Cars vs Bikes

A few things in the last few days have made me very thankful not to own a car. One was a story on MoneyBox on BBC Radio 4 over the weekend which exposed the culture of referral fees and kickbacks between garages, tow-trucks, insurance companies and claims lawyers. Once you've had an accident your details become like gold dust, and huge amounts of money changes hands. Apparently that is why car insurance gets increasingly extortionate even as accident rates go down. This makes me angry on so many different levels, the key one being- you might have died. You have experienced a major trauma. And then every time you pick up the phone it is a weasly cold-calling lawyer type pouring poison in your ear and encouraging you to sue someone. Eugh.

And on a lighter note this photo, from Howies, is the other one. 

Cycling in Croatia

Just back from a wonderful five day trip to sunny (but chilly) Croatia. We spent a few days in Dubrovnik which is beautiful and well worth a visit, and then hopped on a ferry in search of a bit more wilderness and, crucially, some bikes. Reluctantly, having given more than 3 seconds thought to the practicalities I'd left Trusty locked in his bleak London garage-he's not a folder after all- so I was soon feeling the craving to be on two wheels. There are apparently good trails on the mainland, and some islands which can be reached on a day trip from the city, but we wanted to go further afield and so boarded the Nona Anna once-a-day catamaran for the island of Mljet. Despite the fact that Time Magazine apparently ranks it as one of the ten most beautiful islands in the world, Mljet is not a major tourist hub in high season, and in March it was utterly deserted. The handful of locals were visibly shocked to see us, but sprang into hospitable action once they were made to believe that yes, we had come to stay, and yes, we would like to cycle please. The bike hire places (and everything else in fact) was closed, but the owner of the apartment we'd managed to find happily lent us her two mountain bikes. 

I've not got a lot of experience in the world of MBX- I was always put off by a)fat tires=less speed and b)the likelihood of coming off going over a root and concussing myself on a boulder. I'm pretty clumsy. But Mljet is hilly and well, beggars can't be choosers, so we saddled up....and it was amazing. Pine forests, coastal paths and incredible, green-blue inland lakes. We rode for hours, picnicking on shore lines and whooping down the hills. We had the whole place to ourselves- the only encounter with another human being was with a head-scarved, raisin faced old women who thought we were disturbing her goats. Or at least, that is what we inferred from the tirade of angry Croatian. In the evenings a guy called Djuro opened up his restaurant specially, cooked us whatever fish he had caught that day and plied us with local grappa until we could barely walk. Wonderful medicine for sore thighs.

If you're looking for a DIY cycling trip somewhere near(ish) cheap(ish) and extraordinarily beautiful, Croatia is your place. Say hi to Djuro (at the Stella Marin) from Trusty and I.

Cycle Tribes: BMX Boys

Not all BMX-ers are 17, clearly

Yesterday I cycled all the way down the (very potholed) Walworth  Road in a tag-team race with a 17 year old on a BMX. It was possibly the highlight of my day. You will have seen this tribe, but only rarely in our great capital- his typical habitat is suburban backroads, car parks, skate parks and woodland. He has not evolved to effectively deal with the longer distances of London roads, or indeed, buses and taxis. The BMX boy will most likely have collar length hair, a hoodie, baggy trousers (or conversely and horrifyingly, jeggings) and a black cap pulled down low- and crucially, no lights. . He will sit way back, low down on his tiny little saddle pedalling leisurely with his knees occasionally hitting his chin. Most at home when standing up on the pedals, he can get some speed up pulling away from traffic lights, but his thick tyres and small wheels hinder any real pace.

These facts of physics were not immediately obvious to the young lad I was cycling beside last night. Waiting at a red light, he looked sideways at me, taking in my pretty pannier, basket, skirt and bell. All these clearly equalled some kind of gauntlet being laid down. When the lights changed he raced away, standing but bent double to stay in contact with the handlebars, the top of his boxers wafting in the breeze. Trusty doesn't exactly go 0-60 in seconds (especially with a pannier full of books) so it took me a minute or so to catch him up, but when I did I quickly needed to overtake. I may be ten years older, but I do have full sized wheels, and the capacity to fully extend my legs. I'm not naturally competitive, but neither do I have the patience to stay behind someone slower than me.

