Love is an emotive noun and a dangerous verb. Unless you live in California, it’s almost impossible to suffix any apparently significant verb with “I‘m lovin it man“. Try that in Halifax and they’d beat you to death with your own self parody and sell you to the kebab van..

I mean “yeah, I railed that berm and pulled a no handed fruit bat reverse into the hip and I’m just lovin it man”. You’re kebab stock and quite right too.

And yet, for the last eighteen months, great swathes of my life have been erased by a twelve hour day of which four of those hours represent actually getting to work. This is clearly bonkers because what kind of mentalist would exchange a sixth of their day traveling to the office ? Well this one because I’d rather bring my kids up in Baghdad than London and even short circuiting the parenting reflex, our great capital is essentially ten million fucktards wrapped in some interesting history.

The clever bit is to treat these four hours as an interesting life slice, ensuing cracking out emails or slumbering in a dribbly manner. There’s more to life and here are my top five reasons for carrying on:

1:Riding my bike
For those with a high boredom threshold who’ve endured a year of this blog, it’ll be eminently clear that I’m a grumpy bugger. Being a card carrying Yorkshireman, this is essentially our regional identify and I’m powerless to resist our Borg-like state of mind. But I bloody love riding my bike. In any weather, with weary legs or a thick head, and always facing sapping headwinds. Oh it’s crap for a minute but great forever doing the only thing I ever applied myself to and maybe, just maybe whisper it in a dark room, something I’m good at.

I love fighting with the traffic, flicking a “V” after an outrages move, zipping down the outside of fifty grand cars locked into a congestion grid. Making bold moves, stretching every muscle and straining every sinew to win a race, make a gap, staying alive. The worst weather system you ever rode through doesn’t even begin to rock like riding a bike.

When I’m too old, too ill, too broken to do it anymore, then I’ll be properly miserable.

2:Not being you
Donning the corporate cloak and checking in your “fuck you” gland at the door is somewhat at odds with my eighteen year old self. At that age we’re all different and yet double that age and only the chemically displaced still believe we’re not all the same. So we search for differentiation and on a bike I find it in spades. I’m the guy with an informal train seat reservation system as sweat evidences my gloriously fast ride to the station. Shorts and a T-Shirt delineate me as a guy who rides his bike every day and, as a careless aside, spends a few hours in the office.

I could be almost anything else; a bike courier, a high alpine trekking guide, a circumnavigating two wheeled hero. I choose this because I’m planning and I’m dreaming but it’s not my life. What can you in your fat suit and tunnel broken communications offer instead of this?

Go check you’re Blackberry for answers. I win.

3:Feeling fit
Not properly fit you understand. The realm of zero body fat, nutritional plans and exercise schedules are for those with almost nothing better to do. It’s with some wry amusement that I enter my fortieth year knowing that however much I ride, it’s not the exiler of life. At no point will the hair regrow from my crown, the thickening of body reduce to barely post-pubescent levels and nervous energy will mainline serial 18 hour days.

But that’s ok, this is enough. A balance between age, beer and exercise has been perfectly attained through bloody minded commuting. One glorious summers’ day, my pace was such that even those on the Auschwitz revival circuit could not best me. Never have I ridden so hard or so fast for so long. Even chasing a falling sun on the way home, sweat and lactic acid became my pace partners and I refused to slack.

Age begets slowness but since I’m only chasing myself, it’ll probably be ok.

4:Racing
Mountain biking is my sport so I’ve tried almost every discipline including racing. Luckily I was rubbish enough never to take it seriously. Almost no one finished behind me unless they’d been accidentally concussed with a pump by a wheezing bloke looking for excuses.

So if you don’t succeed, redefine your criteria for success. And go commuter racing which is just bloody great fun. It’s like Fight Club, you never talk about it, you never acknowledge you are racing, you neither crow in victory or admit defeat. It’s been a while since I’ve been bested although since I have “previous” with Bromptons, Halfords specials, and semi inflated horrors piloted by bicycle clips, my provenance in this area is hardly flawless.

