That doesn’t scan quite so well but even with my factually challenged scribbings, I’m not going to get away with the notion that this last year has been spent dodging baguettes and riding an onion carrier.

Yep. 365 days since my first commune with the locking of grids and gnashing of teeth which characterises our great capital city. My riding has morphed from a country boy so far out of his depth they called him Cousteau*, to a grungy, colour blind tourettes weapon targeted on personal bests and personal slights. The occasional accident and rather more frequent altercation have cranked up my righteous angst and pitched me into a one man battle with every other road user.

Continue reading “A year in Provence, er I mean London” →

… but only if you really want to

There is a certain irony in contrasting the screaming headlines of today’s papers threatening summer long droughts, with the pissing rain which characterised my ride home through this evening. The doomsayers predict a scorched earth policy for previously verdant lawns, golf courses bunkered with sandy fairways and lifeless car washes. So not all bad then. In fact, I’m struggling to see the downside.

Not that it’s actually going to happen. Two reasons; one surely no political oversight body can ever reconcile the Water Companies’ inability to prevent a quarter of their precious aqua dripping through leaky pipes and this is some way being the consumers problem; secondly, it’s being chucking it down for weeks. Woops, for a second there I failed to make the link between faceless corporations and their greedy shareholders versus the incompetent hoard who are alleged to police them. But it has been raining, I have evidence of that.

I should have been fine. I have a layering system honed by a hundred commutes. There’s just one problem with it; it’s rubbish. Below decks, my shoes are soaked, lemmings are cheerfully practising all manner of watersports in my socks and I’m suffering from an unpleasant groinal moistness.

Above decks I am essentially a boil in the bag. While the emergency waterproof is adequate at keeping the water out, it is unfortunately bloody marvellous at keeping the water in. My first two layers wick sweat out in a superbly technical manner “ but once this moisture makes a break for freedom, it’s faced with the impermeable barrier of the cheap waterproof. I’m not getting rained on, I’m getting rained in. On removing this horrid garment, everything from the wedding tackle upwards is stained in stale sweat and there’s a generated head of steam that could make me good money if plugged into the grid. Still it was cheap and packs down to almost nothing which exactly mirrors how much use it actually was.

My feet would be dry if I didn’t have water on the brain by naively following the dogma of my fellow commuters. There is a childlike ideology that it never rains in London except briefly in the winter. Well all I can say is I’m glad it bloody does otherwise the suspicious gritty patch on my arse could only be passed off as an unfortunate and unplanned bowel movement.

As moisture began to permeate my every pore, I attempted to distract myself by musing if both the pressure and volume of this personalised enema was better or worse when comparing tyre types. Surely a knobbly would chuck up more but, hang on, maybe a faster rolling slick could make up the volume through greater revolutions.

This idle speculation kept me going until gaining the sanctuary of a warm pub where my friend enquired what do you need a waterproof for you poof, it’s never rains properly in London”.

I think he’s probably right.

Probably White Van Man cheerfully attempting to end my life earlier today. For sport, apparently. Sweeping round the curve into Aldwych, a vehicle largest enough to be both murder weapon and herse swung violently across two lanes with the clear intention of creating an new brand of designer curbing known as the Crushed Alex“

He was so keen to grind me into a tarmac paste, the front wheels of the van actually smacked the curb right where “ until about one second before “ I was innocently making headway. By tapping reasonably hard on his window, I was rewarded by the look of a perplexed idiot on seeing a ghost. Stereotyping is the lazy writer’s art but with his sunken eyes, unshaven countenance, England flags and copy of the sun resting proudly on the dashboard, he truly personified the ignorant arsehole” genus that seems to be a free personality upgrade on every van purchase.

We had a conversation, starting with this as my opening gambit:

Were you trying to kill me because you’re a fecking lunatic or can’t you drive this thing because you’re a fecking idiot?”

$$$&&**$$ (there may be children reading but think a sneering snarl, firing stacatto f’s and c’s at a hundred rounds a minute)

Oh really, well since your firm is keen to advertise both their name and phone number, I’ll be giving them a call to see if approve of your being a c¦” (sometimes I can’t help myself and boy it fells good)

They won’t give a f*ck mate“

Oh they know you’re a c¦ then do they?”

The noise of London traffic “ always on the knife edge of violence anyway “ was becoming increasing violent, today transmitted through a new experimental work get the f*ck out of the way, you’re blocking the road” arranged for car horn and waving fist. But we weren’t finished. He’s decided that if he can’t kill me with his van, then his bare hands will have to do. He was ready to leap out of the driver door and give me a good shooing. Well except that, in an inspired piece of survival strategy, I was leaning on it. However, it was clear that the situation could only rampage painfully downhill and I didn’t fancy my chances against this soily vested, throbbing templed, Sun weilding psychopath. And I’m only enumerating his good points here.

Seizing my chance as the lights changed to green, I pushed myself away from the side of the van and pedalled like buggery through the stationary traffic where he could not go. But not before slamming his wing mirror hard against the chassis smashing it into a million pieces. I didn’t get a look at the fella before I sprinted off in the manner of the sprightly coward but I’m guessing he may a been a little annoyed. And then I rang his firm to complain about his driving, backed it up with an email and have been promised a reply by the end of the week.

It’s a hollow victory which means nothing in the continuing battle of clueless wonders deepening their carbon footprint and planet friendly innocents just trying to stay alive. Hollow, yet strangely satisfying.