BMX boy was not happy. At the next lights the same thing happened, he shot into the distance but I quickly caught up and overtook. This happened six or seven times, until it had become a bit of a game. By the time our ways parted at Camberwell Green we felt like old friends. As I turned I looked back over my shoulder,  he doffed his cap at me in an archaically chivalrous gesture, exposing greasy hair and a cheeky smile. So I saluted. A moment of cyclist solidarity across the tribes. It made me smile.

Occasions To Avoid Cycling Part 1: Valentine's Date

Almost always, cycling is the best choice of transport. Very occasionally though, it is most definitely not.

I have discovered that when you are meeting someone for a Valentines' breakfast, and you are specially wearing, instead of the usual cycling gear, a pretty (wool) dress, tights, scarf, socks, boots, a very unbreathable and highly unreflective coat and slightly more make up than usual, cycling might still, possibly be the right choice. If you cycle slowly. This will, however, be  complicated if 1) you are late, or 2) it is a beautiful sunny day which makes you want to go as fast as humanly possible. If these two circumstances combine you are absolutely guaranteed to arrive on said date with a bright red face, sweating profusely, and take half an hour sitting in a well heated restaurant to cool down. You may in fact need to mop your face with your napkin.

Not. Sexy.

Sorry Trusty, thou art forever by my side, but next romantic rendezvous with the other man in my life, you're staying at home.

Cycling off the stress

Neurons in the brain. Benedict Cambell, Wellcome Images

Yesterday was a hectic, nay, manic, day at work. The kind of day where you arrive early, don't have lunch and leave two hours late, barely stopping to take a breath in between. I came out feeling incredibly wired, and jumped on Trusty to get to a social engagement I was now VERY late for. Bombing along the back streets, getting my weave on through the buses and taxis I felt the shoulder-hunching stress levels slowly metabolise into something else; exhilaration. The energy from my stressful day made that bike ride the most fun one I've had in ages. 

Yesterday was rare- I don't really get very stressed. And even when I do (as yesterday), there is a part of me that sort of enjoys the rush of it, the sense of a challenge to be completed. I am also generally a pretty upbeat person (yes, yes, ok, very upbeat). Until yesterday I had assumed that these were just basic, blessed facts of my personailty, well balanced by a whole heap of flaws in other areas. However, feeling clearly the cleansing effects of cycling on my stress levels last night made me wonder- maybe I'm not naturally unstressed. Maybe I am about as susceptible to stress as anyone else but I excercise regualarly, doing something that I love. Not pounding the treadmill but out with the wind on my face. 

Obviously, I am a bit slow on the uptake because research showed long ago that regular aerobic exercise reduces anxiety and improves mood:

“It looks more and more like the positive stress of exercise prepares cells and structures and pathways within the brain so that they’re more equipped to handle stress in other forms,” says Michael Hopkins, a graduate student affiliated with the Neurobiology of Learning and Memory Laboratory at Dartmouth, who has been studying how exercise differently affects thinking and emotion. “It’s pretty amazing, really, that you can get this translation from the realm of purely physical stresses to the realm of psychological stressors.”

Now we all know I'm no science head, but I think this is pretty amazing. Through cycling (or running, or dancing, or even, if it's your personal poison, going to the gym) we can wire ourselves for emotional stability. So next time you find me annoyingly pollyanna-esque, just remember; I can't help it. It's Trusty's fault. 

Winter Wonderland

Yesterday I pedalled  down to Columbia Road Flower Market to meet some friends for lunch. The place was fringed with bicycles, fixies, racers and dutch cargo bikes alike. The nippy, east-end flash of the skinny steeds is certainly attractive, but far less practical for an outing like that. Trusty's basket was loaded with roses for the sunny cycle back through Canonbury, and pretty much everyone who passed broke into a smile at the sight.