But it is fucking fantastic, picking a victim, cruising up their “six” and then powering past while affecting the carefree actions of a man looking for his cigarette case. I’m not fast, merely furious and have long abandoned aerobic fitness for cheating and death or glory moves. Okay I may be killed and while that appears to have some downsides, the alternative is getting bested by a bloke with 4 PSI in his tyres, so it’s really a small price to pay.

I love racing. Except when I’m not in the mood when it doesn’t count. Just so we understand each other.

5: Displacement theory
Odd one this. Most of the randomness which wastes electrons on this blog is dreamed up while I’m riding to work. My peripheral vision, schooled by eighteen months of not dying, apes the best electronics radar. The route is hard wired and my left brain plays out every possible “stupid manoeuvre” that some lunatic may pull in front of me.

So I’m left with 80 minutes a day to do something else. It frees my mind to freewheel randomly and bind backwater synapses with metrosexual dendrites. The insoluble become porous and a thousand plot lines for six hundred people with nothing better to read than this play out.

Sadly a broken short term memory and lack or writing materials lead to a desperate attempt to lasso fading ideas. Probably a blessing frankly and if you want descriptive prose and correctly conjugated verbs, I can thoroughly recommend the BBC web site.

So bring it on with your hated cars and monsoon like weather. Soak me, squash me and best me in races. Lambast my riding style and devalue our shared community through stupidity. I care not; in simple terms cyclists are right and almost everyone else is wrong – so join me brothers and sisters in our quest for respect and understanding, you have nothing to lube but your chain*.

*Sorry but I’ve been trying to get that line in for bloody ages 😉

1: Car (and other) drivers
An unsurprising number one but to add a twist to the standard car hating cyclist rant, it’s not all of them. Well not quite “ it a broad church including anyone that drives a SUV (or TWATVEHICLE as I like to think of them) in town, all those apparently lucid humans who believe cyclists were put on the road for bloodsport, the special needs wannabe comics who make feeble jokes about road tax and any form of public transport.

Two types of drivers exist; those who are trying to kill you and those who do it apologetically. To the former, we’re a hated genus, a sub species of human who “ if they possessed any sentient intelligence “ would be bloody grateful to be wiped off this earth. The latter just forgot to look.

A small percentage are pagan outcasts to this visceral church. They are generally 90 years old and concentrating so hard on avoiding those pesky lampposts, to pose us any threat. But beware any person driving with a hat especially anything with flowers. Trust me on this.

2:Holier than thou hippy evangelists.
Hey man we’re all in this together. Don’t bust the vibe running red lights or trading aggression “ if you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem y’know. Have a toke on this lentil?. Oh you know the sort, the God loves me or everyone hates you who plaster themselves over the forums bullying those unable to marshal an augment, and lambasting the rest of us that don’t give a shit.

Cyclists aren’t a breed apart. Ok, the ratio of normal to fuckwit is significantly smaller than the itinerant cagers but we’re not short of assholes snootily occupying the moral high ground, mistakenly under the impression that vast swathes of the cycling population flock to their cause.

It’s every man for himself and anyone that tells you otherwise should probably revisit hatred#1.

3:The train
Considering some of my previous missives, the stuffed metal sandwich which chuffs between my two bike rides adopts a lowly third rank. And rank it is, championing a business model where we pay more for less service. I’ll grudgingly accept it’s not all wank when the railway company manages to adhere to their timetable for entire days on end. But when they don’t, we’re marooned outside Harrow On The Hill while chronologically unbroken epochs pass by the window.

It’s similar to being forced to go to for the dentist. You know it’s going to be expensive, delayed and bloody painful but you really have no choice. And the real kicker is that they know that. It’s not even that they don’t care, it’s just they don’t have to.

4:The faff
Managing the transition from grubby mountain biker to corporate clone in either direction is tedium to the power of a thousand.. Slipping out of the office on time in the secure knowledge that “ best case “ it’s two hours before I get home, and in between are changes to both clothes and transport medium. Watching a fun sun dive below the summer horizon or bracing briefly train warmed limbs for significant weather draws a long sigh and a longer face.

