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.

Cycle Tribes: The Irregular Rider

Certain climactic conditions encourage this cycle tribe to come into the open- sunny days and tube strikes being the most obvious. For most of the year the steed of the Irregular Rider remains cooped up, ignored in garages, on balconies, shoved in cupboards and often, shockingly, locked outside in the elements. The Irregular Rider is hyper-sensitive to the inconveniences of cycling. They intend to use their bike more regularly, but if there is the slightest chance of precipitation then of course it is out of the question. The necessity of carrying more than a wallet, keys and a phone also rules out transport by two wheels (the irregular rider doesn't own a backpack or a pannier) as do late nights, early mornings or long lunch breaks. 

An Irregular Rider is easy to spot. If it is a beautiful warm day that has tempted the rider on to the road they will probably be wearing flip-flops. If unpredictable weather strikes the IR will be coatless, if the sun goes down they will have forgotton their lights.

They will be pedalling slowly on a bike that is deeply inappropriate, probably a mountain bike they have owned since a brief obsession at university, or the one they used to cycle round the streets of their home town as a teen. This once loved creature is a pitiful sight- the chain will be rusty, the tyres squidgy. 

These brief forays always remind the IR how fun cycling is, how good it feels to whizz past the traffic jams, to feel the wind on your face and the blood pumping in your limbs. They vow that their bike will no longer be underused, ignored, out of shape. They will pump up the tyres, clean up the chain and buy that backpack-do all the tiny chores that would make this choice easier on an average morning. 

Then they get home, lock up their poor, neglected wheels again and forget. 

When we pass the bikes of Irregular Riders in their snatched moments of freedom Trusty sighs sympathetically, knowing the happiness will be brief. I pat his flanks and promise him never, ever to treat him the same way. 

Cycle Tribes: Pashley Princesses

Helmet? Check! Hat hair? Never!

This particular species of cyclist is a rare sight in autumn. They are evident in our temperate climes in swarms during the balmy summer months, but at the slightest hint of inclement weather they migrate south, deep underground. This is mainly because Pashley Princesses are more about style than practicality. The bikes, for starters, are ever so attractive but also very heavy, gigantic and quite slow. Their rustic wicker baskets hold all manner of goodies, mainly designer handbags, a Sunday paper, leeks, flowers and a baguette from the local organic farmers market. They make such a pretty picture on a clear day, but are fairly useless in a downpour.

PPs also wear clothing that is far from cycle-specific. Flowy skirts that lift tantalising in the breeze and distract the taxi drivers and long wavy hair are the order of the day. Heels are no reason not to ride- and for this we salute you, PPs. These broads are never less than lady-like, using the opportunity of a red light to reapply their lipstick, not to get ahead of the traffic.

In the late spring and early, sunny autumn before the tribe retreats, a light ethnic scarf might be added. It always looks very chic, but I would caution against this. I once ventured out in an ensemble quite close the PP style, with a very, very long scarf. I was half way to my destination when my head was yanked down and headbutted my cross bar. The scarf had got caught in the cogs and cheerfully wound itself around until it nearly garroted me. It must have looked very, very funny. This is one of the reasons that, though I aspire, I will never be a proper PP. Don't have that innate...what do you call it? Grace. 

Image by Dream Dottie

Cycle Tribes: Brompton Bosses (warning- may contain sterotypes)

The Brompton World Championships

Today there is a tube strike, and in amongst the throngs of part-time cyclists there will be certain very recognisable types. Today I want to introduce you to the middle-managers of the road, the Brompton Bosses.

No London cyclist starts out on a Brompton. Having a folding bike if you live anywhere in Zones 1-3 seems pointless. Why would you settle for teeny-tiny wheels when you can have full sized, speedy ones? However, the hip young things living in Hackney that begin on a hybrid, graduate to racers and have a brief affair with a single speed can't hold onto their youth forever. A Big Job, commitment and children all force the inevitable migration to London's outer reaches, the green and pleasant lands of Virginia Water, Chorleywood or...somewhere in Kent. And so the daily bike commute becomes train-based, and a Brompton is purchased. From that day forth, said rider must leave behind their past life of devotion to real size wheels and extol the benefits of a folder.