Elsewhere in the city, it is notable how the first surge of New Year's Resolution cyclists has tailed away rapidly as the cold has returned. The streets are as quiet now as they were in the December snow-and party sparked lull. This makes me sad, because those cattle trucks beneath our feet are keeping people from the joys of winter. Granted, the days when it is both cold AND wet can be fairly unpleasant, but days like today, when the sun is out and sky is blue are absolutely glorious to cycle in. Yes, you need two sets of gloves, a really good neck warmer, an ear band and two pairs of socks, but it is totally worth it. If I could recreate the pink cheeked glow I'm left with after a sunny winter ride I'd be a cosmetics millionaire.

The best cycling streets in London (Part 6)

Now, I realise that after a day as glorious as today, every street seems like the best cycling street. With the wind at your back, the sun on your face and the very faint first scent of spring the city is a wonderland on two wheels. And The Aldwych is not at first glance an obvious choice- three or four lanes of traffic at most points, weaving buses and dopey tourists on their way to see Dirty Dancing The Musical. However, ever since seeing Happy-Go-Lucky with the amazing Sally Hawkins, in which the lead character Poppy comes zooming round the semi-circle of Aldwych in the first scene I'd had a soft spot for it. (Incidentally, if you've ever had a beloved bicycle stolen you will also appreciate that film). Obviously, the traffic is cleared for her but not for us quotidian cyclists, but if you're feeling brave and willing to get your weave on you'll love it. In the summer it is one of the greenest roads in central London, lined with majestic trees. On bright winter days like today the bare branches reveal some of the grandest architecture we've got to offer- the towering columns of Bush House, sturdy St Clement's Dane and the imposing back entrance of Somerset House. On one end of the island there is the Indian embassy, always decorated by a queue of people wanting visas dressed in glorious technicolour. I may be biased because I know that just the other side of Somerset House the Thames, the soul of the city, surges past, changing colour and freshening the air at the bottom of Kingsway. Perhaps if I battle with the buses on a grey and rainy day I will change it to the 'worst cycling' streets list, but I don't think so. See what you think.

Image by Ben30

Blues and Greys

January is a funny time isn't is? Let's be honest, the climactic conditions are hardly conducive to an upbeat mood, and this year it seems to have been particularly unpleasant. For many people the New Year is a time for a little light life-evaluation,  and the battleship grey skies don't provide a particularly helpful backdrop. We make resolutions mainly on the basis of what we feel we have failed at the preceding year. What a great place to start. We go over our lives with a fine tooth comb, looking for flaws. Where are we at in our career, our love life, our appearance? Are we the people we'd hoped to be, this time last year? Are we, on all levels, a success?

Perhaps January seems especially  glum to me this year because I'm more aware of the underpinning anxiety about the future. Fewer people will have jobs by this time next year. Most of us will be a bit poorer. And a lot of us (me included) don't know where it is we want to be and therefore have no idea how to aim for it.

This is a bike blog, and therefore I'm supposed to bring all this therapeutic musing back onto topic. And actually, it is easy to do, because when I'm out and about on Trusty I can't help but feel free and childlike. It's very hard to have a furrowed brow freewheeling down a hill. It sounds overly practical, but when the wind blows through my hair it also lightens my thoughts and lifts my heaviness. It takes me back to basics. Cycling reminds me that I am healthy enough to move at speed, I live in a beautiful city full of precious friends, that anything could happen just around that corner.That hope is intrinsic to mankind. My christian faith and time on my bike help me to cling on to the belief that my life, our lives, mean more than external status, more than where we are on some giant table of success and failure. Even when the January rain threatens to wash it away. I'll just pedal faster and hope to dodge the drops.


Oh, and if all that philosophising fails I'm just going to have to get Trusty one of these.

