious, wonderful simple acts of kindness when motorists have hung back, have given me room, have been aware of me on my little two-wheeled conveyance, and have shown consideration. It is not the moments when I feel that I am flying that catches attention, not the moments when the world settles around me and I am in the zone, cycling the beautiful cadence, delighting in life.

It is the moments of madness, of darkness, of inconsiderate behaviour that are more attractive.

Yes, this is partly because I have not tweeted about those bright moments, the everyday rides. I have not declaimed at length at the necessary - and expected and welcome - decency of the huge majority of the drivers I have encountered.

But people are drawn to the dark side, aren't they? All of us, attracted by the bad stories rather than the uplifting ones.

So here's a vote for all the good times; all the uneventful rides, all the moments where nothing bad happened and the world was as it should be. Because they are far more common, far more regular, far more prosaic, than the ones that get talked about.

And that's good news. Cycling is good, and safe, and fun.

Cycling Firsts

Last week, several cycling firsts for the year: my first commute (home) without waterproof leggings. Then my first commute in spring gloves rather than winter gloves.

The first commute in shorts and short-sleeved jersey. Which included the first time up the Big Hill (on my singlespeed) without getting out of the saddle.

In other words, last week was Quite A Week.

Although the year is still young, spring is on her merry way, and cycling is getting easier, more pleasant, more fun as the weather gets warmer and the days get longer. And yes, as I get fitter.

A New Bike

Last week, I commuted on my new bike for the first time.

It was a frosty morning, by the by, not so cold that I suffered brain freeze on the big downhill, but cold enough that my toes were tending towards numbness as I arrived at the office.

The Joys of a New Bike

There's a pleasure in riding a new bike, of course, especially one that has been a long time coming. I've wanted this bike for a year or so. I ordered it in December 2010. That's a lot of deferred pleasure.

Picking a new bike is great fun, certainly; choosing the colour of the frame, the saddle, the bar tape. There's joy to be found in kitting out the bike, too, putting the new bits and pieces on it, arranging it just so. But it's not just the lure of the new, the shiny. It's also the thrill of excitement from meeting a new friend, of learning about their little quirks. Sure, there's always a certain amount of getting used to a new friend; the riding position being ever so slightly different, the pedals needing a bit of tweaking and set-up, the responsiveness of the steering and the brakes.

And there are the unanswered questions, too - particularly with a machine ordered over the Internet, unseen, unridden.

Will I like it? Should I have chosen something else? Was I crazy to pick a singlespeed bike for my commuter, on the Cycle2Work scheme? This is not a bike I can easily sell on if I don't like it - it's owned by my employer for at least 12 months. Am I be strong enough to ride my commute with just one gear?

One of my biggest worries was whether I'd picked the "right" gearing. Picking a singlespeed gearing is naturally, necessarily a compromise: a gear easy enough to get up the worst of the hills, a gear hard enough to make the flats and downhills manageable without spinning out (and if you hadn't considered the latter a possibility or a problem, try it the next time you're going down a decent hill; the old legs are reluctant to go beyond a certain speed).

The Early Verdict

After that first ride, I think I've got the gearing bang-on. On the flat, the gear felt pleasant - definitely spinning rather than grinding - but with just enough resistance that it was fun. After the morning ride I was pleased.

In the evening: I will not claim I glided up the Big Uphill, but I did climb it without stopping and sweating too much. Sure, I had to get out of the saddle to get over the worst of the gradient, but I'd expected that. And at no point had I found the going so tough that I'd even been near considering stopping, slowing or - help! - getting off and pushing. No dismounts, no walking, no worries!

So I figure the gearing is about right.

And an unexpected benefit: because the gear is a touch easier than I might choose on another bike, because I can't change that gear, I spend more of the time spinning rather than grinding (on the flats, at least, where normally I would be pushing a bigger and bigger gear). This means that I can't go quite so fast, but it means that it feels easier. And, better still, it feels more fun! I spend more time in the easier cadence, working less hard, feeling stronger, more aerobic exercise.

I felt, in short, that I was flying more often than I normally do.

