The Laura LakerGraph

How to lock your bike

2012-01-23T13:56:00.001Z

After many, many stolen bicycles, and having watched this wonderful clip starring the late Barry Mason, I have become one of London's bike locking nosey parkers. I even started taking photos of locking I approve of (see above), and ones I disapprove of.

This is much to the bafflement of passers-by ('is she casing that bike out to steal it?').

Above you will notice what I and others who notice this sort of thing would call a well-locked bike. Note the hefty D-lock which fixes both rear wheel and frame to the fence, leaving little room for prying scaffold poles to purchase and lever the lock apart. Also note the secondary cable lock, flimsy in itself but deterrent enough to those imagining they might pinch the rider's front wheel as a freebie.

Good work bicycle owner, Barry Mason would give you 9/10. The police are even driving past in the background, waving their approval.

Below you will notice a different locking strategy.

This person has the same locking equipment - D-lock and cable - but note how she has used them. This bike is a lot pricier than the first, but she has done the opposite of the first, namely using her hefty lock on the front wheel and the flimsy lock for the rest of the bike. If thieves had a spanner on them to get the front wheel off (this bike doesn't have quick release wheels), with a snip all but the front wheel would be gone.

I saw the owner of the second bike arrive at the racks ahead of me (note my bike is parked behind here) but didn't watch her lock it because I was distracted by a pottery owl in a nearby window:

So, sadly I only noticed afterwards, when she was nowhere in sight.

I once stopped a man who had locked only his front wheel with his D-lock, as this woman did, through the front forks. I couldn't watch him walk away so I called him back and gently instructed him on the best locking methods. He graciously took this on board, especially as he didn't know me. I was gratified to see the same bike the next day locked the way I showed him, rear wheel and frame locked to the Sheffield stand.

With all the experiences I've had with theft I feel some sort of responsibility to help my fellow cyclist out. Though I'm sure not everyone would take this sort of interference kindly, there are a few for whom it could mean the difference between 'bicycle' and 'no bicycle'.

As theft is the most common reason people give up cycling, that means more cyclists, which can only be a good thing.

Update: see LFGSS posts here for good locks and here for comically bad locking practices (thanks my mate James for pointing these out, especially the latter).

The Wonderfulness of Bike Polo

2012-01-18T15:16:00.003Z

Much as I’ve tried to fight a lifelong aversion to teamsports, a bunch of people, or even one, running purposefully at me still sendsshivers down my spine and involuntarily fleeing from both pitch andball.

You can imagine this made me something of a source ofexasperation in my school days where I also refused to be told what to do and certainlydidn’t want to compete with anyone else doing it.

I felt doomed to a life away from the sports pitches of thisworld, in favour of more genteel exercises like running about aimlessly or perhapsbadminton. I also liked skiing and scuba diving but my Somerset home town lackedfacilities for either of these things.

Thankfully cycling and swing dancingbecame a happy medium as they involved other people but didn’t involve gettinginto a punch-up.

This week I visited the London Bike Show. My first suchfiesta of everything two-wheeled and pedal-powered, I anticipated the eventwith much excitement.

The journey to the Excel Centre, a long way from centralLondon on a bike, involved flyovers, a Thames-side path and a footbridge withmany steps. Nevertheless I reached the waterside in full glorious wintersunshine and all my limbs intact.

I entered the cavernous hall and wandered amidthe cycle paraphernalia for a while, showing a mild interest in things like chainwrenches and rehydration tablets.

I even watched a bike race involving two riders head to headon separate (pretty short) arms of a figure eight, which was OK.

And then I discovered the London International Invitational (aka bike polo championships). It was apparently London's first indoor bike polo comp ever. Here is a link to a 2011 bike polo comp so you know what it looks like (my footage may be uploaded later but was pretty shaky).

I watchedentranced as six riders wielding sticks flew up and down the pitch, hurlingthemselves toward the ball and each other before coming to an almost instant stop with the mostextraordinary control. The transitionbetween lightning fast and full stop in some players was astounding, with barely a wobble and barely a foot onthe floor. In fact, almost poetic.

They jostled, they hustled each other, they scooped the ballover each others’ heads, deftly dribbling around other players while maintaining incredible bike control. They fell off a few times but with no football-esque drama, just a quick hop back on and back into the game. As game after game unfolded before me I lost track of time.

While there I learned the rules of Bike Polo:

1. Three players to a side

2. You can: knock your opponent’s stick with yourstick, his bike with your bike or his body with your body, but no othercombination of the two

3. Races are timed. The team to score the mostgoals in that time wins

4. If your foot touches the floor you must ride tothe side and touch back in with your mallet on the side hoardings (your bikepolo oyster card)

5. Shin guards are optional, helmets are usual

For a more extensive list of rules, see here.

It’s official: Bike Polo is my new favourite team sport. Thatdoesn’t mean I’ll be trying it any time soon, though.

Authoritarian Cyclist

2012-01-11T16:09:00.000Z

I was trying to decide how to leave the conversation and return to the safety of my friends, but there seemed no escape from the man sat in front of me, as he talked heatedly and at length about controlling London’s cycling standards.

In an Old Street pub for a friend’s birthday I was having a pretty good time with talk and some wine when ‘James’ plonked himself down next to me and began staring into my face.

I thought: a friendly stranger; there’s worse in the world. However, before long it transpired he was also suffering the effects of a ten-hour drinking spree, and his eyes rolled gently in their sockets, like little bobbing ships, between sentences and gawping. Meanwhile, his drunk friend lewdly suggested I ‘get to know’ James better.

Though I had no intention of 'getting to know' James better, I thought some drunkard baiting could be fun, so we began a conversation and before long the subject of cycling came up.

When he told me he was probably more into bikes than I was, things changed gear somewhat. I certainly wasn’t going to be out bike enthusiasted this night.

What soon emerged was that this was no happy-go-lucky cyclist, however, but some breed of cycling authoritarian:

‘I think,’ he declared fairly early on, ‘there should be compulsory proficiency tests before people are allowed to cycle on the roads.’

I pointed out this would mean some sort of licensing system which would inevitably decrease the numbers of cyclists on our roads; and referenced Australia’s compulsory helmet legislation which drastically reduced cyclist numbers (and also made Aussie cycle hire schemes rather a failure, sadly).

‘What annoys me,’ he continued, ‘is that half the people on London’s roads can’t cycle. I see women riding along in high heels and think: “you’re really stupid; you shouldn’t be allowed on the roads.’

But, I argued, we need more cyclists, not fewer; this makes things better for everyone in London, not least cyclists.

If you were mayor, I proposed, how would you increase cyclist numbers on the roads?

He told me cyclists are dying every day in London, and we don’t need more cyclists. I told him this is closer to ten per year, and we do.

‘OK, ten. But you see people swerving all over the roads who shouldn’t be cycling.’

But what of the bad drivers, I said? One of our party witnessed the horrific death of a young woman last year on a Hackney roundabout, when a truck driver appeared to have misjudged how much space he needed for turning and crushed her into the railings.

Now, this cyclist was doing nothing wrong except perhaps failing to cycle assertively enough. Surely, I said, HGV drivers need to be better aware of how to manoeuvre around bikes.

But he was having none of it and the conversation was starting to take on the feel of a roundabout. As I felt myself pinned between a juggernaut of authoritarian leanings and the chair I sat in, I knew escape was necessary.

When he told me he liked the anarchic nature of cycling, I knew he had tied his argument in a knot. At least we agreed on this point though: that is one of the great things about cycling: at its best it is a wonderfully egalitarian form of transport.

The mayor of Bogota, Enrique Peñalosa has made life easier for cyclists and pedestrians since 1998, partly because he believes wealthy car owners should not have priority over poorer residents, that equality is important. The result is a healthier, more pleasant city.

Perhaps if our Mr Authority could understand this viewpoint better he would realise freedom to travel and live in a pleasant environment is one of the greatest hopes we can have for our cities. But I wasn't going to be the one to crack my head on this particular brick wall.

As soon as he got up to head for the bathroom I swam for safety between two male friends.

What do you know, I thought, an authoritarian cyclist? It certainly takes all types.

How to change an inner tube

2012-01-05T12:15:00.000Z

With my nose almost pressed to the tyre, filthy back wheelheld up to the street light and my thumb running along its surface, I searchedfor the fragment responsible for my slow puncture.

This was the third in a series of tyre-related calamities since Christmas, involving two puncture repairs and two new inner tubes, one on each tyre. I'd also gone to two bike shops on my way home the previous night (thanks Evans on Rathbone Place and The London Bicycle Workshop on Clerkenwell Road for your invaluable help). The front tyre just wouldn't go back on straight after a puncture, which meant it was a little like riding something with octagonal wheels.

This time it was the back wheel's turn.

I'd pumped the flaccid tyre up to 30-odd PSI, anacceptable firmness, and prayed it would carry me for 40 minutes across Londonfor work that morning. This was clearly a gamble, but the patron saint of cycling was on my side and together the bike and I arrived unharmed, if alittle puffed out.

Greeting my bike later that day, I had all the tools at my disposal. There was nowhere to be buthome, and Shaftesbury Avenue on a wet January night was as good atime and place as any to change an inner tube.

Rolling up my cycling jacket sleeves I turned thebike upside down and, disengaging the brakes, I undid my skewer locks and manoeuvredthe wheel up and out of the chain. I always marvel as the derailleur gives way and flipsaround so the wheel can be lifted clean off.

I levered the tyre out and removed the inner tube. Ilearned after the last attempted repair it is rarely worth fixing a puncture unless in an emergency, asthe patch is never that strong. And, as in my case, your beleaguered wheel may be inflictedwith more than one hole.

An eagle eye open I turned the wheel slowly in my hand, itswet surface slick in the orange street light. I was looking fora sliver in the dark tyre... and there it was: a tiny, pale ghost of glass, wedgeddeep into the rubber.

My cold fingers tried in vain to prize it out, and then Ireached for the pen knife.

Now, a pen knife is a wonderful thing, a compact littlepiece of human organisation. There’s nothing like a penknife or multi-tool to feelyou can take on the world. I have three: one with allen keys and screwdrivers specifically for bikes; mygrandfather’s penknife-and-bottle-opener on a key ring in a disintegrating leather case; thebiggest one I possess would probably see me right if all other cutlery andtools were mysteriously whisked out of the world and I was left to survive only onmy wits.

This latter I decided was the tool de jour. Flickingout a long, flat blade I turned it in my right hand, slicing the side of my middle finger before levering out the splinter.