Image by SusanG2

Star Crossed Lovers

Trusty and I are like Romeo and Juliet this week, kept apart by forces beyond our control. No snow this time, but trips out of the capital, loads too large for panniers and, I confess, more than a usual number of alcohol suffused social engagements. I cycled to work last Friday and haven't cycled home since. The final straw came yesterday when, at the end of a long, brain aching day I skipped out of the office, all ready for a reinvigorating cycle home and realised I'd forgotten my lights. I stood, gazing at Trusty's shiny flanks, weighing up whether riding home lightless was only mildly foolhardy, or, in fact, suicidal. Reluctantly I decided on the latter. I hung my head and walked away to join the muttering, shoving throng at the entrance to the tube, leaving him alone in the bike park once again.


Tonight is our night though. Nothing will stop us. I've got lights, I've got batteries, I've not get that much to carry and not a drop of booze will touch my lips, despite a Christmas lunch. I am as excited as for a first date. Hold on Trusty, I'm coming.

Pedal Power-ful

I'm back on Trusty this week, and I've realised another reason why I love cycling. You thought you'd heard them all eh? How about self-sufficiency? I couldn't work out why I found returning to it after public transport so very satisfying, until I realised it sort of reminds me of the difference between pocket money and your first pay cheque. I love that I get from A to B all under my own steam. That my body is working well, the finely honed machine it was designed to be. I don't mean finely honed like an athlete, far from it. You wouldn't want to see me in skin tight Lycra. I mean finely honed in that, you know, it works. My legs get me where I need to go. Cycling reminds me how amazing we are, every cell and sinew.

I have this feeling in the same way with walking and running (still, toddler like, thinking 'look at me go!') but much much more so with a bike. I'm so fast! Bikes are a magical invention that take my paltry effort and mysteriously convert it into glorious, thrilling speed. It's like the feeding of the 5,000. I know it isn't a complicated technology, and someone cleverer than me could tell me how it works. My guess would be the equation goes:

Power in (P) + rotariness/spinnyness (R) (possibly not the correct name for the force)=(A) amazing.

There must be some variables. Time and distance or something.

I should so be a scientist.

In any case, even though I don't understand it, it doesn't feel like cheating, in the way that the bus or the tube does. Whoever invented the bicycle (apparently Ernest Michaux in 1860, though it's disputed), I salute you, you big brilliant boffin you. You blessed my life.

Snowbound and Stir-crazy

I miss cycling. It has been three days now. Every morning I get up and look at the whitened streets around my house and have a vivid flashback to a horrible fall two winters ago. I rounded a corner on what turned out to invisible black ice, my bike (Stally the Stallion, Trusty's precursor) went one way and I went the other. Hard, and fast. The bruise on my thigh took about a month to fade. And I can't face it happening again.

However, I am getting to the point where I think it might be worth it. I can feel Trusty's waves of resentment at being cooped up all the way from his garage to my fourth floor flat. I have taken the tube three days in a row, and like it no better with practice. It feels like swimming, and not in a good way- taking a death breath and diving below, feeling your lungs burn until you can burst through the surface and out into the air. The underground is the underside of London, no light, no beauty, just angry faces and stale smells. Yes, it is fast, and warm, which I appreciate on these bitter days, but still. Perhaps risking purple thighs and frozen fingers is better. 

Having written this-of course it is. What on earth have I been thinking? Be gone, black-ice related fear. I'm getting back on the road.

Knight Rider

Today I cycled in behind a guy dressed all in black. He could have wandered out of a dystopian, post-apocalyptic disaster movie. His bike was black, his gloves were black, shoes, hat, jacket, the lot. He was even wearing black wrap-around shades. It was not just the colour scheme that made him stand out amongst his neon yellow, visibility-obsessed road fellows, but the fact that he was wearing armour. OK, not real armour, but road armour- padded, reinforced  shorts and a jacket that looked like it might have belonged to a quarterback. I've only ever seen that kit on hard core mountain bikers getting ready to do some serious down- hilling. It is designed to protect you from breaking your spine on a rock. And possibly, from the look of it, from bears and exploding trees.