Many times in winter, I’ve been gritting teeth into a bastard headwind laced with snow and ice while recent train companions swoosh past in their heated safety cages. And I can’t help thinking you know, I’ve got one of those?.

5: Other cyclists
If I may be allowed a small Ben Elton moment oooh a bit of politics? except not really. But while I applaud the two wheeled heroes and heroines who risk life and possibly one limb every day, you don’t half piss me off. Either with your stupid selfishness (blithely careering into a stroller on a pedestrian crossing), your craven cowardliness (that bloke cut you up, go and fucking punch him, it’s the only language they understand) or your galloping gait (Jesus, slow down, I’m like a dog with a motorbike, I just can’t help chasing you but if you carry on at this speed, you’ll have my death on your conscience).

And yet I still do it because the alternative is too bloody depressing and to this negative Ying is a positive Yang which will form the next entry in my never ending whinge at the world.

Still, it’s better than actually doing anything about it.

Insert hilarious trumping gag here. On second thoughts, don’t bother.

Ah autumn; the gentle caress of nature’s breeze playfully cascading golden leaves and frolicking softly amongst seasonal flowers. Is that the kind of thing I’m talking about? An emphatic no I’m afraid considering the storm-light accosting me this morning wasn’t so much a head wind as a head, body, leg and possibly toe wind. Accompanied by a light rain and the promise of chilly extremities later.

It’s not the cold limbs that are the real problem though; it’s the level of faff that Autumn and Winter bring. The joy or riding is tainted by the chore of preparation “ no more jump on the bike and go, now it’s all layered process and forgetfulness.

First up is the Big Yellow Jacket. A stout garment so stoic in repelling wind, rain, snow and, if required, borders, it should come with a stiff upper lip. Counterbalanced by a complex layering system elsewhere that can be simply summarised as the rest of my riding wardrobe

If this homage to the Michelin blimp wasn’t sufficient, further weight is added to the bike through a high power Lumicycle halogen powered by a well grouted bottle mounted battery. It’s light in almost every respect except for weight adding over a pound to my already encumbered form.

Added to this are rear lights, backup lights and spare backup lights. A final chapter to this book of paranoid is a second backup set on the helmet. This may seem somewhat overkill but having run the gauntlet of a six mile lightless commute, riding mostly in ditches to escape the main beam of passing cars, it’s not something I ever want to try again. It’s unlikely I’d live through the experience twice.

Mudguards would add efficacy, at the expense of only a little weight, in the area of a dry bike and arse. However, so aesthetically troubling to the eye are these innocent metallic strips, I’ve opted for dirty bike and damp smalls. A decision I’ll probably need to review if a combination of dark and wet leads to a troubling fungal growth.

When you do finally get going, the summer urge to chase the big unicycle across the sky inevitably wanes. Instead, you’re fogged in, fogged up and other phrases that sound a bit like fogged mooching about at¾ speed and shifting uncomfortably under the weight of a leaden sky.

The fair weather riders have long since packed away their summer steeds and from the outbreak of Yellow Jacket Fever on the streets of London, those who remain have shopped exclusively at RonHill and Aldi. Less bikes means the odds of being taken out in a violent and bloody manner by motorised bike killers increase sharply. And if they don’t get you, the wet gripless tarmac probably will.

It’s all a bit dull really, except for tailwinds. Tonight, I stopped being a rider and stated being a sail. The gusting northerly catapulted me unpedalling up hills as recently orphaned leaves threw themselves under speeding tyres. The ride home officially rocked like a hurricane when passing a long line of brake lights snarled up at a busy junction.

And there are other upsides – it’s only 25 days before the Winter Solstice and riding a bike means I’m not listening to the Ashes Cricket. Okay we have the whole cold and wet winter to come and it won’t get properly light for another four months and the bikes will catastrophically succumb to the over-salted roads and and and ¦¦.

So here’s a cheerful number to finish, only 102 days to Spring and yes, I am counting.

Yes I appreciate that this sentiment is not consistent with my oft aired views that the only state run government worth considering is benevolent dictatorship. And while it is equally clear that the majority of politicians are power crazy wankers, democracy does have its’ merits.