One thing I did notice: momentum is key. Because I have to work a little to get on top of the gear from a standing start, it means that I'm increasingly reluctant to stop. I need to plan my deceleration, looking farther down the road, reading the traffic. These are good skills to hone.

In Conclusion

The first ride with my new friend was great. The bike rides really well. Yes, the saddle needs raising a little, and the brake hoods - squat, chunky things - feel less comfortable in my hands than the Shimano integrated shifters I've used for the last 2000 miles. But that's a question of familiarity; they're comfy enough, and so is the bike - clearly the money spent on a bike fitting when I bought the Giant is still paying dividends.

And I was smiling all the way there and back again.

On Plastic

I am not a great fan of plastic.

I mean, I like the qualities of plastic: that it's unbreakable (or, at least, shatterproof), durable, watertight. Lightweight. It's a great idea. But I don't like that it's made from a non-renewable resource (crude oil, ultimately), and is rather tricky to recycle. It's not great at rotting, tending to stick around for ages, clogging up the place for hundreds of years.

So wherever possible, I prefer to avoid plastic, and choose alternatives that are made from renewable materials, or can be more easily disposed of at the end of their life, through recycling or bio-degrading, or composting.

I eschew plastic bags, choosing instead to use my hands and pockets, or cardboard boxes.

I buy my milk in glass bottles (that, as well as being made from the wonderfully renewable glass, are rinsed, returned and reused). I buy baskets and wooden storage boxes. I have a metal toolbox I inherited from my father (and might yet pass on to my son).

There are, though, times when only plastic will do. To store something in a sometimes-damp garage, safe from rodent's teeth, protected from the weather - plastic is pretty much the best choice.

In these cases, I choose plastic that is durable, robust, and - if possible - made from a type of plastic that can be recycled (or, at least, downcycled). And I plan to keep it for a long time; I weigh my current needs, my future plans, and choose the best fit that will last. If I'm going to buy plastic, I want it to be as infrequently as possible, and I don't want to be throwing it away any time soon.

Getting the best - the most - out of what I spend my time and money on. That's my kind of environmentalism.

How to Cycle More 2: Have a Routine

I'm aiming to cycling 2000 commuting miles in 2011, an average of two days a week. In order to achieve this, I've got to be committed, and crafty. Last week, I wrote about how being flexible helps me cycle more.

This week: flexibility is good, and so is routine.

Or, because "routine" sounds like a bind to some people, let's call it habit. Rhythm. Or, better yet, cadence.

There's a rhythm to cycle commuting the same two days a week.

Setting aside 2 days to cycle means I am mentally prepared to do it; I know it's coming. There's none of that "I'll do it tomorrow" unease that turns into full-blown panic at the end of the week, when I've not cycled and so I have to cycle and it's howling with wind, pelting down with rain and snow, icy and bleak.  There's no joy to be had on days like that.

There's comfort in knowing that Tuesdays and Thursdays, I'll be cycling. I can structure my week around it. I can make plans.

On Monday I can get myself set for the week; bring clean clothes into the office for the days I cycle, buy my fruit and lunches for the week. On Friday, when the legs are tired and the spirit beleaguered from the working week, I can plan to drive home, bringing home whatever I need for the weekend. And Wednesday can be my time to run errands that require the car, or my contingency if Tuesday or Thursday isn't going to plan. My day of rest. Or even an extra cycle commuting day. I can be flexible with my routine.

Because flexibility is good, and flexibility built around a predictable routine; a routine that is adaptable - is great. And it means that I can cycle more reliably, more often, on more occasions - that's something very special.

Related articles:

• How to Cycle More 1: Be Flexible

How to Cycle More: Be Flexible

In 2010, I rode just over a thousand commuting miles on my bike. This year (2011), I plan to double that. As my daily commute is 22 miles, this target means I'll be cycling to work an average of two days a week.

Of course, it's rarely as simple as simply picking a set couple of days and cycle commuting on those two days every week. Real life gets in the way of plans; sometimes I need to have access to a car. Perhaps I need to visit a client site, and it's just not feasible to do so on my bike. Maybe my wife has asked me to get some supplies, more than I can carry. Or, because I work in the countryside, I need to get into town to do some banking or other personal admin.