There was no blood yet so I focussed on my prize. There itwas: small, glowing and sharp; an unholy gift from London's roads.

New inner tube in and the tyre back on, my hands resembledthose of a swamp monster, caked all over in thick, black grease; except for onefinger which was gathering a pool of blood. A last minute search for my bike keys now meantjust about everything was dotted with both. I headed into McDonalds, hands in front of me to frightensome customers, and de-greased my hands with its patented de-greasinghand wash. Thanks Ronald.

Feeling like a conquering warrior I returned triumphant to the coolevening air and realised I was shaking.

Evidently too much excitement had beenhad and too little food. Also the bloody finger was starting to make me feelwoozy. A quick pit stop for chocolate and plasters saw me right though, and Irode off. Twenty yards later I remembered to re-engage the rear brakes and made arather bumpy progress home.

So my tyre wasn't on quite straight, a fairly common occurrence apparently. Another bike shop visit this morning meant I both learned something and fixed the square wheel sensation. If you are interested, part of the tyre was tucked under the inner tube, so the tyre felt smaller in one place. A quick go-round with the tyre lever soon evened it out.

All round a success I'd say, in part because I now have a small wound to show off.

Let it crow

2011-12-27T19:42:00.000Z

For the world-weary Londoner, nothing beats a trip to the serene quiet of the park.

And then there's London Fields. During the summer neither serene nor quiet sum up the madness of thousands of fashion-conscious youngsters in a hip fest so epic that hip transplant experts often come on down merely for the purposes of research. Ahem.

In autumn every tree in the park, mostly planes, drop all but a few stubborn leaves onto the welcoming grass below. The magnificent red-brown carpet, magnet for small children in wellies and those fond of kicking leaves, is ordered into heaps by men and much of the grass emerges verdantly in the damp air.

In winter the park belongs to dog walkers, cyclists and the crows. The leaves are gone, the sun has gone and nothing remains by way of meteorological interest but rain, cold and sometimes snow.

These chilly months are perfect opportunities for London Fields' crows to do some of their patented hanging about in search of unwary insects. On a perpetual hunt for buried treasure, in winter these year-round pirates of the park reinstate their ownership of its green fields.

But it is not just food they are after.

Waiting, brooding and mischievous they hop, two legged, propelling themselves forward in leaps like odd little pirates.

Even when a chill wind is a-blowin', the crows stay, curious and mildly threatening. I sometimes stop to watch them, overturning a takeaway food carton here and waving it about in their beaks; a sandwich wrapper there, determinedly prizing open the plastic in the hope of culinary treasure, standing on the packaging while beaks burrow busily for edible morsels.

And crows are one of the few animals that can use tools. Yes, they can use sticks to get bigger sticks to obtain food. What else are they capable of?

With most Londoners indoors enjoying mince pies and an expanding waistline, crows come closer each winter to world domination. Sweeping away winter's leaves they gather in circles to discuss overthrowing the human race using sticks of different sizes. Scout crows gather snacks for those whose minds are busily at work.

Planet of the Crows? Why not?

Curbside Haiku

2011-12-07T11:50:00.001Z

As someone else who enjoys a little casual street observation and thinks messages should be fun, discovering Haiku poetry is being used as compact street hazard warnings in New York made me smile.

After coincidentally bying a book of Haiku poetry and art last month it seems too much of a coincidence, and now I'm inspired to try writing my own.

After further research it transpires the artist responsible for New York's street poetry, John Morse, was also a guerilla Haiku artist, peppering Atlanta, Georgia's streets with compact thoughts on modern life, disguised as advertising.

He encompasses issues close to my heart which, along with the playfulness of his delivery, makes for a very likeable combination.

A message that's accessible to everyone and forces you to think. Now that's really worth something.

For more information see his website: http://www.stardogstudio.com/

The road to recovery

2011-12-05T15:11:00.001Z

According to a recent survey people in the UK lose 123 Million hours in traffic delaysper year, where jams can increase theaverage journey time from 30 minutes to almost an hour.

Those surveyed had changed their daily habits in order to keepdriving to work, with 51% starting their working day at 8.30 am, and 19% reporting arriving stressed because of theirjourneys.

Whoever says transport isn't important needs a short sharp blow to the head. Or just to look at the figures, a gentler means of persuasion.

Of those surveyed, 30% said therewas no other transport alternative. I know their pain, growing up inrural Somerset where buses were woefully whimsical, slow and expensive.

But what of the other 70 per cent? Were they just stuck in the habit of driving, believing this was the only way?

I too used to drive everywhere, perhaps out of habit coming from somewhere with poor transport links and few cycling opportunities.

The shift to human power happened for me when, living in Swansea in2000, I moved from an outlying village to the seafront near the centre oftown. My journey to college in those first few days was ten minutes of frustrating slog, barely moving through the narrow congested streets, before fighting for a space in acrowded car park.

I soon decided enough was enough and began walking. It was 30 minutes up one of God’s mightiest hills, but so much easier than the stress of the car. Speed-strolling through theglorious Singleton Park each day showed me the changing seasons and soon enough I scoffed at the urban car journey and vowed never to put myself through that again.

The average car speed in Central London is 6-10mph,depending on where you look.In the 1800s a horse and cart’s average speed across London was roughly the same.

Now the government wants to increase capacity on the M25 among other measures in its new infrastructure investment for 35 new road and rail schemes. This move is understandable if you look at road traffic in a very simplistic way: that capacity is stretched, therefore if we increase capacity it will ease overcrowding.

History, however shows us that given more roads more people will drive, creating the same situation as before, only worse. Why make the bucket bigger when fixing the leak makes so much more sense?

See this video for a great example of this, and how reversing the march of the cars can transform an urban center:

In short, cars are too bigfor cities and are urban transport's worst enemy. In Bangkok, for example, traffic is so bad and queues so long people eatbreakfast in their cars.

As the UK's traffic chaos is estimated to cost £752million in lost working time every year, persuading those 60% for whom there are alternatives out of their cars is tricky, but worthwhile. Using my mathematical skills, ahem, that couldsave us £500 million alone per year.
There is a reason most people won’tcycle; you hear it every time you mention cycling to a non-cyclist: they’reterrified to go on the roads, and understandably so. Cycling provision in London is terrible given the volume of cyclists, and it's one of the better UK cities for cycling infrastructure.

But a recent survey quoted in Good.is shows just how much cities benefit ifpeople cycle or walk those short journeys, in terms of health and air quality, two major problems in London.

Why not then invest in improving people’s quality of life whileincreasing productivity, reducing carbon emissions and the related healthproblems excessive noise and air pollution cause, by investing in cycling?

I can't think of a good reason why not, either.

Hands up who would rather live on a busy, congested, noisy road, and who on a major cycle route, with only the sound of tinkling of bells and the quiet rattling of mudguards?

Short termism, even in boosting the economy,is a worthless task. Why not invest instead in a real measure of a country’s prosperity:the happiness and health of its inhabitants?

Why not make cities people friendly? Answers on a postcard, please.

Flat tyres and hilly terrain

2011-12-05T09:36:00.001Z

One bicycle is glowering at me from the hallway. The fronttyre is as flat as can be and shows no sign of re-inflating itself.

This has been the case for the past two or three weeks. As acyclist I expect punctures. However, being me, getting around to fixing them doesn’thappen quickly, especially now I own two bicycles.

My blue bike had suchdeep wheel rims they required the hand strength of a professional arm wrestlerto get the tyre back on. Or failing that, the mechanics in my friendly localbike shop.

I’ll fix it at the weekend I tell myself. Then the weekend passesand to get to work I’m faced with public transport or a trip across town on thetrusty old Dutch machine.

Whose qualities, though many, do not include speed,manoeuvrability or, by the bye, stealth. Coming from Holland it finds hills astrange and confusing obstacle and must be cajoled up them with a forceful handand not inconsiderable quadriceps strength.

So it is that my journeys on two wheels are currently limitedto Hackney or yesterday, just over its North West border, to Finsbury Park. Itwas a clammy and panting Laura that greeted her friends on arrival at the saiddestination, and one in need of a drink.

Bidding said friends adieu after lunch, I hastened to myweekly dance practice on Brick Lane. On a pretty straight route along fast-ishroads, we soon met just about the biggest hill you are likely to find in theseparts, that goes by the name of Highbury Park. It could be re-named as ‘HillyPark’ or ‘Cyclists Beware,’ something like that.

Fortunately I got a good start, racing down the inside of abus embarking from the traffic lights at the end of Blackstock Road. The bikewas persuaded to gain speed by standing on the pedals and bearing down determinedly with allmine and my lunch’s weight.

Pretty soon, however, the hill became steeper and turned outto be rather long, so all of the Laker determination was required to man this hunkof metal up the almighty incline.

There was a point, passing the tasteful shops which clingonto this urban precipice, the ordeal seemed to be coming to an end. Thenanother section of hill came into view over the near horizon, dashing my hopesof rest.

Eventually, might and determination won through and beforelong we were sailing victoriously down a well-earned ascent.

Before long the speed achievable by pedalling the singlegear was overtaken by the workings of momentum and flying along, one handholding my coat collar up against the chill wind, I wondered whether the backpedal brakes alone would stop me should the need suddenly arise.

‘Where are your brakes Laura?’ I imagined someone asking.

Me: ‘Aha, I don’t have any!’

All of this made me look on the puncture a different way,almost gratefully, for the Dutch bike somehow manages to make even a smalljourney feel like an adventure.

Do I even own a puncture repair kit? I don’t know, I haven’tbothered looking.

Follow the Blue Brick Road

2011-11-17T11:55:00.001Z

Just when you think you've seen all there isto see by way of cycling in London, something takes you by surprise. Which isprobably a good thing given that if the old adage is true, if you're tired ofLondon, you're tired of life.

Last week I ventured to a new part of town,assisted by Transport for London'sJourney Planner - the antidote for a person who can't read maps very well.Deciphering the tangle of streets on my screen I hoped to reach East Indiawithin 40 minutes.

East India being a tube station in EastLondon, not half a continent.

Scribbled on an envelope, my directions sentme circling around the back streets of Hackney before spitting me out ontoGrove Road. Which is a very pleasant road through bucolic Victoria Park, butsuddenly becomes cycling Armageddon near Mile End tube station.

Before I knew it, two lanes of traffic wereovertaking me at close quarters and buses trying to mow me down from behind.