This guy might have been the politest biker in the world, but he looked mean. He looked like he might intentionally sideslam the door or jump through the windscreen of anyone that cut him up. The semiotic message of his outfit was: It's war out there. 

This perturbed me. It made me want to buy a bunch of out of season daffodils and fill my basket with them. To smile at every driver and let people out in front of me. Treating the commute like an everyday battle might fulfill some kind of repressed caveman instinct, but it stresses everyone else out. Cycling is one of life's sweet pleasures and I want to do it peacefully- not as if I've wandered into a game of World of Warcraft. Probably that guy mountain bikes and only has one set of gear, but it made me all the more determined to prove to other road users that cyclists are human, well-mannered and not in such a rush to get places that they forget to be kind. Even if the guy in the white van who clipped me on Hornsey Road thinks there is a war on, I refuse to join in.

The best cycling streets in London: Part 5

I've been hesitating about adding Pentonville Road to my list of best cycling streets, mainly because it is butt-ugly. Pleasing aesthetics are really a key criteria for this list- one of main reasons for not being underground  or peering out of a steamy bus window is so you can take in London's glorious architecture and natural beauty. However, there are other criteria, for example a lack of traffic, and a long, steepish incline to freewheel down, both of which this road has in spades. All except the top third is closed to general traffic, and despite it looking like a major route, very few buses and taxis seem to run down it. Almost every time I ride it the wide, long hill is all mine, and I love every minute of it. The other day I came out of Penton Street and turned right onto it on a bright, frosty morning, peeling off from the mass of neon bikers heading straight-on into the city. The sensation of sun and wind on my face as Trusty and I picked up speed reminded me strongly of skiing. I don't think I'll get to the slopes this year, so joyfully bombing through the cold air, making the most of the speed before hitting the snarling junctions around King's Cross,will have to do for now. Just goes to show, looks aren't everything.

A Modest Proposal: Road Users Round Table.

I had a really interesting conversation with a car-driving friend of mine yesterday. He had had a bit of a contretemps with a cyclist and was confused by it. Driving up to a roundabout, he had been aware of a cyclist on his outside, so had clocked his position, indicated and pulled out leaving, he thought, plenty of space for the bike. The cyclist didn't agree, and followed him up the road, shouting and banging on the roof. 

My friend said something really interesting- "It was frustrating, because we couldn't sit down and work out what had happened. He could only see it from his point of view, but I was fairly sure I had been careful and not really got anywhere near him. I wanted to talk to him, to ask what had upset him particularly so I could bear it in mind in the future, but I just got yelled at".

I think he's right. We two tribes rage against the behaviour of the other but never really make rational contact. It would certainly be glib to compare the friction between motorists and cyclists on London's roads as in any way comparable to the tensions of the Middle East, but we are sometimes almost as bad at listening to each other.

And I was very moved to hear about the orchestra made up of Israelis and Palestinians that is making a stand for co-existence in the midst of a seemingly intractable conflict.

So I propose an equivalent- not an actual orchestra, unless anyone knows a good conductor, or indeed a biker who is handy on the double bass and a taxi driver who plays the triangle. A simpler version which could possibly have the same unifying effect would be a 'road users council', with representatives from the cycling community, heavy goods vehicles companies, taxi firms and car drivers. Probably we should involve the poor pedestrians too, but not sure there is a body for that. If we could all get in a room and have a glass of wine and share a bowl of dry roasted peanuts I'm sure we could thrash out a way to help us all co-exist more peacefully. Probably most drivers have no idea that some of their behaviour scares the life out of (occasionally literally) us cyclists, and we are blissfully unaware of the genuinely annoying things we get up to too.

I might be a bit naive but I think it is worth a go. If you get agreement at the organisational level it could filter down, and we could hold each other to account. I'm happy to host, I'll make a big pot of chili and someone else can take notes.  Who's in?