Chiefly amongst them is the state opening of Parliament. While Black Rod hammers friskily on the door with his, er, rod, the entire Metropolitan Police force seals off the elected Nut House and its immediate surrounds. Except while cones block cars, bikes are waved through and what followed was two miles of blissful traffic free riding.

Silence claimed the road aside from snicking gears and background rustle performed by the leaf ensemble. Four abreast “ racing “ down Constitution hill and then sweeping around onto the Mall with bored policeman waving us on. It’s the first time I’ve realised what a broadway the Mall is, barely constrained by the great parks of central London. It was all really quite impressive as Admiralty Arch hoved into view, before a final sprint ended abruptly when the snarl and angst of motorised traffic reclaimed the streets at Trafalgar Square.

Still it was fun while it lasted. Maybe we could lobby for a State opening every week. I’m sure that the fella would like to exercise his Rod “ black or otherwise “ more than once a year.

I’ve decided to grow a beard – although if one was striving for complete accuracy, this is merely a hairy symptom of not shaving. It’s a little known indicator of Ebola/Flu/a minor cold that your upper lip becomes anything but stiff when serially assaulted with snot and ˜soft‘ tissues. Soft my arse or possibly soft as my arse, these barely disguised sheets of weapons grade wet’n’dry turn the under-nasal area into a no shave zone.

So on finally staggering valiantly into the office, only 90{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} of my professional associates burst into violent fits of laughter. The other 10{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} either held that laughter in long enough to make it to the bogs before collapsing in unconstrained mirth, or are so brain dead they failed to notice a wizened old rat clamped around my jaw.

Still I believe in all it’s goaty greyness it adds a certain gravitas and dignity to an otherwise undistinguished fizog. I may be tramping alone in the word of facial fashion on this one but it’s keeping me warm on cold commutes, providing a repository for emergency food and “ in extreme circumstances “ may offer a full head of hair if I can merely rotate the old spud 180 degrees.

So I think you’re all with me here; a bit of a winner all round.

Sadly the addition of a weighty facial hair and the loss of a lung to asthma in no way crimped off the competitive gland. Having been removed from the traffic biorhythms for the last week, I was out of sync with a three light set and he sneaked past without any respect for my bearded and snotty countenance. A bit of a cycling conundrum was he with a worthy but elderly race bike, a pair of fierce looking calves and bicycle clips. Had it not been for the old diorriha preventers, I’d not have raised what little game remains but honestly BICYCLE CLIPS.

Not only was he terribly confused about the acceptability of these seventies anti-icons, he also was pretty damn nifty through the traffic with his narrow bars and suicidal approach to closing gaps. I strapped on the metaphoric tortoise shell and played the long game, catching him on half remembered light sequences and sprinting past up Constitution hill having taken a lengthy draft up the mall.

He wasn’t happy. I could tell as we circled each other like wary stags waiting for release up into Hyde Park. Nobody was clipping out of pedals here but I broke first opting for a lengthy trackstand while still maintaining eye contact. I’m not sure he was impressed but I certainly was, and when the green fired off instant sprints across the traffic, an impromptu wheelie marked my determination to be first into the park.

This is my personal Mount Ventoux. Oh I can hear you mocking but put the world’s finest riders on crappy commuter bikes after a day in our offices and let them attempt to sprint past the local dogging club and suicidally black clad pedestrians, and I’m heading for a podium. So a desperate 200 seconds followed where Al just the one available lung” Leigh revved up his biggest gear and manfully resisted the strong urge to throw up.

Looking back is a sign of weakness and I had enough of those already so it wasn’t until the Bayswater road stuttered into my personal geography did I steal a glance. The perfect commuter win is when your assailant is still in sight, far enough back for it to be clear to everyone he’s a broken man but close enough that your gloating cannot be mistaken for constipation.

He was nowhere in sight. I can only assume he turned off some distance before. To say I feel aggrieved is akin to wondering if the French ever felt slightly piqued that we nicked all the best bits of Canada once they’d colonised it and named it new France. I nearly went back to find the ungrateful bugger and demand an explanation.

First bicycle clips and now this. Honestly, some people have no idea at all.