Avoiding a flattening I eventually foundmyself near West India Dock Road, which looked for all the world as if it wouldsoon become the BlackwallTunnel and certain death.

I paused in the dark, on theborder between council housing and an almighty transport vein, looking at mydirections, whose instructions read: ‘L and then R.’

‘L’ where? I wondered.

The map on my phone, meanwhile, indicated Iwas at the edge of a massive yellow road the kind I would avoid were I choosinga route; but there was no discernable way to cross it.

After further pondering I opted to turn Lthen R, next junction.

The first turning was an alley passable tomotor traffic in width, but prohibited by all but the steeliest of gutinstincts, it being overlooked by no friendly window and illuminated by no reallight.
A few yards ahead a secondturning invited cyclists to cross a pavement marked in glorious blue with awhite bike painted on it. ACycle Superhighway,CS3! My heart performed a little leap as I met a residential road, emptybut for a couple of joggers and an errant motorcyclist riding across the grass.

The rest was a breeze, one blue road almostto my friend's front door.

On the return journey I decided to travel asfar as possible on CS3 towards Tower Hill. It was 10.30pm and I could see thelights of Canary Wharf, like Christmas trees, hundreds of offices all lit upwith no-one inside.

Sure enough, the blue path continued pastwhere I had joined it, crossing the yellow Armageddon road toward friendlierterrain.

Ducking past Westferry DLR station and undera bridge, chuckling merrily at the dedicated cycle crossings, the bike and Iturned suddenly right, the raised railway wall looming above, before zippingthrough Wapping and up a steep bank to a little suspension bridge, the carsbelow sunk into the ground in a deep channel. Flying over the growling trafficeven the light here was an enchanted blue, the street lamps reflecting off thepaint below.

As I weaved and whooshed through parks offallen leaves, popping out onto black, noisy roads only to disappear again intothe misty back streets, there was a feeling of secret adventure, of soaringsilently through London. Though no doubt the majority of adult Londoners werestill awake at this hour, I could have been the only one; following the bluebrick road home.

Eventually finding my turning off themesmerising blue lane, towards Hackney, I was surprised that Journey Plannerwould assume I’d rather have the former experience than the latter. Still, I’mheartily glad of the Superhighway and my magical journey home. Maybe next timeI'll trust my own map reading skills.

The right to cycle, and the spectre of guilt

2011-11-09T08:55:00.000Z

So I'm thinking some cyclists feel guilty about cycling, and here's an example of why they might feel that way.

Yesterday in London I rode over some broken glass. I stopped at the junction of Northchurch and Southgate roads to pick the shards out of my tyre before they wormed their way to the inner tube. At this point the virtually car-free streets of De Beauvoir Town - bollarded off to prevent rat-running - meet a fairly busy thoroughfare at a mini roundabout.

A handful of cyclists passed me as I stooped over the front wheel, and headed out across the junction just as a fast-driving young man in a silver car came along from the left.

Now, anyone who has taken a driving test, or who has a rudimentary understanding of Britain's rules of the road knows at a roundabout one gives way TO THE RIGHT.

Ahem.

In this case, the driver seemed to think this didn't apply to cyclists, or at least not to those coming from a path blocked off to motor traffic.

He gave a prolonged beep when reaching the roundabout, apparently confused as to why cyclists should be there ahead of him, and came very close to mowing a cyclist down. The woman this was aimed at, however, knew the rules and gave him a long cold stare over her shoulder as she passed.

Had I been on the roundabout and not bent over my front wheel, at a distance, with my lungs compressed, I would have yelled at the fucker myself.

Excuse the rage for a moment. I wished to be right behind her just then so I could yell out: 'Give way to the right, moron.'

Now I'm rarely prone to bouts of rage but why the hell should this man think it's OK to go about terrorising women cycling on roundabouts? That to me reeks of bullying.

I would personally have loved to yell at him to this end. On the other hand, I'm trying to spread sweetness and light on the roads, and this transgression would have taken me back a few steps.

I think what perturbed me about this incident...well, it was a number of things.

Firstly, the fact on that particular roundabout any number of times people have pulled out on me from the left when it is my right of way (and I usually shout something to them if this happens). So far I've had a couple of near misses, had to stop on the roundabout for a taxi who wouldn't, and received one apology for standing my ground.

Secondly, I begin to feel that many of London's drivers are abusive to others and they think that's OK as long as they are the bigger, more powerful party. They have the power to frighten people or they have the power to make London pleasant. Many drivers, as many cyclists, choose to act like knobs.

Some cyclists, less confident of their place on the road, may be tempted to think they should capitulate in future. Some may even feel guilty for enraging that driver. They might think: 'Cars have the right to be on the road, so who am I to get in their way?'

That makes me very sad, and more than a little angry.

Perhaps the answer is a special road sign designed for the unwitting or the ignorant driver who thinks: 'Sod it, it's only a cyclist.'

Something to spell it out for those who are unsure: 'Give way to the right. Yes, shithead, even to cyclists.'

The Ecologist article on legal squatting

2011-10-19T11:48:00.000+01:00

My latest article for The Ecologist on legal squatting can be found here.

Hackney's Haunted Cycle Path

2011-10-18T12:52:00.000+01:00

There is a dark and haunted path in the heart of Hackney bordered by graveyards and passed over by lonely railtracks, creeping plants and tramps.

At one end is a massive Tesco on a busy road of tatty terraces and looming tower blocks; at the other, the threadbare Georgian square I live on. In between lays a world of ghouls and headless hoodies. This is my local cycle path.

Away from the cut and thrust of Hackney's aggressive traffic, travelling under the long, cool arches of the old railway bridge during the day is a wholesome treat in an East London of unsavoury streets, takeaway wrappers and a sharp multitude of sound.

Taking this jolly path is like following a large slobbering dog in some misty dream, jogging the cyclist back in time to when Hackney was a place of fields and invigorating air; the place city folk moved to get away from London's unwholesome smells.

Daytime dog walkers enjoy the safety of the churchyard, but will not come here at night.

Now, the sound of children's laughter wafts from a primary school and the odd peep of picturesque Georgian and Victorian terraces pop up opposite the grounds of St John at Hackney. This Georgian edifice has one of my favourite clock towers on top; a John Soane masterpiece, its curly-topped architecture presiding over an expanse of tall trees, the tombs of the wealthy, long-dead, and a thirteenth century tower, unused all but one day each month.

This carefree place offers segregated foot-and wheel ways for a stretch before the path reaches a crossroads midway through the graveyard and all travellers are thrown in together. From then on, cyclists weave between elderly folk and pushchairs under the dappled light of lofty chestnut trees.

At night however, the slobbering dog runs off to a warm bed and the hounds of hell emerge. Well-lit it may be, but don't let that fool you: only a brave few will tread here once the sun goes down.

Returning from whatever evening activity I have engaged in, there is the same choice: to take the haunted path, or to cycle up Mare Street?

Passing Hackney Town Hall, much of my decision is based on the Town Hall clock. Over the next 100 yards an arbitrary calculation takes place encompassing the time, the prevailing wind, and how brave and strong I feel.

If it is before 10.30pm I will turn right along Morning Lane and chance the dark path. If it's getting on for midnight I will cycle up Mare Street.

Not that Mare Street is particularly unpleasant. Perhaps it's just the right turn on a blind bend I dislike, travelling the wrong way up a single-track one-way street reserved only for buses who hate cyclists and would happily mow them down. Perhaps I fear giving a sleep-deprived bus driver the very excuse he has waited for all these years.

Usually I choose danger and adventure over these mundane negotiations.

On this night, turning left off Morning Lane at the pedestrian crossing I dodge chicken shop revellers on the corner, including unwitting small children who straggle onto the cycle lane.

The path soon spirits me down under the railway bridge, the wind whistling through the gulley formed by high walls, and emerging from the tunnel to Virginia Creepers crawling menacingly across the path. Avoiding these bloodthirsty plants I pedal furiously towards the incline. A path opens up on the right and slavering werewolves lie trapped behind the schoolyard fence, waiting for me to wobble close so they can pull me in.

A patch of grass on the left hides a murder of sleeping crows in the sickly small chestnut trees, their presence only audible by the sinister cawing snores that emerge in the gusting wind.

A dark path on the left appears. Backing onto the bus depot’s high walls, few use this brooding path at night. Straying here in hope of escape would lead me to captivity in a mass of cavernous spider webs, my struggle to escape only alerting bloodthirsty bats to swoop down for a feast.

The graveyard proper comes just in time for the uphill to slow me down to a crawl. I cross the footpath that runs between Georgian houses and Mare Street, slow down and ding my bell in case I inadvertently crash into a gang of zombie hoodies heading for the 24-hour shops and chicken eateries.

The path turns 150 degrees; the long home stretch alongside the graveyard. Tall trees line one side and tall walls the other. On the walls, living gargoyles lurk in the ivy; sleeping zombie squirrels their hats, as they await unsuspecting riders to pass within leaping distance.

In the trees demon pigeons slumber gently with blood on their beaks, rocking rhythmically in the wind.

Beware the lurking vampires and above, demon pigeons.

Other footpaths lead away into the graveyard, but vampires lie silent in tombs there, just waiting for a whiff of carbon dioxide and fear. Many a bicycle has been found here in the morning, lying among the stone tombs with congealed blood on the pedals, pale masonry dust on the floor, and no sign of the rider.

These Boris Bike riders were eaten by vampires in the night.

Under the giant withered chestnuts and planes I stand up on the pedals, legs pumping with all their might and cold sweat forming on my brow. The metal railings that keep in the vampires sing an unearthly melody as the wind in my wake touches them one by one.

Behind every tree a ghost waits in the shadows, rattling its chains.

One final entrance to the graveyard opens up at the tomb of Harry Sedgwick, the man responsible for the dark planting scheme in the graveyard, for its sinister dual character, and after one more push, past the sleeping police station, the exit is in sight.

Appearing once again at the road and civilisation I breathe the free air, dodging buses gleefully, heading for the safety of my square.

With no scratches or bites and no more surprises in the shadows, I live to ride another day.

My hero - the zombie squirrel-eating cat of Hackney

Cycle safety crusader

2011-09-26T21:40:00.000+01:00

After yesterday's post on community and the intervention of individuals, I saw this on the Evening Standard's website: a man who cycles around London filming everything. It's not the man in this picture, he just seemed appropriate, somehow.

Misdemeanors, people on their mobile phones; if he sees it, not only does he remonstrate the driver for their sloppy sense of responsibility, he films it and posts it on YouTube.