Men in Tights

To be fair, this might be why.

The weather has got a nip in it, and the number of men wearing shorts over running tights (or leggings) goes up in inverse proportion to the drop in the temperature. This look never fails to make me smile- what is wrong with trousers to keep your calves warm? Have you never heard of cycle clips- or my varient, tucking your trousers in your socks? Or if you really like the aerodynamicity of tights, why bother putting baggy shorts over them? Could it possibly be about not wanting to have the outline of your package on display for all to see? Especially on a chilly morning?

I can't help but think that european men would not adopt this look. They would either, like the grand stallions of the ballet world, wear their clingy garments with a proud swagger, or just stick to chinos. I love the British male, nothing if not half-arsed.

Love your Legs

I have come away for a few days to visit the friend who was run over by a lorry while cycling six weeks ago (there is a post from that day here). You'll be glad to hear she's healing up nicely- and slightly miraculously. Despite both legs (with the bike between them) having gone under the wheels one of them escaped with bruises and grazes and the other is in a toe-to-ankle cast but is expected to be completely fine again in another few months.
I have broken both my legs badly (not cycling, skiing) in the past, and helping her as she hops around on crutches I am reminded just how joyous it is to have the use of all my limbs. We have had long chats about the things she is looking forward to; walking, running, dancing...and hopefully, and some point, cycling. I remember that longing for motion so well, that gut-itching frustration to be free and independent, not chained to your crutches or pushed in a wheelchair. I thought I'd never take it for granted again, but I have. I do. 
So today, in an entirely sincere way, I am loving my legs, with all their length and strength and despite their cyclist's calves. I hope you love yours too.

Big Stories and Bicycles

Today I passed a guy on another non-motorised form of transport- roller skates. He was quite a sight, sporting long black dreads, a red and green beanie, huge silver headphones and clutching a can of beer in his fist. His behaviour was even more striking; he was not skating on the pavement or even in the cycle lane but weaving wildly in and out of the traffic, holding onto lorries and buses for a tow and generally causing everyone else on the road to fear for his life.

As I pedalled far more sedately a little behind him I couldn't choose between the instinct to yell at him or cheer him on. The look of intense concentration and exhilaration on his face was really attractive, especially amongst the dead eyes of the pedestrians and blank faces of the passengers in the steamy bus window. It was him against the road, and he was going to win. He reminded me of nothing more than those ancient celtic kings who would strip off and run with the deer pack, risking being trampled to win a blessing for his people. Incidentally, my friend James still does this, but he does read a bit too much Nietzsche.

This guy reminded me of our innate need for drama, our desire to feel like our lives mean something. As various theologians and narrative theorists have pointed out, we all want jeopardy, we want to be risking everything for something bigger than ourselves. Ultimately, we want purpose.

This city can be so numbing, the shuttling back and forth of the transport, the rhythm of work and play, the choosing what's for dinner. I often have the sense that the only big stories we are all a part of happen on some banker's blinking balance sheet, or in a far off war. We escalate our individual dramas to fill this gap, imbuing the minor ups and down of our love lives or our career with mystical significance, or fixate on the famous faces on the front of Heat. We may all be suspicious of the grand-naratives of the past, the stock-in-trade of religions and politics, but we can't seem to let go of the desire to make our lives mean something more than just the throbbing of our cells and synapses.

I've realised as I write this blog that things like cycling can easily become a minor meta-narrative for us. On the cycling blogs and twitter feeds, the underlying story is of a battle between good and evil, the triumph of the underdog, the small band of travellers digging deep and pushing on. I love the way we humans make everything into a story, fill even modes of transport with meaning. 

I love my bike. I love being a part of this wee story, of attempting to change a city for the better by putting it on two wheels. It is enough for now. But I'd prefer to stake my life on a bigger story than that.......

