Inpursuitof

Recently, I’ve bought myself a membership to Boris’ bikes. Even though they’re nearly as heavy as I am and have hit a few of the branches of the ugly tree on the way down, they offer a superb alternative to having your bike nicked/punctured every other week if you cycle in London. Once firmly in the territory of ‘god no, you’d never catch me doing that’, the desire for exercise has pushed london cycling over the border into ‘oh, fine, if I have to’ land, and has brought the issue of cyclist vs Cyclist to the fore.

There is a tendency to lump those who cycle together into one group, but as I came up against a Cyclist on a bike lane, it became all too apparent that there is a sharp divide. This guy was of the messenger-variety, 95% Lycra, 5% waterbottle. He swore at me even though I was well out of his way, and tore off on his 3 gram bicycle.

The big C makes a big difference. The big C changes you from someone who cycles considerately to the person who weaves through traffic and slips through the smallest crack between a bus and some roadworks. I have no idea why there are any on London’s streets, where it’s dangerous enough to get on two wheels as it is. You don’t need to wear Lycra trousers unless you’re doing the Tour de France. There’s no other reason we all need to see your testicles jostle for pole position on your saddle.

1) Amber and Clare at the freerunning competition we went to see

2) My direct debit to Cancer Research

3) A lady I held the door open for