He comes across more than a little self-riteous, but I guess it's his crusade and he's passionate about it.

I see a lot of drivers texting behind the wheel of cars, vans, and even HGVs with their company name emblazoned on the vehicle. I've seen threats of violence flying at cyclists from inside such conspicuously marked vans.

Yesterday I saw a London bus driver texting behind the wheel. With all those people on board. He looked very sheepish when he realised I'd seen him. I actually looked away, embarrassed on his behalf.

Apart from being dangerous, well actually that's the main reason I don't like texting and driving: it's frickin' dangerous.

This story, however, restored my faith in the Evening Standard a little on the same day my blood was boiling reading, over a commuter's shoulder, a story titled: 'Cycle thug jailed for knocking out lawyer who challenged him'.

This paper, I can't help but think, holds a little anti-cycling sentiment. A thug is a thug, cycle or no cycle. I don't imagine ES using the term 'car thug', but maybe I'm wrong.

So back to our cycle crusader. To be fair he does come across as pretty annoying. He replays his victims' retorts seven or eight times on loop, which is more than a little irritating. And these people are not even saying anything interesting. The words 'self' and 'riteous' spring to mind.

To be fair to our man though, there's a chance ES may have chosen the most annoying clips for entertainment's sake.

It may not be the way to win hearts and minds but this crusade does highlight that a lot of people use mobile phones and drive. It has almost become socially acceptable; I see so much of it as a cyclist, overtaking at the perfect level to look down at phones guiltily secreted behind steering wheels or jammed under chins.

Either we can't live 20 minutes without a text or it's indicative of how long people spend in cars. People also text and walk, wandering out in front of bikes, cars, juggernauts without a morsel of self-awareness. And text and cycle, of course, though I'm not sure how, or why. Some people don't need a mobile phone to act kamikaze but we can't help those ones here.

I for one like the idea of creating a photo album of shame, of drivers doing stupid things behind the wheel. It could be an interesting project, a slice of life in London's traffic jams. I might start carrying a camera.

After my now substantial dogs and cats album, this could be my next big photographic project.

A Cycling Community...

2011-09-25T13:30:00.000+01:00

Last night, at midnight, I crossed Holborn junction on foot after a lot of fast swing dancing; hot still, coat under arm. I turned around when I heard a car horn and saw a woman cycling in the middle of the road, heading North along the Kingsway.

Curious, I thought, to cycle in the middle of a dual carriageway at midnight like that.

Ambling along in the outside lane, oblivious of the consternation this was causing, she got two thirds across the junction's yellow grid and slowly came to a stop. These are the yellow grid marks you aren't supposed to stop on. At this particular junction I would say they should be underlined to say: 'Really, no stopping here.'

I stopped, too, transfixed. It looked like she would turn right, and right meant four lanes of oncoming traffic once the lights changed. High Holborn is part of a massive one way system I traverse three times a week and it isn't for the fainthearted.

Had she seen the signs? Was she going to get mown down this Saturday night, I wondered?

She looked lost, at any rate.

I gazed as she pulled out a mobile phone and started texting. Or maybe she was on Google Maps. Either way, there she sat looking for all the world like she was on a grassy verge surrounded by cows and fluffy clouds, while traffic passed very close on either side.

The lights went red and for a moment she was stranded on an island of calm. I noticed the countdown on the pedestrian crossing read 12 seconds; the countdown which unleashes those four lanes of traffic, and which normally elicits a decisive response from anyone left on the road. Motorists, meanwhile, see the numbers decreasing and ready themselves for the off.

Now the first time I encountered this junction I was a newbie city cyclist, and lost. Few times have I been so scared on a bike, and for many years I referred to High Holborn as 'The Wall of Death.' To the inexperienced cyclist it is an unfathomable, unstoppable tide of motor traffic which you'd better get as far as possible from if you hope to see your next birthday.

To this woman, it clearly meant nothing.

As a fellow cyclist who spots someone in the bullseye of the wall of death, I shouted to her. She didn't hear me, so I ran out into the road, and told her:

'A lot of traffic is about to come your way. From over there. You should get out of the way.'

I gestured urgently with my hands, while she looked very calmly at me. I backed onto the pavement and awaited the inevitable.

As the countdown ran out, the lights inevitably changed and the traffic I'd identified raced towards her as predicted.

Unphased, she slowly set off along Southampton Row in the middle of the lane, so no-one could pass. And I watched her leave the scene, one of the most nonchalant cyclists I ever saw.

She was in fact the third hapless cyclist I'd seen that day, one weaving terrifyingly on a Boris Bike, the second a young boy riding with a crash helmet draped over large headphones, straps dangling in the wind.

Yesterday I was introduced to Tyson from Foffa Bikes, a gentle giant. He told me this story:

When cycling up Bermondsey Street (recently made two-way for cyclists) he had come up against a taxi driver who tried to run him off the road, possibly thinking he was going the wrong way up a one-way street.

He stopped in the middle of the road and refused to let the taxi pass until he got out of the cab and apologised. Like a citizen's arrest. The taxi driver eventually got out. Tyson pointed out the bike and the arrow painted on the road in the direction he was cycling.

He told the passengers he wouldn't move until they got out and took a different cab, on the grounds this one didn't seem to know what he was doing. The brilliant part was, they agreed with him and left.

I love this story, that calm assertiveness after nearly being mown down by a ton of metal. He had also seen a woman cycle across a red light wearing headphones and told her of the man who died there last year doing the same thing. This is a guy with a strong sense of community spirit.

'Change what you can't accept, accept what you can't change and know the difference.'

After the Holborn incident a guy came chasing after me, breathless, from the station. He'd seen what I'd done and wanted to talk to me. It was sort of sweet but a heavy breathing man at midnight on a dark street is not something I stop for, so I ran away.

Still, perhaps I'm not the only one who admires someone who tries to make London a tiny bit better.

Train in Vain

2011-08-14T12:34:00.000+01:00

I’m not a big fan of plans. As someone with an independent and spontaneous spirit, I don’t like the looming deadlines of pre-booking.

I don't want to seem a total flake but advanced booking sometimes feels like Russian roulette.

What if something changes between now and then? Some plans are of course unavoidable and sensible (university places, theatre tickets, weddings) but surely some plans are avoidable.

So it is with train tickets.

Booking holidays can be fraught with decisions. I’m off to Scotland next week to tag along with Jason Woodhouse on a training ride for his round the world trip next year.

I booked my ticket to Dumfries on a bleary Saturday morning after a week of riots and 4am starts for work. Exhausted, I tried to find one as cheap as possible online.

After battling the painfully slow and mildly confusing ticketing process, a panic after the tickets I'd wanted had shot up in price, and then several failures to pay by card, I finally got my booking confirmation. My elated heart sank as I realised I'd bought Advanced tickets for my return, which means I can only travel on the day and time I specified.

How long will I cycle in Scotland? I hoped I could decide. The ticketing system had different ideas though.

And would they change them? No. At least not without penalties and re-bookings at considerably higher prices.

Luckily, I now am an expert in the sticky web of the UK's rail ticket refund system, or lack thereof. No wonder people don't want to use trains. Two words: expensive and draconian.

Perhaps that’s why I like bicycles. I love to float along, gazing at the scenery, stopping where I like to sniff a plant, photograph an animal, poke something or buy chips.

Perhaps because London is a city of deadlines and London life is a series of time constraints, at times I am happy to leave these things behind. Why should every aspect of our lives be mercilessly laid out ahead of us? That seems to me a recipe for the death of adventure.

As someone who has had a long holiday from holidays, I want to enjoy my current adventures with no rigid timetable, without the minute planning of a Rough Guide holiday. A real adventure

Rail travel could be so good: no driving, no traffic jams, just sit back, read and enjoy the view. Imagine arriving at a rail station, choosing your destination and heading off. Follow your nose, sniff the wind and take off. Ramble. No pre-booking, no pressure, no inhumane penalties for being spontaneous.

But of course rail companies have quotas to fill, and are dictated to by men in suits who go to bed dreaming of profit margins.

Rather than try to coax people out of their - let’s face it - spontaneity-loving cars, rail is a transport made stressful and rigid in the name of planning.

So that’s why every train you will ever use in the UK is neither too crowded nor too empty, but just right. Some countries jam their trains so full that no-one can move, some are so expensive and empty you feel the human population has mysteriously died and you’re the only one left who still travels by rail.

But not in the UK.

This is why at rush hour you will always find a seat, and if you’re made to stand in the aisle for any part of your journey the helpful, smiling onboard rail staff (who are always there in abundance, ready to answer your questions and help you with your bike) will send a troupe of penguins through the train performing amusing tricks and bearing refreshments just to make up for the inconvenience.

Boy do I love rail travel.

Yes, good on the rail companies for ensuring no-one ever has the worry of having to change their plans, that if they accidentally click the ‘Advanced’ ticket option they can remain rigid, even if they don’t actually want to, safe in the knowledge the train company expects no less of them.

That is our trade-off for adventure and spontaneity. And boy is it worth it.

How to get your children cycling to school

2011-08-14T11:11:00.000+01:00

My latest Guardian Bike Blog post on how to get kids cycling to school can be found here.

Is it a cyclist's right to take the lane?

2011-08-01T14:20:00.000+01:00

My latest on The Guardian's Bike Blog can be found here.

London's Worst Ten Gyratories

2011-07-26T15:04:00.000+01:00

On The Guardian's Bike Blog here.

Training for the Dunwich Dynamo

2011-07-13T09:10:00.000+01:00

In four days I will know the answer to two questions that have been at the front of my thoughts all month: can I cycle 120 miles in one night, and what’s it going to feel like?

For the past three weeks, training for the Dunwich Dynamo (16th/17th July) has been my reason for most things. If I cycle it is part of my training; if I stay in it is because I need rest, when I go out it is because my muscles are too tired to cycle and frankly I might just get cabin fever if I don’t.

Also, 'Eye of the Tiger' is playing at the back of my mind a lot.

Training for the Dunwich Dynamo has become a pretty serious pursuit, and the reason is this: 120 miles is a long way to cycle, three weeks has been a short time to prepare and I am frightened I won’t make it.

It started in June when, idly turning the pages of my diary, I saw ‘Dunwich Dynamo’ written on 16th July in blue biro. I’d written it down as the last two years I forgot all about it and missed out.
I flicked back to the present diary page and realised that gave me exactly four weeks to prepare.