Sociable Cycling

I have a dream...that one day the roads will be almost free of motorised traffic and we will all get around by pedal power. There are lots of reasons why this is a good idea, but my current favourite is that it would enable us to cycle sociably. Last night I biked home quite late in the dark with a very precious friend of mine. The roads were empty so we were able to ride side by side, having a lovely catchup. None of that shouting into the wind or accidentally swerving as you turn your head to look at the person behind. Can you imagine if we always had the whole road at our disposal? It would be like a less well-dressed Tweed Run every day. I really, really love riding in groups, it never fails to make me feel like a member of the Famous Five, or those kids out of E.T., off on an adventure with no parents allowed. Even if I don't have tongue sandwiches, boiled eggs and ginger beer (or indeed, an alien) in my basket.  Let's hear it for sociable cycling.

Speed vs Style

Ah, the eternal dilemma of every cyclist, especially the female ones. Or just the vain ones. The roads are full of examples of bikers who have decisively chosen one or the other and nailed their (literal) colours to the mast. The head -to- toe neon-clad Lycra Lads, for example, are prepared to brave the aesthetic wasteland of their chosen attire for the sake of those extra mphs. They even take the ridicule of walking around in clippy cloppy shoes because they know how much swifter they are than trainers. On the extreme other end of the spectrum the Pashley Princesses choose elegant, heavy bicycles and pedal sedate as the Queen, never breaking into a sweat or allowing a carefully tousled hair out of place. They will arrive when they arrive,because the party doesn't start until they get there.

Both of these positions have their merits. I just can't decide which one to choose, and I sort of hope I don't have too. At the moment i
I sit uncomfortably between the two, torn by their equal and opposite priorities.

I really do enjoy the aesthetics of things. I don't give a fig about fashion, but I deeply appreciate colours and textures and shapes. There is something so jarring, so unsensual about man-made materials in highlighter colours. Surely, surely, there are ways of making bike kit look lovelier. We cyclists are the moving installations of this city, we have become visual punctuation and it would be nice to be adding something to the glorious landscape rather than blighting it with fluorescent chartreuse and badly fitting leggings.

The trouble is that I also really enjoy speed- there are few things as quick to make you feel like a giddily joyful five year old than that sensation of flying. With my basket, mac, huge scarf and flowing skirt all causing drag, not to mention my flexy-bottomed shoes apparently wasting half my effort, I'm unlikely to get up to those kind of speeds very often without the help of a big hill. 
It is not just the sensation either- the quicker I am the more time I have in bed. This factors in a troubling number of my major life decisions- I really, really hate mornings. An extra round of the snooze alarm looks like a good reason to sacrifice style, most days.
And obviously I'd rather not get killed on the road and therefore need to be visible. I'm no Oscar Wilde, I do understand there are many more important things than beauty.


So what to do? Most mornings I look at my basket, contemplate swapping my lovely handbag for a rucksack in order to increase my aerodynamicity (is that a word?) but decide I don't want to look like a snail. Or get a clammy back.


Places like Bobbin Bicycles and the London Cycle Chic shop are probably the way forward- so I'll just have to ask for vouchers for Christmas, and keep treading my uneasy middle (cycle) path between speed and style.

Sounds for my Wheels

Today I passed a young guy on what can only be described as the two wheeled equivalent of a souped up vauxhall nova. It was a sort of BMX, with neon wheels, wing mirrors (2!), a blue light under the saddle and best of all, a soundsytem strapped to the handlebars. From what I could see I think it was an adapted ipod docking station, and it looked like it was a pretty permenant feature. Goodness knows what he does when it rains. The concious hip-hop booming from it was much appreciated on my sleepy cycle ride. It struck me as a potentially brilliant idea- having headphones in is a bit dangerous so this would be would be an alternative way to carry your tunes. Us cyclists could gather like teenagers in gangs in car parks late at night and have impormptu parties. The industry would start producing sub-woofers you could hang from the cross bar. Obviously only people with good taste in music would be able to buy one as everyone else has to listen to it. And it wouldn't work at rush hour when two many genres would be competing. Short comings aside, thought, I think Trusty and I might have to invest...