It’s been a while since a complete stranger has made my acquaintance in that thoroughly modern manner of trying to kill me.

Last time, a bloke high on testosterone but low on intelligence failed to co-ordinate a mobile phone, a road junction and his optical collision detection system. Before that, a rather pleasant older gentleman just ran me over

So it’s a bit of a relief to have one in the bag while maintaining a firm grip on all my limbs if not my sanity. There is the Alex Two Bomb Randomisation Theory at play here; if you smuggle a bomb onto an aeroplane, statistically you’re in great shape as what is the chance of SOMEONE ELSE DOING THE SAME? Pretty damn clever eh?

So by nearly, but not quite, having an accident today makes it statistically improbable that my twitching form be impaled under a set of designer bull bars tomorrow. Oh and before the protractor and pocket protector brigade wade in to explain that this is total nonsense, because each incident operates in a single randomisation context “ I KNOW OK, but it makes me feel better anyway.

Hyde Park Corner has been packed full of excitement and danger since the inauguration of my weekly battle with the uncaring motorised killers of our great capital. Short lights on the rotary are balanced by a long set when you’re trying to join, but this is largely irrelevant since everyone jumps each set. I know this but with misery enjoying the company of being pissed on and pissed off , I incautiously speared a front wheel into the lionised tarmac of the apparently red-held traffic.

Not being totally insane, it was a manoeuvre censured with an emergency double take, into which a belligerent taxi driver barged through the long lit red in an apparent attempt to terminate my worthless existence. I parked the bike on his bumper and my face in his window so we could discuss the merits of such an approach.

I was forthright. I may have tended to the frank and possibly even spilled over into vexed. During one diplomatically tricky exchange, there was just the possibility of a stray into quite annoyed. In Non Violent Conflict Resolution classes, it’s not clear to me where You fuckhead, you stupid fucking clown, you arrogant fat, stupid arse fits into using passive language to settle the incident to everyone’s satisfaction. But I tried if not punching the twat counts.

Even above the shouting, I could dimly here a hundred horns belting out their staccato umbrage. The cycle killer couldn’t move since my bike was still resting on his bumper and my hand was resting somewhat more firmly on his jacket lapel. And with all this at 5:20pm on one of the busiest junction in town, not much was moving behind us either. Shame.

We eventually parted, not with kind words, but with threats and promises that next time there would be proper violence. I was properly white hot, vibratingly angry “ unable to stop shaking or construct a well argued or even a grammatically correct sentence. I filled the gaps with lots of swear words though and that felt good.

But here’s the thing; it’ll make no difference at all. I can’t be cowed by the motorist however much they try to cattle me, and the guy in the cab will never see cyclists as anything but annoyingly slow bugs waiting to be mowed down and crushed. What’s worse, bugs that don’t even pay road tax.

Got to stay out there though. Otherwise it’d feel like letting them win.

* I always wanted that bloody Klingon to get the fear and heroically intone today is a good day to get pissed and fondle innocent tribbles.

It is a bit of a stretch to pass yourself as a member of the hardened criminal classes if you are hurtling towards middle age, wear a suit to work and rarely dismember associates with an iron bar. Unless you’re a lawyer which, in the strangest of ironies, is practically a vocational criminal offense and yet provides the legal means to defend your colleagues. No wonder it’s known as being called to the bar.

But this morning, I too have stepped across the slippery line to become a law breaker. My route out of the station is a cheeky pavement sprint in the wrong direction on a short one way street. Blinking out stinging rain, my vision was filled by two yellow jacketed, importantly hatted members of the pretend police meaningfully pointing an arresting arm in my direction.

Please stop Sir, you’re in breach of the highway code the large, rotund one intoned in a voice clearly trained to strike fear into the heart of aforementioned desperate criminals. And please vacate you bicycle as well shouted the second slightly smaller but no less self important upgraded traffic warden.

Well dear readers, I did as anyone with a social conscience would “ I took a hard look at the consequences of my illegality and, after just a moments pause, put the hammer down and scarpered.