I started bike shopping, bought a second hand one and again returned it, and a week later I threw in the second hand bike towel altogether and bought yet another new one (see above).

With three weeks until D-Day I donned Lycra for the first time in years that evening and headed for South London.

It was my first longish ride in months and the liberation was incredible.

With a little of my father's Raleigh driver in my blood, after two months of slow bike purgatory the agility and the speed of my new bicycle were thrilling. It felt like having a limb back. With the kind of manoeuvrability I hadn’t experienced in months I felt like a cycling pro and smiled the whole two hours I was out. Maybe not as good as my last two hybrid bikes but definitely good enough.

I realised to my joy that not only did my Lycra match my red and white shiny steed but so did the ‘I heart my bike’ bell a friend bought me that I’d fitted straight away. Yes, I felt good about the new look.

Given the sheer weight of the Dutch bike my endurance capabilities had become practically non-existent, as long trips and Dutch bikes just don’t go together that well. Getting into long distance shape was now my priority.

I have been trying to recall what I learned in my degree about endurance training. Although I got good grades (first class honours, thanks for asking), now it all seems a distance memory.

It didn’t seem worth opening up my textbooks again, so in true Laura fashion I surmised what needed to happen, so:

Gradual, er, building up of training before a tapering phase on the immediate run-up to the event. With rest periods in between.

God, I’m glad of that degree now.

I’ll add that given more than three weeks I probably would have made more scientific plans but this impressionistic approach seemed good enough under the circumstances.

And it’s amazing how quickly your goalposts change. A couple of weeks ago on the Dutch bike Camberwell would have seemed a long way, but now, well, it's like a jaunt to the shops.

Within a week I was cycling to Richmond with a new training buddy and then two days after that to Clapham to visit a friend.

Now these are fair distances across London’s sprawl but pale in comparison with 120 miles across country, with no stops and starts.

A small, frightened part of me wishes for rain this Saturday but daredevil Laura wants to conquer the Dynamo.

Of course, I can make a (sort of) educated guess that my actions have prepared me for Saturday but what I can’t tell is this: What will 120 miles in the saddle feel like?

It may be better not to think of that.

Cycle theft vigilante - in my dreams.

2011-07-05T14:11:00.000+01:00

I seem to sway regularly between saintly cyclist and angry vigilante...it's as if the little devil and the little angel on my shoulders take it in turns, which at least keeps things balanced in the long run.

In the light of multiple bike thefts a part of me wants to be compassionate to humankind and another part wants to bash the bastards’ heads in.

Such is life.

I have been visited in past months by a number of dreams involving my various bikes in different post-theft scenarios. Often I think I see my bike, confront the thief and then realise it isn't mine. I must have been disturbed by recent experiences.

Last night I dreamed I happened upon a group of youngsters selling stolen bikes to passers-by. I approached, I don't know with what intention, but somehow we ended up being friends.

Before I knew it I was at the bike thief ring leader's house and he offered me to stay over on the sofa. I was in a strange city, so that was kind of him. I had to do my best to act calm and not let on I was a repeat victim of fellas just like him.

So good was my cover he eventually came to trust and confide in me and I soon realised he was a lot like I am. Except instead of going to work like I and many people do, he chose to pinch bikes.

Looking around his room I discovered a number of photographs of him, none of them very flattering, wearing different outfits cut out from magazines, ranging from military camouflage to flowery women's dresses, and surrounded by various characters removed from newspapers, a lot of them looking like Madge from Neighbours.

On one table, amid the photo montages, was a map of his 'territory', marked in red.

Looking at this I imagined the headlines if I managed to ensnare him and bring him to justice:

'Major London crime leader captured and brought to justice by female cycle vigilante'

or...

'Dastardly cycle thief caught in one-woman sting operation - The City is safe once more.'

Yes, the glory tasted good.

As he ran me through his strategy for pilfering territory from other gangs I saw the entire scheme was working toward some sort of nest egg for his retirement.

Eventually the dream descended into me losing my car keys and stalking the neighbourhood cats, which led to some awkward exchanges outside neighbours’ front doors (both scenarios being not a million miles from the realms of possibility).

As a whole, though, it made me wonder about seeing things from the other side of the fence.

Was the dream telling me that even if people choose to steal from other people for a living they are still people and not beyond redemption?

Was it my conscience telling me I have forgiven the people who stole my bikes and cost me a small fortune in replacements and new locks?

I’m not sure, but if they imagine themselves in flowery dresses surrounded by Madge from Neighbours maybe it’s possible to have a chuckle at their expense.

And then bash their heads in. I could be wrong, though.

Second hand bike fail #2

2011-06-27T17:23:00.000+01:00

Another week, another bike.

After deciding last week I want to do the Dunwich Dynamo on 16th/17th July, and not wanting to do it riding a ton of Dutch steel I realised the time for a new steed is now.

Wasting no time I scoured second hand bike sites for one that 1) wasn't stolen 2) was the type I wanted (i.e. a semi-decent racer or hybrid) 3) was my size and 4) was close to home (see how I'm learning).

I came across a Marin hybrid, listed as 'perfect' and almost new. It looked pretty perfect. Not only did its diligent owner list every part on it (many of which could have been in Cantonese) but he had the receipt and the bike had hardly been ridden in its nine months of ownership. Bingo.

When we spoke on the phone he didn't know the frame size and endearingly told me it was about 1.5 metres long. I explained that wasn't it and he promised to look when he was home.

I received a text the next day telling me it was my size and inviting me to view the bike, so I arranged an after-work meet up at his place.

This person, the most trusting of souls, had put his address on the advert (not advisable) but I took directions and headed there straight from work.

I called him from outside his student accommodation, and told him I wouldn't come in, he would have to come out, which is advisable policy. He came down and we went into the garage where the bike was stored in two-tier racks.

It looked fine, obviously not the spec I was used to, the handle grips and saddle had a bit of a cheap feel but I didn't want another thief magnet and it seemed a decent enough bike.

I rode it and it was a good size, so I haggled him down a bit (a speciality of mine) and told him I'd take it. The following day was payday so we agreed I would come back atop a Boris Bike and buy it for cash then.

For some reason I ignored the tiny bit of play in the headset area, which made a clicking sound when rattled.

The next day, excited at the prospect of finally having a bike which wouldn't break my knees, I ran to the nearest cycle shop at lunch. It wasn't very near at all but I was determined. I wanted strong front and rear lights for the Dunwich Dynamo and got some blinding ones in the sale.

After work, I scurried for the nearest Boris Bikes and after a brief key fail, telling a friendly suited man at the docking station this was the last time I’d need to use one for a while, I sped East.

Back at the student digs I took the bike for one final spin, took receipts and he told me which shop the warranty was valid in. I decided to ride there straight away to adjust the saddle and handlebars.

The shop was in a state of post-work chaos as Londoners brought and collected bikes and the staff attempted to cope. Seizing the initiative I picked some tools off a shelf to adjust things myself. Afterwards, there was a rattle in the headset area. In fact it was a wobble. I discovered I had undone the nuts in the wrong order, and so the handlebars’ stem wasn’t all the way down on its washers.

Easily mended, or so I thought, I went outside with my newly-purchased Alan Keys and set about putting the lights on. With batteries, fittings and lights stuffed in all my pockets and feeling like bike mechanic extraordinaire, on the rainy pavement I quickly fitted the front light bracket.

Wobbling the handlebars to check it was on firmly I noticed the rattling was still there.

It may not surprise you to learn the news was bad. After much adjustments and a test ride the helpful bike shop man told me either a headset bearing had gone or one of the forks was cracked.

It wasn’t safe to ride and as a second hand buyer I wasn’t covered by the warranty, but as he knew my seller and could see the bike had hardly been ridden it was likely a fault from the factory.

We wouldn’t know until Monday when the head mechanical honcho was in. I decided then and there to call my seller with the bad news. I told him I wasn’t willing to risk a big bill for this and he agreed that I would bring it back.

I cycled back with trepidation, avoiding any bumps that would finish off whatever was wrong with the bike and send me into a sudden faceplant situation and thankfully made it without alarm.

An honest guy, and as baffled as me, to his credit he refunded my money and told me if it could be fixed he’d call me on Monday.

By that point, an hour late for meeting my friend, I agreed and left with my money.

So I think that tops my record of short-lived bicycle ownership by a good two days, but at least this calamity was easily resolved.

The lesson here is: take someone knowledgeable with you to test a bike because though your seller may be honest, things can go seriously wrong with even 'perfect' second hand bikes.

Anyway, I decided the next day enough is enough: I am buying a new bike.

How not to buy a reconditioned bike, part three

2011-06-24T08:01:00.000+01:00

So, here we are to complete my 'reconditioned bicycle' tale.

With a sense of resigned doom I had mounted the bike on a fine early evening at St Pancras. Riding across London mumbling to myself all the way, I felt a lot like a myopic sailor on an unwieldy boat amid an angry sea.

I teetered and wobbled, unable to see too well over my shoulder, on account of my head being in a funny position. Oh well, what I don’t know won’t hurt me, I conceded.

My rucksack, of a reasonable design in any normal situation, now weighed down on my shoulders under a hefty lock, bottled water and other travelling necessities. My shoulders wouldn’t have minded had they not been stretched out beyond their normal range of movement, reaching for distant handlebars.

The tightness in my shoulders upon arriving home was only balanced by the aching in the small of my back and random other upper body and leg pains that ensued for the next few days.

I brought the bike inside my tiny flat, afraid of further hallway theft, and sat there exhausted, trying not to look at it.

After a few brief hours of anger and disappointment and a few more of feeling like a prize idiot, I realised something must be done to remedy the situation.

I wasted no time in bringing my kill to my trusty local bike shop. I recounted there with some animation my tale of woe and related the impossibility that I should chance upon a bike maker with so little understanding of the needs of the cyclist.

I was told it happens all too often: bike shop owners talk the talk and before you know it you are suckered in, them probably convincing themselves as much as you they are doing a good job.

Such was the way I discovered this truth that, although I knew to be gospel in the car mechanics trade, it didn’t transfer in my mind to bike mechanics.

Back at my bike shop we discussed moving the saddle forward (which was easy) and installing an upright seat post as opposed to one which sloped back in line with the frame to make the reach shorter.

But talk of different handlebars and brakes spelled the final straw.

The question was not whether to get rid of this bike but how. It barely seemed worth selling it, given the brakes weren’t properly fitted, so the only option was to do that very un-British thing: complain and send it back.