How to balance the need to fit these everyday tasks with the goal of cycle commuting twice a week?

The answer, I find, is flexibility. Being prepared to drive to work and cycle home one day, and the reverse the next day means I get the benefits of having the car at the office during the day, and cycling too. The "old 4-2-2-4" I call it, being the number of wheels on my commute, morning and evening, over two days.

This week is a case in point. I have a site visit, a lunch meeting, and some errands to run over the course of the week. If I stuck to my allotted cycle commuting days, I wouldn't be able to cycle at all. But by shifting when I cycle commute - driving in one day, then cycling home that evening; cycling in the next day and driving home the second evening - I ensure I've got access to the car when I need it, whilst meeting my cycling commitments.

In some respects, this flexibility is a variation of my tactic of removing excuses - I can't possibly cycle today, I've so much to do! - and also increases my opportunity to cycle as well as the likelihood of doing so. Which brings me ever closer to that 2000 mile, twice a week goal.

Local, Seasonal Fruit and Vegetables

I like tomatoes, I really do. I love their sharp sweetness, the way those little cherry tomatoes burst under the roof of my mouth. I love beef tomatoes, sliced thickly and layered with mozzarella or onion. I can't understand that people don't enjoy them. It's something to do with the texture, apparently.

For me, there's something about the deep red (or orange, or tiger-stripe) of tomato fruits that evoke summer; I can see the colour of the sky as I think about eating tomatoes outside. And there's something about the smell of tomatoes that transports me to my father's greenhouse in my childhood house, green fruit swelling on the plants; and to my own greenhouse, where the thick dark-green stalks with their downy covering exude that intense aroma.

But I can't and won't eat tomatoes when they're watery and tasteless. I asked my wife, not so long ago, if she remembered eating the last tomato she'd had, if she had tasted it. When she remembered eating one that she tasted.

She couldn't.

After that, we agreed not to buy tomatoes out of season, from foreign shores. We've made the same agreement for asparagus and strawberries and all those other vegetables that it's possible to get year-round,  but which taste best of all when they're in season, and grown locally (meaning they're picked and sold in short order, still fresh).

So last week I was pleased and surprised to find the local supermarket had tomatoes ostensibly grown in Britain. And they were tasty enough, even if they're doubtless grown with the help of lots of heated greenhouses rather than in the heat of the sun. A guilty pleasure at this time of year.

This week, they did not. Oh, they had tomatoes, from Spain and Holland, from Morocco and the Canary Islands. Too far afield. Too well-travelled. No tomatoes for me this week.

But they did also have Cox's apples and Conference pears, both from the UK. So this week I have no tomatoes, but I am knee-deep in apples and pears. The break from tomatoes will make them more special when they're available again. If I can wait for asparagus, I can wait for tomatoes. Especially when I've got apples and pears to console me.

The password reset process, revisited

Another example of not telling the user what you want from them, this time from O2, a mobile phone network in the UK.

This week, I needed to visit the secure area of the O2 website, and - of course - because it had been so long since I had last visited, I had forgotten my password. Time to use their password reset process.

So I went through the motions, and - dutifully reading the "Important" text to the side of the new password fields - I entered my new password.

I've recently started using a random password generator, and I faithfully put in the minimum requirements stated on the O2 website. The instructions on this page are pretty clear: the minimum and maximum length of the password are stated, and the statement about mixing letters and numbers indicated that I could use both. I was a little sure what they meant by "other characters" so I added a basic set of punctuation characters to my generation algorithm.

...and fell at that hurdle - see screenshot below.

Despite all the excellent direction in the blue box, there is still some mystery about what "other characters" are permitted. Only by experimenting was I able to get to a password that was acceptable to O2's secret, inscrutable requirements.

Each time I failed, a slap from the website, an invitation to abandon the process and go elsewhere. It's a good job I really needed to get into the secure website. And collect case studies of interaction design for this blog.

Because this is the problem with keeping your website's password criteria secret: user frustration. What percentage of users try again after the first failure? What percentage leave after the second?

Related articles:

• Tell Users What You Want From Them 

Cycling Because I Choose To

Some days I don't cycle to work and wish I had. Some days I commute on my bike and wish I hadn't.