Brompton riders are typically suited- those little wheels don't allow enough speed to make sweat a problem, and Lycra for aerodynamics would be laughable. They strap a shiny briefcase to the front and adopt a curious hunched over riding style to match their furrowed brows. Clearly men (and the occasional women) used to stress and competition, the frustration of not being able to compete with their sleeker, speedier fellow road users comes off them in waves. The hierarchy of the road is an inverse model of what they are used to in Lincoln's Inn or KPMG. No respect if shown for job title, but these daily humiliations are in general taken with good grace. Age and experience have been mellowing, for some.

However, the loss of dignity that is inevitable with a folding bike is richly compensated for in convenience. No endless debates on how to avoid your bike being stolen, no wet-trousers-syndrome from a saddle left out in the rain and the freedom to take your wheels anywhere. So us grown-up size bike riders may sneer, but perhaps, as they patiently fold and unfold in a ritual as soothing as the rosary, the Brompton bosses get the last laugh.

Image by dullhunk

Frames and Figures (or why women look like their bikes)

See? She's so got edge.

I have developed a theory. Like dogs and their owners, I think we all look a little bit like our bikes- or at least female cyclists do.

Bear with me. I had this epiphany whilst following a whippet thin girl on a lean silver racer. She had cropped platinum hair and neon clothing clearly chosen for the 80s clubbing reference rather than visibility. I started mentally formulating a blog post about this common bike tribe, a branch of the family tree related to east end boys on fixies, but had a blinding realisation. I've never seen a woman with proper boobs on a fixie. Or a single speed. Or even a racer.  

I have a very precious friend. She is much cooler than me, and very slim, with short red hair. She used to live in New York and throws amazing margherita fuelled parties to celebrate mexican festivals I've never heard of. Can you guess what kind of bike she rides? A sleek red racer called Rudy.

I, on the other hand, ride a hybrid named Trusty becuase I need the speed with the distances I cover, but I have stuck a basket on the front and a pretty panier on the back because in my head I ride a Pashley. I have long hair and curves and like to cook and go for country walks and have my friends over for dinner. I enjoy my friend's Margherita fuelled parties but tend to drink gin and tonic, and I'd like to visit New York but probably not live there. I am, in Mad Men's memorable dichotomy, a Marilyn not a Jackie- or in a 21st century UK context; Nigella not Kate. I don't have a lot of edge. As well as just not suiting a racer personality wise, my figure means that from the front I'd look like a toffee apple. It's just not flattering. I need a frame with a bit of substance. My sleek figured friends look good on sleek sets of wheels, and just a bit overwhelmed by big bikes.

Wether it's women's natural instinct for accessorisation or truly destiny that guides us to steeds that suit us, I defy you to find many examples of opposite pairings. 

Image by richardmasoner

Cycle Tribes: Lycra Lads

As you may have guessed from the picture, this isn't going to be a particularly technical bike blog. I've only just found out the name of the part that the steed needed transplanting- a derailer. It doesn't sound like a particularly useful thing to have on a vehicle to be honest, but if it gets him back on the road I'm happy.

Clearly, for someone who spends quite so much time on two wheels (about an hour and half most days, and often much more at weekends) I know very little about the workings of my bicycle. And to be honest, this is motivated by more than just apathy and flagrant gender stereotyping. I associate a detailed knowledge of different brands of tyre with one of the tribes I share the road with- the Lycra Lads.

There are several variations on this theme, but lets begin with the basics. They're easy to spot, and in any rush hour  line up will make up about half of the riders. Predominately male, members of this tribe ride drop-handle racers or fixies, and clothe themselves in skin-tight, high tech clothing. They'll ofen have gadgets attached to the handlebars, measuring goodness knows what stats to be carefully collated on a spreadsheet in the evening.

What never fails to amuse me is the sense that the road is their battlefield. Clearly, 200 years ago these men would have marched in the infantry, hunted, gathered and fulfilled their masculine duty in all manner of outdoorsy ways. Now (I assume) locked in offices pushing pixels around, all that competitive energy only finds outlet on the daily commute. The sideways, narrow-eyed glances at traffic lights say it all. In a second the other riders are appraised for speed, agility and price of kit. Waiting behind, irrelevant due to the handbag sitting prettily in my basket and complete lack of lycra, I can almost hear mental engines revving . The lights change and they're off in an invisible cloud of exhaust, straining to surge to the front and win alpha dog status.

Until the next set of lights. At which point all the rest of us (beskirted with baskets, or on Bromptons wearing suits) catch them up.And smile, less sweatily, and a little bit smugly.