I steeled myself for the call on Monday lunchtime. I explained in no uncertain terms the bike was totally unsuited to its purpose and he would have to take it back. He conceded, to my relief, and we arranged terms. All I had to do now was get it back to Bristol.

Now, I’m sure I could take a bike apart over a period of hours, fumbling with instructions and breaking my hands, but I didn’t fancy that. So I asked around my friends until Mike from the London Cycling Campaign came to my rescue. I cycled down to Southwark in two legs, stopping for a leisurely coffee with a friend on the way to free up my shoulder muscles.

I considered getting a taxi for the second leg but, full of caffeine with the world at my feet, forging pluckily down Bishopsgate I decided I could probably make it without crashing.

Arriving at my destination, one final photo op courtesy of some kindly van drivers was the first and last image of me with ‘the bike that wasn’t meant to be.’

I walked to the nearest bike shop for a bike box and Mike (my hero) and I set about unscrewing and pulling things off the bike, wrapping pedals and things in old jiffy envelopes.

After some logistical challenges relating to the relative size of box and bike, we succeeded in getting the thing in there. I left him with courier money and went for the nearest Boris Bike station feeling light, if a little nostalgic.

A few days later the bike shop man called me up to say he received the bike but where were the pedals?

Where are the pedals?

The answer is: who knows.

The office is such a hive of activity with some of the busiest people I know, with people coming in and out with campaign stuff all the time. They could have been filed away anywhere. Two phone calls to the office and kindly people looking everywhere for me has yielded no results.

I was sure they were in the box, wrapped up in their own jiffy envelope, but what can be done? They may turn up in time but as I’ve come to say: the course of my cycling journey never did run smooth.

A brief taxonomy of Londoners, and the importance of being kind

2011-06-22T11:40:00.000+01:00

People on bikes, people in cars, taxis, lorries and low flying aircraft. You're dodging, you're ducking, and you're weighing up the risk-to-benefit ratio of squeezing through improbable spaces down the inside of buses, you naughty cyclist, you.

Yes, London is a tricky place to manoeuvre for everybody involved. It's enough to test the patience of something very patient like, say, a sloth. Even sloths would be miffed in rush hour.

But we all try to be nice even when we can't do what we want, how we want it and at the exact moment of our choosing. At least I hope we do. Elbow them out the way, give them the evil eye, or tip your hat at them and offer them a hearty hello, whatever you do with other Londoners, there's no getting away from it:

They are always there.

That's city life for us, and we've developed interesting ways of dealing with it. Among the many coping mechanisms, here are some of my favourites:

Aggression: perhaps a little bland given its prevalence, and not actually my favourite at all, but let’s get it out of the way now.

Employed by everyone at some point, fear (someone nearly crashed into you), a sense of helplessness (some idiot with myopia is blocking your lane for no reason) and sometimes the belief it is better to be the aggressor than the aggressee (if that's even a word), are all common denominators. Some choose to voice this loudly or, as we Brits do so well, repress the rage. Both have a tendency to raise blood pressure significantly.

Sarcasm: Only employed by a select few, giving it an admirable novelty value when executed with skill. Perhaps a sign of those seasoned Londoners who have reached rage nirvana and ascended to the next level of enlightenment. The slow clap, the biting one-liner and the ‘call me’ signal are key tools of the sarcastic. Has a tendency to cause anger if executed badly.

Blind faith: Many, often pedestrians, have an admirable faith in the kindness of human nature. The blind faith crew are among my favourites of London’s street life, as they keep London travel interesting and lively, ensuring people don’t doze off at the handlebars/wheel/cockpit.

Cars can get in the way by taking up an awful lot of space without actually going anywhere and these brave souls are reclaiming some of that space. They step out at surprise intervals. They cycle in the middle of the road and turn suddenly without indicating. They silently undertake. They invigorate the lives of others with a healthy dose of fright with the mantra: There’s nothing like a good scare to really make you feel alive.

Similar to...

What you don't know won't hurt you: Employed by cyclists who like to sit so far ahead of the lights they can’t see them change.

No doubt they have seen someone else doing it, admired their dash and confidence and thought: that is the riding style for me. Which is all very well until the lights change and you're left sitting there as children and old ladies overtake you at a sprint. They either never heard of the Highway Code, or used it as roach paper during a misspent youth.

Submission: Many cyclists hold the belief that cyclists are the second class citizens of the road. This is crap. Much as that aggressive cab driver may want you to ride in the gutter, for God's sake don't. The kerb is home to broken glass, potholes and parked cars. Shy riders: do not ride within a door's width of parked cars. They can and will open suddenly and without notice, and collisions hurt.

Given the wealth of alternative options, including kindness, generosity and understanding, Londoners don't need to be aggressive. Assertive, yes, but there are a lot of ways of asserting yourself in positive ways. Take up some space, be demonstrative, and other road users will generally give you space. Look after yourself, but at the same time, look after others. Smile a bit, let someone out, look out for the blind faithers, a polite bell ring, an encouraging wave across the road, and bring some sweetness to someone's day. Why not?

If someone is having a bad day or displaying any of the undesirable traits above, be kind. If we admit it we’ve all been there at some time, and by understanding the taxonomy of Londoners and attempting to spread sweetness and light we can help make the capital a nicer place.

How not to buy a reconditioned bike, part two

2011-06-14T15:04:00.000+01:00

Continuing with last week’s story...

A number of weeks elapsed before I went back to Bristol to retrieve my ‘custom’ bike. I was so excited to finally be on the threshold of having a bike made just for me that I got up early and made sandwiches.

I arrived at Paddington 20 minutes early, which is kind of a record for me.

I soon discovered my 10 o'clock train was cancelled due to theft of signalling copper.

So I waited.

The 10.30 still hadn't arrived by 11, at which point the station was full to the brim with waiting people, almost every train cancelled or delayed. I gave up for the sake of my health and sat in a park for an hour, idly calling friends.

At 12 o’clock I decided to give it one last stab and to my surprise made the 12.30 train, where despite what the first train assistant told me, my ticket was still valid (thanks for that, train man, who put you in charge of Paddington’s not-so-aptly-named ‘Information Desk?’).

After a long conversation with a charming mother and daughter as we ate our packed lunches on the train, we parted ways and I walked from the station to St Werburghs, my destination.

At a glance, the bike was all I had dreamed: beautiful blue with white handle tape and a white saddle, glistening in the murky workshop. The frame looked long but I didn't let doubt shadow this bright day.

Hopping on though, the bike felt pretty alien, with my head in a disconcertingly low position. I attributed this to riding a Dutch bike for two months, but I soon realised the brakes were nigh impossible to operate and way too big a stretch for my hands to work properly.

I asked the guy to change the brakes and went to the St Werburghs City Farm to scratch piglets and drink tea, and then I came back.

The new brakes still wouldn't operate from the top of the drop bars. Not unless I moved my hands entirely off the bars and, hands in fists in mid air, yanked upwards for all I was worth. Then the bike ground to a gradual stop.

I didn’t realise at the time, but in most circles these are known as ‘suicide brakes’. I was told they were for ‘slowing down’ and not ‘stopping,’ to which I replied:

'What happens in an emergency, then?'

I was shown a method where, holding on to one of the ‘suicide brakes’, you move the other hand down to the front of the lever and brake with that. I imagined how fast one could execute this procedure at speed in a life or death situation and concluded this:

Not very quickly at all.

By now it was almost closing time. Bike shop man promised me he'd get me new brakes for the next time I was in and despite knowing my visits to Bristol are about as frequent as my visits to, say, Stevenage, for some reason I left with the bike.

On the road it was terrifying, twitchy and very difficult to manoeuvre. For the first time in years I felt like a novice and, cycling off in circles, following bike shop man’s bad directions I told myself a number of times: 'You're going to die on this bike.'

Still, with a plucky spirit I persevered, riding on some of the pavements to avoid death on Bristol’s urban motorways, unconvinced by the protection the red painted cycle lanes would afford.

Nonetheless I felt proud to be cycling such a beautiful bike, even if illicitly on the pavement and scared witless. Still, I got a lot of what I imagined were admiring stares.

At the train I locked the bike in the designated carriage and awaited our arrival in London with trepidation at the thought of crossing the city on a twitchy bike with faulty brakes.

As I disembarked at Paddington, I noticed another bike with drop handlebars in the bike carriage. The owner appeared and so I quizzed him on his braking system.

The first thing I noticed was his brakes looked operable, where mine went against all the principles of levers, in that they snuggled up against the leverage point (the handlebars), turning them into something entirely unworkable.

My heart sank as he skipped this problem and went straight for the kill:

‘Well, for a start that frame is way too big for you.’

On inspection it was true, my frame was the same size as his, he being a fairly tall young man and I not so tall by quite a stretch. We stood there exclaiming how odd it was that someone would build a bike at my request that was intended for someone a lot larger. Suddenly all my manoeuvring problems made sense.

I realised at this point the bike in front of me, beautiful though it was, represented a most terrible mistake.

How not to buy a reconditioned bike, part one

2011-06-07T12:56:00.000+01:00

In the list of things you shouldn't do when buying a reconditioned bike, in a frivolous mood I thought I'd give a few a go and, lucky reader, I am now sharing my experiences with you.

The first thing when considering a custom bike is to try and buy local.

That is not to say go to your nearest bike shop, albeit 'Bodges R Us,' and ask for that rusty frame in the corner to become your next mode of transport. If you are going to buy something which may at some point in the future need alterations, tweaks or indeed returning, then a travelling distance of less than an hour on affordable public transport is preferable to a cross-country jaunt atop a camel.

Number two on the list is to know and trust the person building your custom machine for you, and understand their capabilities, or incapabilities. Any old greasy-handed mechanic can string together some bicycle parts but the subtleties of individual body types and riding styles are elusive and often only evident upon climbing on the thing and going for a spin.

Note- none of these subtleties will come to the fore if there are no wheels, handlebars or a saddle on the bike when you try it out for size (see above picture).

On a bare bike frame, for all intents and purposes, you could be sat atop a country stile in sunny pastures surveying a picturesque view of trees and shady copses. As with a fence, you may like sitting there for a moment but you may not necessarily want to take the fence away and try riding it any distance through the urban jungle.

The importance of these and many other points became evident when I decided on a whim to purchase a bike in Bristol from a guy I don't know, recommended by a friend who apparently doesn't know him that well, either.

While visiting the city in April, having just lost my expensive hybrid bike to theft (again), I asked a local friend where I may be able to get a nice steel-framed racer. I had a hankering after something more aesthetically pleasing than my last bike, whom I had come to affectionately call Darth Vader.