Most days, of course, it's somewhere in between; that happy combination of cycling and being glad that I did. Or - and this is important too - choosing not to cycle and being comfortable with the reasons for that decision.

Last week, the weather forecast for a particular morning had been pretty straightforward: it was going to be wet. The forecast map showed great blue swathes of rain all over my commuting route, right around the time I'd be out and about.

But forewarned is forearmed. I had time to prepare mentally, to gird my loins as it were. And my wet weather gear is always at hand, so in the morning I didn't delay in getting dressed up and saddled up. And you know what? As usual, the weather wasn't so bad, certainly not as bad as my imagination and fears might have made it. The rain was more like a lazy drizzle; and infrequent at that, very light rather than that persistent penetrating stuff. The ride was, in short, straightforward.

Even better, most of the ride was gloriously easy; I was nipping at the heels of that beautiful cadence, zipping along. Smiling. When the voices are trying to talk me out of cycling, I forget the pleasure of cycling in the morning, the simple joy of being out in the fresh air rather than sitting in a metal box. But when I'm out on my bike I remember that there's a real satisfaction in ignoring the voices and cycling.

A good morning ride, then. I was happy to have cycled.

On the way home, the weather was less pleasant. The rain was heavier, the wind less favourable, veering from a sidewind to a headwind that stripped away my speed and sapped my energy.

But I was homeward bound, and the homeward journey is always easier than the outward. The certain knowledge of a warm house and warmer shower, of dry clothes and maybe a gin and tonic, buoyed me up. Besides, what were my choices now? I had to get home, and cycling was the only way.

And I was happy to be cycling. Whenever the conditions are a little bit adverse, I'm always pleased and proud that I made the decision to cycle. Pleased that I ignored the doubting voices, the persuasive little whispers that suggest I leave the bike and use the car. On this occasion, the weather had tried to talk me out of cycling and lost. Oh, there was a little bit of that wouldn't it be nice if it was dry and sunny but I was cycling and glad of it.

In some respects, a ride in bad weather is better than a sunny ride in glorious weather. To have overcome a little adversity, a little struggle, is uplifting. I arrived home wet, but unbowed. Quietly triumphant. Happy.

And that's wonderful.

When the choice is not to cycle and risk wishing that I had, or to cycle and risk wishing I hadn't, it's a simple decision. Wet or dry, windy or still, I'd choose to cycle.

Because here's the thing: unless I actually get on my bike and cycle, I'll only ever be wishing that I had. And more often - far more, actually - I cycle and am glad that I did.

The Importance of Signposting in Long Processes

Signposting is Important

When faced with a long, complex online process such as a detailed application form or data capture, it's tempting to try and remove as many steps as possible in order to make the process shorter and simpler for the users.

In general, making the process as short and simple as possible is a good idea.  But you need to think very carefully which steps to remove.  Those "useless" wordy pages that help to signpost and position the user in the process (after all, no one reads them anyway, right?) - those may be the very pages that you need to keep.

The thing is, the longer the process - and at some point, there really won't be anything else you can take out - the more important those signposting pages become.

The Value of Signposting

Up front, signposting sets expectations about the length and complexity of the process. Signposts allow you to tell the users what you expect of them, what preparation they need to do before they begin At the end, signposts allow you to congratulate your users on getting to the end of the journey.

Throughout a long process, signposts are miniature conversations with the users. It's a chance to give them a pat on the back, a nod that they're doing well.

User testing shows that users need reassurance that they're doing the right thing. There's an innate suspicion of computers, a wariness of online forms that users need reassurance about. Without a human face, users start to get nervous. What if the data gets lost? What if I've done something wrong?

Users become invested in the time they've spent; they need to know that the information they've provided has been saved, and that they don't have to go through this all over again.

How to Signpost

Signposting needn't be complicated. Sometimes it's as simple as:

You are here. You've just done that. Next, you're going to do this.

Signposts help to reinforce progress indicators, give feedback about the stages of the process that the users have completed, tell them where they are in the process.

And if you're concerned about the number of pages in your process, signposts don't necessarily need to have their own, dedicated pages. You might consider integrating signposts into the process flow; make them more visual, less wordy. But they do need to be there. Without them, your users are going to get mired down in the process.