I was amazed, on glancing rearwards, to find them giving chase. Suddenly my charge sheet was reading assault with a light battery, followed by the involuntary homocide of two fat policeman, and further lengthened by leaving the scene of an accident (there was going to be one in a minute). At this rate I was looking at incarceration for almost, well, the rest of my life and Panorama would be running sobering documentaries in years to come on the Stone 1

Slightly less amazing was their swift realisation that two fat policemen are significantly slower than one desperate rider screaming You’ll never take me alive copper over his shoulder. The lights changed and I charged over the Marylebone Road in the style of a Thelma and Louse cliff side plunge.

And just to prove that I have now entered the seedy world of the habitual criminal, my status as Rebel Without A Decent Haircut was confirmed with a lawless shimmy past the startled security bloke guarding the firms’ car park entrance. I shot him with a nasty grin that may have lost some effect as I rapidly had to come to terms with an illegally parked van abandoned on my line.

Honestly, some people just think that the law doesn’t apply to them. Stringing ˜em up is all they understand with their terrorist traffic violations.

Hypocrisy is the new tolerance for 2007 “ you heard it here first.

POST EDIT: Ah I was going to write something on why I really can’t take pretend police seriously only to find I already had!

With the weather turning to the icy side of inclement and an early spring losing the heated battle with a late wintry cold front, it was time to out the Trousers Of Truth.

I’m becoming increasingly fascinated by trousers and their associated paraphernalia. Firstly a wardrobe miscalculation left me pantless, then some oik invaded my trouser storage space. But this is different, these leg warming garments have always been on the breathe in side of snug and with a 2007 history of serial non riding, I expected waistband closure issues. You cannot pass the Truthful Trousers off with water retention issues or big bones “ they are the arbiter of middle aged spread.

Last year, refusing to succumb to the bald fact that riding in the cold and pissing rain has a fun rating similar to ramming pencils up your nose, these troons became the Strides Of Smiles as my pre-season girth disappeared under seventy tough commuting miles a week. That is almost exactly the number I’ve ridden in total since Christmas so no one was more surprised than I when button closure was achieved without having to squeeze every last breath from my body.

Okay there was a bit of a seasonal overhang but nothing that a baggy thermal layer and the yellow jacket of stoutness couldn’t conceal. And it was a good choice because riding home tonight mirrored the sting in the tail of last year. First there was the sleety rain trying to be snow, aided and abetted by a 20mph headwind and once you’ve thrown a couple of frozen roadies into the mix, it was as close to proper riding as you can get on the roads.

The roadies had chosen fashion over form with their silly lycra and transparent sponsor waterproofs rendered laughable in the face of my totally waterproofed form. I stalked them up the Mall, taking a tow and waiting for my lungs to catch up with my ego. They belatedly did half way up the drag through Hyde park and I beasted them both in a leg pumping, bar wrenching pass chowing down on wet snow and planting a cold nose on the stem. This aerodynamic pose of the athletic idiot saw me pile on the power up to Marylebone though thickening snow and apparently blinded drivers.

One less than diffident tap on a wing mirror and an endorphined fuck off you wanker if you think you’re having THAT lane propelled me into the warmth of the station where tubey commuters were inadvertently scattered. They looked on my dripping and steaming form as late Victorians would have cautiously viewed the elephant man.

But I didn’t care because they’ll never get it and I’ll never get tired of it. Summer riding is ace but only because of days like this. I could still be an angry young man if I wasn’t so old and bollixed.

Have you looked outside lately? The country appears to be mainly underwater although there is a jolly jest doing the rounds that the hosepipe ban is still in force. Although exactly what purpose artificial rain could perform is somewhat beyond me since everything outside is sodden and gloopy. And if you happen to be lucky enough to have a roof like ours, quite a lot of inside as well.

So all new for 2007, indoor riding is where it’s at. What other riding experience delivers a warm, dry and windless environment? Well summer of course but that’s almost years away and how would you feel careering downhill at 25mph+ while watching a DVD or reading a book? Broken and stupid, that’s how you’d feel.

That’s why I’ve borrowed a friend’s turbo trainer and by cunningly sequencing MTB DVD’s on the PC, a new riding style has been born. One could reasonably argue that spending an hour riding while traveling precisely nowhere is rather pointless but then I say again- have you looked outside?”