So I was driven to the shop, a small affair run by a team of two, given the owner's name, and left to my own devices. Full of unattractive second hand bikes, I looked around in dismay and in the absence of any decent racers the shop owner offered to build me a bike.

This seemed an attractive prospect so we headed out to the back yard and, digging through the heap of bike skeletons, I saw a beautiful Carlton frame (see above). It was orange like a bumper car with white on green writing in a beautiful serif caps font spelling out 'Carlton' and 'Ten'. I swooped on it like a magpie on tinfoil, and set my heart on making it my bike.

Bit by bit we spent the next hour and a half choosing parts, before I parted with half of its total value, reasonable but not cheap, and headed back to London.

When the excitement had died down I took stock of the bike's dimensions and remembered its frame reached the top of my leg without any tyres on the wheels. Realised the bike would be too big for me I called the shop to say I needed a smaller one.

Alarm bells should ring when you have to tell your 'expert' the thing he chose for you is unsuitable. Needless to say they didn't ring for me. All I heard were the sweet sounds of distant bicycle bells.

So the colour of my new resprayed bike was chosen via an online swatch and I awaited the completion of my dream bike.

The saga continues...

Quiet is the New Loud

2011-06-02T21:44:00.000+01:00

Time was when a noisy sound system was something to impress. Maybe it was the fact I was a teenager, maybe it was because I lived in Taunton and then Swansea, and these are places of many boy racers. Either way, back in the '90s a decent amp under your passenger seat and a bass bin in the boot was the prestige transport toolkit for the young.

Of course there are still Noisy Neds everywhere with sound systems that rattle your windows. I'm sure many of these will need ear trumpets at a premature age but tell them and they won't care.

Cycling back from work today, minding my own business at the traffic lights, I was suddenly alarmed at the sound coming from the engine of a large 4x4. Its driver was attempting to heave its massive bulk forward a couple of yards in a traffic queue.

I gave him my askance look; I'm trying not to, but this time I couldn't help it.

Today I had suddenly became aware of the almost organic nature of cyclists in traffic, as we moved in quiet, fluid formation around one another. Weaving between and alongside other vehicles, overtaking and then catching each other up again like some bionic shoal, this massive 4x4 and its forced, wasteful noise seemed so uncouth.

Travelling ahead of me was a girl on a bike which was covered in stickers all about Africa. One said simply: 'I love Africa', another: 'Nobody's in a hurry in Africa' with little African flag stickers on her rear forks.

This fascinated me. There was something so endearing and innocent about this love of a faraway place and its gentle existence. The Porche Cayenne next to me seemed so outmoded, so unfriendly in comparison.

It is wonderful to me, though still in my 20s, to see so many other young people enjoying cycling. Every day I cycle I am amazed at the sheer numbers of young Londoners getting about by bike.

For all their size and bluster the gas guzzlers are not faster: they end up behind the cyclists at every light before they are left behind in the traffic altogether.

I can't help looking at London's fleet of oversized cars and thinking: 'This is no vehicle for a modern city.' It is unsuited to urban life in every way, from its unnecessary size to its inefficiency and its unfriendliness to the safety and wellbeing of other road users.

Seeing the young generation moving silently (aside from the odd rattle and squeak) through the city, happier, healthier and alive to their surroundings, I look at so-called sports utility vehicles and hope we can start to leave the loud in the past.

Poirot for bicycles, part three: Back From The Dead

2011-05-30T12:52:00.000+01:00

For a moment I felt like I'd seen a ghost. When you resign yourself to losing something it takes a moment to register when that thing appears in front of you. Riding back from my final rehearsal before this week's London Swing Festival and The Competition I saw a blue Trek, parked up on the bike racks at the top of Broadway Market.

I've been trying to stop myself from checking out every bike that passes me, but a part of me stubbornly believes one day I will see my stolen bikes. I realise of course it is unhealthy to always be suspicious, and make a conscious effort not to look, not to torture myself.

But it seemed too much of a coincidence to see an unusual bike just like my old one just the other end of the same park I met the seller with my stolen bike in October.

A gang of dubious characters are always there at weekends with six or seven second-hand bikes, heckling passers-by to buy one. Most people believe these were, at some point in the recent past, other people's bikes. People who didn't necessarily choose to pass them on to new owners.

The other, older man who sells bikes on the grass at the entrance to Broadway Market is not in this number and legitimately sources bikes from second hand sales, makes some repairs and them sells them on.

Seeing the electric blue frame there, with Trek emblazoned across it in black I did a double-take. I almost left it but then turned the Dutch bike around to take a second look. I stopped next to the bike rack and there it was, what looked like my trusty old companion, back from the dead.

I examined the bike, while the dodgy guys offered to sell me one. But not this one. Apparently this particular one belonged to a 'client' and was not for sale. Sure enough, though, all the parts were on there, the same as mine.

Trying to look nonchalant I cycled round the corner and called my friend Mike from the LCC for advice. He called the police for me.

Meanwhile, I rushed home to dig out my old skewer key for the wheels, the only thing that would prove the bike was mine. I'd kept it in a box in the hope that one day I would be able to use it again.

I returned to the scene, waiting a short distance away on a bench, trying to look casual but unable to sit down. I'd scraped my ankle in my panic to get back but I couldn't even feel that now.

I watched the bike guys from a safe distance; there were only two now, where there had been three or four.

One left and then returned and for a moment I was tempted to lock that bike with my own d-lock until I could do something useful. I imagined all sorts of trouble with these people though and was nowhere near brave or stupid enough to get involved on my own.

Mike had told me the police sounded like they were coming but I wasn't sure and my phone had just gone flat. I tried to call the police with the last of my battery but there was no answer, so all there was left to do was wait.

The Police arrived about five minutes later; I saw their car pull up at the top of the market and headed towards them. I cycled round to the window of the car and introduced myself to a male and female officer. I indicated which was my bike and they got out to look at it.

Shaking, I stood by the police car and watched from the corner of my eye as more of the dodgy guys appeared around the police, seemingly from nowhere.

I gave the female officer my skewer key and told her how it worked but after a moment of trying to use it she beckoned me over. I tried and to my disapointment the skewer locks were diferent. I felt like an idiot and knew there was no way I would get my bike back without a key that fitted; I never wrote down the frame number which was the one thing that makes a bike traceable.

The dodgy men were making a fuss about being accused of bike theft and asking me questions about the bike. 'Was this part of the gear shifter broken off?' 'No,' and how funny they should ask that, given they know that's the only distingushing feature they're probably repsonsible for.

One cyclist shouted at us: 'They're all stolen!' as he passed into London Fields. My inquisitor replied: 'Shut your mouth or I'll steal yours!'

This right in front of the police. We exchanged a knowing glance.

In the end there was nothing we could do. The police noted the frame number and had to head off; the frame wasn't reported as stolen. The male officer told me they stop people all the time with expensive bikes and in most cases the frame numbers are never on their database because like me, no-one writes theirs down, even if the theft is reported.

I think if there were a Poirot for bikes, even he would find it hard to prove anything without a frame number: to the casual viewer all bikes of the same model are the same bike. Just imagine if cars didn't have number plates and chassis numbers: one car is identical to the next. They are made from the same moulds, the same materials and unidentifiable to the others off the production line. Without number plates, people would never be able to keep hold of their cars.

As soon as I got home I shelved all other plans and set about registering my new bike with Bike Revolution and Bike Register, and sticking security tags on it.

That is the last and only time I will put myself in the avoidable situation of having my stolen property in front of me and being unable to get it back.

Cyclists: write down your frame number (usually located under the crank, where the pedals are), and register your bikes with Bike Register. Without this, your bike is just another metal frame with two wheels and a saddle.

Ants are amazing

2011-05-24T12:28:00.000+01:00

There have been ants living in my fridge since Thursday.

They came in with my vegetable box. When I got home, I brought it inside and started ferreting about in it to see what wonders the box beheld, when i saw a whole mass of ants scurrying all over the lettuce and spring onions.

I quickly removed all vegetables and then left the anty box upside down outside the front door.

Upon removing the box of strawberries from the fridge later that day I discovered a major ant lair of about twenty individuals and quickly set about tipping them into my window box.

As I watched them all dashing about left and right trying to find an ant trail they could follow, I wondered what becomes of ants that are separated from their ant colonies.

Do they find themselves free of daily manual labour and rejoice? Do they gather up and form their own splinter colonies involving late night parties and a life of carefree batchelordom? Or do they crave the one-ness of their ant home, the comfort of being one of millions?

Whether these ants came from outside my house or from a farm in Devon is unclear, as the box waits each week on my doorstep until I get home. There was plenty of time for keen ants to latch onto the strawberry supply.

As I watched them wandering about I remembered the bitter battle between two ants when as a child I released one ant near the territory of another. I hoped a similar fate didn't await these ants. Perhaps they would be eaten by spiders instead.

Ather loosing the ants I transfered the strawberries to tupperware to keep them fresh. Sitting here a moment ago munching on my first strawberries of the year I felt a tickle on my hand.

I looked down and saw an ant.

I looked in the strawberries and saw about five more, frantically dashing about on my strawberries. After a second ant amnesty, blowing each ant into my lavender plants I wondered what it is like for an ant to live for five days in a fridge.

As soon as they felt the warm air when the tupperware lid was lifted the ants were probably compelled to mobilise and find somewhere more conducive to life.

Then I wondered briefly if I had eaten one by accident.

Boris Bike Fail

2011-05-16T20:14:00.000+01:00

If there is a quota for frustrating transport situations in life I am happy to announce I have achieved it early and can now look forward to a life of smooth sailing.

Yes, through the failures that have beset me recently I am now bound along the path to transport utopia.

In the last few weeks, since losing another bike, my journeys to work have been a tale of misery, beset by woe and punctuated with the painful frustration of all my plans.

It seems that every time I try to hire a Boris Bike (aka Barclays Cycle Hire bike) I am treated by the machines as a criminal who must not under any circumstances be allowed a bicycle. Or at least they will make it so unreliable for me that I abandon any idea of using them.

This is a cunning plan, but fails to account for my dogged determination, or possibly my gluttony for punishment.

After months of bikes working for me and then not working, calling the people at TfL only seems to compound any frustration. I wait for the endless, inescapable explanations for first time users, for casual usage and anyone wanting to transport a family of anteaters across London on a Thursday by bike.

