by Clare Taylor (Thu Jun 18, 2009)
You can tell summer is knocking on the door of our part of London. Not from the plethora of sunglasses on tops of heads. Nor from the increasing numbers of ill-advised bare legs and fit flops issuing from Tube stations at full pelt, as the wearers realise that the warm and balmy morning they gloried in when they boarded the Tube has transformed itself into a cold and wintry shower.
No, you can tell summer is nearly here simply from the number of cyclists on the streets.
Now, I have to come clean here. I own a bike. And I am a Fair Weather Cyclist. Yes, I too have suffered the peculiar form of crazy that causes one to wake up on a sunny day and think: ‘Oh, the weather's wonderful! I know, I've got a spiffing idea! I'm going to cycle to work today!'
So, I venture into the back garden, dust off my trusty steed, free it from the ivy that has grown fetchingly around the saddle, and set off for what will be a pleasurable and efficient way to get a spot of exercise. Smiling righteously at my neighbour as I wheel the bike out onto the street and he trudges haplessly off to the station, I wonder why I don't do this every day.
I start easily enough. The sun is shining, my helmet (safety first!) isn't too uncomfortable, the rucksack carrying my handbag is but a minor encumbrance on my back. I'm feeling smug that I remembered where I stowed my reflective trouser guard-thingies and that the bike isn't clanking too loudly as I round the first corner. (Note to self - find the can of WD-40 before future rides). Reaching the end of my road, I ask myself again: ‘Why on earth don't I do this more often?'
Cut to 15 minutes in. My leg muscles are starting to burn. My bottom is decidedly uncomfortable. I'm beginning to get a healthy ‘glow' and I'm wondering when on earth drivers got so darned tetchy (it was only a little stretch of one way street, after all...)
I wish I'd worn a sports bra.
And less expensive shoes.
And where did all these 4x4's appear from?
I start to wonder if perhaps this was such a good idea with a meeting at 9.00am and no change of clothes in the office. Perhaps garlic for dinner the night before wasn't such a good idea either.
30 minutes in. I'm nearly at the office, but any cool I had has long since deserted me. I have decided that the electric chair is too good for the bus drivers who repeatedly cut me up, although I reserve my deepest contempt for motorcyclists who get to use the bus lanes without actually expending any effort to do so. Surely they should at least pay some kind of a tax for the pleasure? I gesticulate wildly as yet another car brushes past perilously close, and consider taking off one of my reflective trouser guard-thingies and hurling it through their open window, just because I can, and it will give them a bit of a fright. Then, luckily, I remember that a) they are bigger, b) they are surrounded by a metal box and c) I might beat them at the lights but on the straight my top speed is only 20 miles an hour (if I were Lance Armstrong, of course).
35 minutes after the start of my ‘easy' cycle to work, I reach my destination. The receptionist watches me spit the bugs out of my teeth as I stagger across the lobby, before carrying my now detested steed down to the basement, snagging a nail on the frame of the bike as I do so.
When I eventually reach my desk I am hot, sweating, and fielding concerned questions as to whether I am all right (Of course I'm bl**dy not all right!). I am not sure sitting straight during the 9am meeting is an option for a while, and worst of all; it's a telecon and the helmet has given me 'hat hair.'
8 hours or so later; I take a taxi home.
So, now summer is here, do you want to try cycling to work?
Then take it from one who knows; get some padded cycling shorts, reschedule your 9am meeting and don't say I didn't warn you.