The Importance of Signposting

Signposting allows users to pause and draw breath. They give pace to your process, a chance to relax from the serious business of providing information.

Make your application process as lightweight as possible, by all means. But don't remove the very things that help users deal with long-winded processes. Don't underestimate the value of signposts to help your users along.

My Commute

One of the greatest factors on the choice of bike, commuting clothing, lights and so on, is the commute itself; how long it is, how much of it is on rural roads, without streetlights, or in a town. I thought I'd share a bit about my commute, and the reasons I've made some of the choices I have for lights, clothing, bike and so on.

My commute is about 11 miles long, the majority of it (about 8 miles) on unlit country roads where the speed limit is 60mph, interspersed with brief stretches through small towns and villages along the way. In the urban areas the speed limit is 30mph and there are streetlights every 50 metres or so. Barring occasional roadworks, there are no traffic lights on any of my route; I rarely have to come to a complete stop.

There's pretty much only one route I can take to and from the office, without adding significant extra mileage. So there's not a lot of variety in my route (so it's great that the rural scenery is always changing - I see something new every day). There are also very limited options for public transport. If I have a serious mechanical, then it's a question of limping home or calling for backup.

Commute Details

The first mile and a half is mostly downhill, in town, and lit, at 30mph. Obviously, this means that on the way home, the last stretch is pretty much all uphill. But at least I'm nearly home by then!

The next three miles are unlit, country roads, 60mph speed limit, with 4 foot ditches on either side of the road. When it's dark, I want very good lights for this part of the ride. I want to be seen, and I want to be able to see.

After about half a mile straight through a little town, I'm back into lanes between fields and hedgerows once more. Now my ride takes me along a bridlepath that runs beside a dual carriageway; it's an unlit stretch, but it's pretty much traffic free (the dual carriageway hidden by a wooden fence). At the far end, it's a short, sharp climb up the bridge over the dual carriageway where I sometimes stop to admire the sun rising (or setting) over the water parks and lakes. Then down the other side and into another village where I rejoin the main road.

I'm over halfway there now.

Barely a tenth of a mile of streetlights, houses and 30mph before it's back onto country roads and another mile and a half on unlit rural roads. After another mile of 30mph lit roads through yet another small Cotswolds village, all yellow stone and pretty cottages, it's back to country roads alongside fields for the last couple of miles to the office.

Elevation

The elevation of my commute is shown in the image below. The descent over the first mile and a half is a nice introduction to the ride, then except for the couple of lumps towards the end (around mile 10) the ride is pretty flat (which makes it ideal for a single speed bike).

Lights for Cycle Commuting

Because so much of my daily ride(more than 8 of the 11 miles) is on rural roads where the speed limit is 60mph, I want good lights that enable me to see where I'm going. My primary light has a good beam that lights up the road sufficiently far ahead so that I can avoid potholes and major obstacles. Of course, I also want to be seen, so I've got a secondary light that I usually run flashing, and I've got reflective patches on my jacket, gloves, pedals and frame. Research has shown that reflectors are most effective on moving parts, such as ankles so reflectors on the pedals are a good choice. In the UK, bikes are supposed to be sold with reflectors on the pedals, and I've got some inserts for my SPD clipless pedals that have reflectors front and back.

I've got little LED lights on my helmet too, for that added visibility. Lights in unexpected places tend to make road users and drivers look twice, which I figure is a good thing.

Extras

For the urban stretches, as brief as they are, I'm sometimes cycling in traffic, and I have a little bar end mirror that gives me that bit extra information about my fellow road users, without having to turn my head continually.

Clothing for my Commmute

My office has shower facilities and our dress code is smart casual. I've got room to store shirts and suits for the week if I need to. So I can ride in cycling gear - warm and weatherproof for those unexpected downpours - and know that I've got clean, dry clothes waiting for me at the end of the ride.

All the distance and elevation information provided by the excellent Gmaps Pedometer website.

Related articles:

• Lights for Cycle Commuters
• Wet Weather Gear for Cycle Commuters
• What I Know About Cycling