Here I am sat at my desk thinking kind of a normal day, really“. Now that’s skewed perspective.

I intend to protect the right of any adult cyclist to be stupid. Even if that includes me “ you see I’ve been chasing folders again. I am like that dog, barking madly, in pursuit of a motorbike. I wouldn’t know what to do if I caught it.

Stopped at one of a thousand lights on the mall, a cyclist missing what any sane person would call a proper bike rolled up on his comedy wheels. I did a quick double take and yes:

Randomly assembled mechano built by an autistic child?
Check

Expression of constipated righteousness ?
Check

Hint of cheese
Check

Bicycle clips, major hair even under pink helmet, bumps in all the right places?
Er, no.

It was a bloke this time and he’s away like a misshapen welding accident when the lights switch.

Great. Bloody Groundhog Day.

After 100 tough miles in the last week, my legs have all the latent power of a small trifle. I’m not going to chase him. I’m really not. I cannot be arsed. I have nothing to gain and the final shreds of dignity to lose. So leave it, ok?

Imagine then my surprise as he rocketed backwards as if caught in an unseen tractor beam. This space age technology is brought to you through the power or TrifleLegâ„¢. And yet what little energy summoned from the reserves of the mildly annoyed was wasted as the next light burned a hard red. He coasted up beside me with a smug little smile on his face matching his stunted steed. On closer inspection, he was riding what’s euphemistically known as a performance folder”. Which is patently bollocks in the same way as Sainsbury’s manufacture a performance shopping trolley” or referring to my ample midriff as a performance gut”. I mean, really.

Marketing really works then“, I offered nodding my head in the superior manner of a bloke owning a bike with adult proportions, it’s not like a real bike is it?”. Lights changed and we’re off with my creaking bottom bracket competing with my knees and him trying to look racey on the Emperor’s new pig iron.

On this went up Constitution Hill, each of us ˜taking the wind’ and then powering past trying to hide hyperventilation with a knowing and “ by now “ rather desperate smile.

I stole a few bike lengths through an outrageous violation of at least half the highway code but Triumphant Arch brought us together again. I just couldn’t shake the bugger and was convinced he was doing something dastardly with string and pulleys. But let’s be clear here, this wasn’t because he was fitter or more skilled than I “ no he was blatantly cheating with stiff shoes and SPD’s. I can’t believe that’s still legal in this Nanny State we live in.

Like two gunshot wounds through my heart, he clipped in and raced across the Arch like a proper cyclist except on his lad’s bike. Teeth drawn back in a rictus grin, we were so busy racing, we failed to notice an elderly tourist couple perambulating idly in the Spring sunshine. In a moment of shared responsibility, we broke apart and flowed round them “ still maxed out, one either side “ like a river over an unseen rock. I know now the Chinese for fuck we’re going to die and I need to tell you that I slept with your sister but it didn’t mean anything“. Death by spiky pedal narrowly avoided, they collapsed onto the floor clearly in need of a strong drink. No problem Ken, happy to be an ambassador for London “ let’s do lunch.

Separated by an elbow width, we ran the lights on the North East corner and fling the bikes hard right into Hyde Park. But my legs were dead, fit only for embalming, in fact my entire body was totally fucked and I just had to stop. Had to. But I couldn’t, I wanted to win just a little more.

Please turn off, please, please, please“, I, er, pleaded, but no he’s hooked up on my rear wheel and soon pulls along side breathing hard. Goes pretty well, these little stupid bikes eh?�”I observed through a gurn of pain you must feel a right prat tho“. Well that was the end of our temporary amnesty as his eyes flashed with anger – Biter! With an obvious effort, he’s gone for maximum spin and began to pull ahead but representing the 26inch class, I couldn’t let that happen. Like racehorses straining for the line, we’re neck and neck with 300 yards of park separating the winners from the also rans. He nudges ahead once more so I stand up and strain every sinew in one final effort with muscles burning up like the Shuttle on re-entry. He looks across and grins Not. Bad. For. A. Fucking. Folder. Is. It?“. And then finally, thankfully, ohgodyes, it’s over. He’s peeled off onto the Bayswater Road “ still racing “ but I’m not going that way. In fact I’m going nowhere fast.

I’d have had you. Any time I wanted. I was just playing with you you half biked freak” I tried to shout but it came across as an asthmatic whisper. He responded with a wave “ well I think it was a wave, it had fingers in it.

Only when he’s completely out of sight do I collapse in a spent heap waiting for death or an oxygen tent whichever comes first.

I honestly don’t know who won. I’m pretty sure it was me. More than sure, almost certain. Anything else would be a statistical anomaly. No way I could lose twice to a folder. It’s like lightening, once is unlucky, twice, God hates you.

When I’m the ruler of the world “ and it’s only a matter of time, the first order of business will be to fry every folder and their bloody supercilious riders. Slowly. And maybe I’ll add some scorpions as well.

Well that got your attention didn’t it? And if you were seamlessly multi-tasking both breakfast and hedgehog, please accept my apologies for any damage a high velocity muesli shot may have inflicted on your monitor.

As ever context is key here. Struggling home the other night into the teeth, gums and entire puffing face of a gale, a fellow commuter reclassified me as his personal windbreak. Now not being au fait with roadie etiquette, it wasn’t clear whether one is expected to put up with this kind of thing or if “ as was my instinctive reaction “ beating them to death with the sticky end of a pump would be a proportional response.

Continue reading “Suck my arse!” →