It’s all a bit more structured than passing a couple of grunting and wheezing hours before the pubs open. Dusting off the heart rate monitor and actually researching how one is actually meant to utilise such a heathen device was an eye opening experience. My previous regime of just riding as hard as possible until either you bested your opponent or you’ve died trying was conspicuously missing from the fitness book of words. Except for the bit that says if you do this, you will get sick although we barely need to mention this as nobody is that stupid“.

/Waves.

There’s a plethora of conflicting information awaiting the unwary internet browser much of it I’ll file under the heading obsessed body Nazi’s�?. However, it’s become clear that pedalling like a cocaine fuelled hamster until your heart attempts to rip itself out of your chest and black spots descend before your eyes may not be the elixir to long life and happiness.

So shuffle for rock music, stuff in the earphones and hit play on the DVD player before gentle pedalling prepares your heart for some three figure action. As your ramp up the revolutions, sweat rapidly exits every pore and rapidly creates an inland lake where the floor used to be. An hour is all you need and that’s sixty dull minutes you’ll never get back but it’s obviously been of use since you stagger off the bike having lost the use of your legs. The following hour or so could easily fill a wild west film sequence where the director is keen to show how an aged cowboy may walk after a few days in the saddle.

But let’s be clear, it’s not training. The great thing about the bike being clamped into the turbo means I can’t go and ride it on the road. And although my personal targets involve reclaiming “ by bloody minded force if necessary “ my 38 year old lung capacity and possibly shedding a little of the mid life, mid body excess, this does in no way constitute some kind of structured plan. Because sad old roadies do that and I’m only two of those things.

And the final benefit? You get to where all that old cross country Lycra without anyone outside chortling as your gut crests the waistband. I know it’s wrong but it feels so right 🙂

Ranting is about the easiest thing to do at this time of year; to your right a barrel of fish, to your left a shotgun. I did consider an electronic screech at the political correctness of office decorations but obviously The Sun could do it so much better. So instead, two more bad apples in the bag of all things commuting shall be cast out into the virtual compost heap.

Firstly pretend Policemen who, having narrowly failed to scrape in last time, wrongly escaped a righteous bruising. This part time ponces exist in the high-viz netherworld between security guards and traffic wardens. They can be easily spotted by some physical manifestation of the reason that even the hardly fastidious MET refused to employ them. This may be a forty inch waist, a sixty year age or a hundred fat chips on a shoulder.

They swagger around, accessorised by pathetic facsimiles of those bobbies gainfully employed, directing traffic, persecuting cyclists and being laughed at. And they have an image problem which isn’t going anywhere even with a name change. Special Constables became Community Support Police but this doesn’t hide a certain twisted desire to come home from work and put on another tie.

And because catching real criminals is difficult, instead they criminalise those they can catch. Including cyclists who perform acts of terrorism including running red lights, borrowing a bit of pavement to make a gap and answering back. In a year of yellow jacket overload, I’ve yet to see these sanctimonious busybodies do anything useful at all. And don’t give me this shit that they’re unpaid volunteers until you’ve asked yourself why that may be. No real friends and absence of personality ticks all the boxes for a bloke trying to bridge communities doesn’t it?

Citizen arrests and vigilante groups won’t solve the problem either but at least they’re a bit better dressed. More proper police please. And maybe we’ll take them seriously.

Secondly scooters. Specifically scooters not motorbikes and that’s an important distinction. Modern motorcycles are urban missiles piloted by a similar breed to us – living by the staying alive traffic rules. Scooters are normally driven by people in suits who lack the spacial awareness which would otherwise allow them to weave into gaps. Instead they just park up the arse crack of two stationary cars and we’re forced to queue behind them. And apart from that they’re just rubbish aren’t they? Fashionable in Milan, ludicrous in London and out-accelerated by anything with a pulse.

My motivation needs recharging so it’s with a happy grimace that my final 06 commute finished this week. I’ll leave you with a quote from a fellow street-lifer which neatly encapsulates my thoughts for riding through the winter.

When you’re thinking this crap about ‘might as well have another hour in bed’, remember that you’re actually already awake, and you’re not actually going to sleep for the next hour, you’re just going to try for a fumble, get denied, and get lie there watching the clock ticking down to he next ‘getting up’ point. Get up and ride instead?

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.