After having my patience tested beyond its limits I’ve come to a point of Zen-like resignation when calling Boris. If by Zen we understand someone on whose forehead you could fry an egg in less than a minute and who would happily throttle another human given half the chance.

Because I’m British, however, a casual observer would just see a woman whose eyes were curiously fixated on a point mid-air above their head.

Returning to a state of calm an hour or so after the peak of Bike Rage following attempted use of the bikes, it is curious to look back and imagine the torment of my soul only hours earlier.

There’s something awful about relying on an unreliable system. Don’t get me wrong, I love public transport, but in London, bus journeys are infinitely slower and harder to predict than a bike ride, which takes an amount of time proportional to your effort.

On a bus, on the other hand, the more frustrated you become, the slower it goes.

I have now got Boris on speed dial. I phone him when my blood pressure starts to fall. Just call: 1-800-why-isn’t-my-flipping-key-working-again?

On the line I often hear the soothing tones of: ‘We’re having a lot of problems today,’ and ‘I’m really very sorry.’ These are voices of uncertainty and abject apology.

Last week my bike failed to dock, I called up at 8.45am and spoke to Spotty Herbert who promised me he’d fix it. When I called at 5pm when my key wouldn’t work, I discovered Herbert hadn’t fixed it and had instead gone off to make himself a nice boiled egg and a relaxing cup of Earl Grey in the office kitchen.

As I wandered the streets in despair that night while my key was ‘fixed’, unable to face the tube, I began thinking all sorts of depressing thoughts:

‘My bike has been stolen and now I’m at the mercy of a whimsical cycle hire system that locks me out at regular intervals and doesn’t even go near my house.

‘First thieves steal all my bikes, and now this. London hates me and doesn’t want me to cycle,’ I mused.

On different occasions of Boris Bike Fail, a new route home led me to an art gallery here or a long, thoughtful stroll. there. One such peramble through Soho led me to an enlightened frame of mind, which got me thinking of the poem about Albert and the Lion after the lion eats Albert:

“And the Magistrate gave his opinion
That no-one was really to blame
And he said that he hoped the Ramsbottoms
Would have further sons to their name.

“At that mother got proper blazin’
‘And thank you sir kindly’ said she
What waste all our lives raising children?
To feed ruddy lions, not me!”

Of course my version ended:

What waste all my money on bicycles?
To feed bloody thieves, not me!

Of course, there will be further bicycles.

Poetic Graffiti from Brick Lane

2011-05-10T18:55:00.000+01:00

Two different bits of graffiti spotted in Cheshire Street, near Brick Lane, recently. Graffiti used for very different purposes!

A thank you...

And to big-up 4x4s. Random.

It says:

To live in London is a bore
Unless you drive a 4x4
The roads in London are a task
Of course I need a Jeep, why ask?

I would say:

Cycling all over London
Keeps me fit and young
Anyone who doesn't ride a bike
Bloody well should, it's fun.

If you like these, maybe you will love Street Poetry.

Poirot for bicycles, part two: Miss Marple

2011-05-10T15:29:00.000+01:00

There’s something incredibly satisfying about using something old, particularly when that something is quirky, rickety or slightly dangerous. That sense of accomplishment you achieve is unrivalled by most modern contraptions. Except of course step ladders, which are always frightening.

In a world where pretty much everything is safe and, to a degree predictable, something that offers you a choice of concentration or mortal injury is thrilling. If you can master such a thing, then you are king of the world, I always think.

Growing up on a Somerset smallholding, with a father who threw nothing away in case it was one day useful, I was fortunate enough to use my logic regularly contriving contraptions out of bits and pieces.

Our garden and driveway, rambling unkempt sections of hillside, were treasure troves of things that needed mending, or more likely were long past repair. Wherever little hands foraged was something of interest, mingled with bits of nature from the surrounding forest or one of our numerous animals. I was often outdoors and never bored.

Thanks to this semi-wild early existence, I still love nothing more than a good problem solving exercise when something needs a bit of jimmying, some coaxing and perhaps a strategically-placed kick to get it working.

Since losing my bike, my incomparably generous neighbours have loaned me their old Dutch bike, a large, black thing which has languished in the hallway, all but unused, for the past three years. It has pedal brakes, an additional ceremonial back brake and a squiffy front wheel (it is pictured, above, from this weekend, when I carried my new home-made bird box home on it).

The first time I hopped on it the tyres were too flat and the risk of pinch punctures too great to ride to the bike shop, so I pushed it there. Manoeuvring it along the pavement by its massive handlebars I guessed its top speed when going downhill with a good wind behind it to be that of, say, a hedgehog pushing a large wheelbarrow.

I couldn’t wait to get the thing working and give it a try.

At the bike shop I went through the necessary explanations and admitted to having another bike stolen, hence the retro wheels, then I set to work on the tyres. The old Woods Valves seemed to require setting aside the upright pump and, using a hand pump, a prayer and all one’s strength, forcing air through a little rubber tube into a massive inner tube which had exactly no air pressure in it.

I didn’t want to ask for help: I know working in a bike shop involves assisting hapless damsels eight hours a day and I didn’t want to be one more. After five minutes on the front tyre, however, and a red face and aching hand, the shop assistant took pity on me and had a go. At which point we realised that the upright pump would work after all.

Happily inflated, I headed off. I was told to go carefully by a mechanic with a mildly concerned look on his face.

But it was brilliant. Hopping on outside the shop on Mare Street I tried its forward movement and the novelty brake pedals. One made me go, the other made me slow. Perfect.

Where my previous shiny bike was nicknamed Darth Vader, I decided this one was more like Miss Marple; and what a genteel way to travel.

Sitting upright on a bike, I felt somewhere between the vicar and royalty. After the initial exertion to get started it felt surprisingly easy, like pedalling along in a wing-backed chair at Grandpa’s house. All that was needed was a cup holder for some tea, and the picture would have been complete.

So for the last couple of weeks I can cycle anywhere my stamina and strength will allow me to go. And this contraption requires no small amount of both.

On the first weekend we covered several miles along the canal together, me and Miss Marple. Pedalling along in the sunshine, watching the scenery go by, this position gave me a whole new perspective on the world.

She also requires a level of heightened alertness as with the best will in the world, emergency stops isn’t in her vocabulary. She employs more the kind of urgency you’d need if you’ve just unwittingly passed the cake shop before you realise you needed to stock up on supplies: ‘I waaannnt too sttoppp noooowwww,’ you might be heard saying.

Still with a bit of concentration, some impressive manoeuvring feats can still be accomplished. The handles are the shape of a massive, shallow ‘u’, so your elbows are comfortably at your side and there is almost no pressure on your hands. The compromise comes on the corners though, and an acute turn involves the meeting of handlebars and one knee.

That Sunday I managed to hi-five about 15 friends in the park, corralling them into a great semi-circle and, with one hand extended in the customary position, smacking palms with each in one long semi-circle of joy. It was very satisfying.

Spurred on by these successes, last weekend there was a swing dance exchange on and conscious of lacking decent brakes or any lights I used journey planner to navigate the safest and quietest route to St Pancras International Station via London's back streets.

I noted my directions in a series of rights and lefts on a piece of paper stored in my belt and set off.

This turned out to be one of my best London rides: the night was cool but not cold, Will and Kate had just got married and everyone was out in the street in a spirit of merriment.

Turning off Amhurst Road, busy with an exuberant street party and late night families enjoying themselves, I headed straight into unchartered territory. Crossing Kingsland Road it felt like I was on a secret mission as, avoiding the main roads, I zig-zagged my way across Balls Pond Road before slipping into the wide, dark and secretive streets of De Beauvoir Town.

With barely any cars about I swooped along the street, banking sharply right onto Northchurch Road and managing a u-turn on Essex Road after missing my turning.

As I pottered through Canonbury and along the New River I was pretty much in a state of cycling zen, aware of all the night time smells and sounds on my all-but-deserted route. Some revellers wished me a happy wedding day as I crossed Canonbury Road and to my satisfaction I cycled through a zigzag 'pedestrians-only' fence to Upper Street without putting my feet down or running anyone over.

I only joined the faster traffic very close to my destination and though I was worried, Miss Marple proved to be a fast mover when needed and I found my destination in one piece, having caught the slow cycling bug. No stress about being late, just the journey.

Although it was tiring on the hills coming home (requiring me to lean right forward, grabbing onto the middle of the handlebars to push up the hills with all the strength in my legs) I repeated my nocturnal journey the following night. It felt like the equivalent of a Harry Potter bike ride, full of old-world mystery where a set of oddball wizards may pop out at any moment and invite you in for cake.

This is the way to travel, I decided; if not all the time, then at least on weekends. To spend a bit longer travelling is a joy, enjoying a novelty view of the world from an armchair on wheels and savouring all London has to offer in slow motion. This will be particularly rewarding on the warm summer nights ahead, and another excuse, if I ever needed one, of having more than one bike.

One for speed and one for cruising? Sounds alright by me, especially if one of them reminds me of an old item of furniture. Maybe I found the right murder mystery detective after all.

Preview for the Royal Alleycat Treasure Hunt

2011-05-02T17:19:00.000+01:00

My preview for the Londonist can be viewed here:

Poirot for bicycles, part one: The Neighbours

2011-04-19T14:17:00.000+01:00

When something is there one moment and gone the next, it leads to inevitable questions about what happened between the time it was there and the time it no longer was.

This is what happened to me when I lost yet another bicycle; the third stolen since living in London and the second taken from my home.

Disillusioned by the ability of the police to retrieve stolen cycles, I would like to call upon a Poirot figure with a moustache and plus fours to come forward and take up the mantle of cycle detective in East London.

His/her first task: to decipher the clues that follow.

I came home from work at 18.00 on Tuesday 5th April. At about 20.00 I was halfway through dinner when suddenly distracted by wondering where the cat was. I wandered out into the communal hall and came face to face with the empty space where my bike used to be.

As everything else around me seemed to be normal, it was a confusing conundrum. It reminded me of a game I played at a great aunt’s house as a child, where you fill a tray with nick knacks, everyone covers their eyes, then someone takes something away. It was always the little items which were noticed missing first, as the most obvious were almost too obvious to be taken.

That was how it was with my bike. I looked around me: on the ground floor the three old rickety bikes still stood in place as they always had. In order to move my bike someone would have had to come upstairs, through a doorway to the first floor landing and round a corner; it was well hidden from view of the front door. The more I stood there surveying the situation, the more improbable it seemed.

I definitely recalled reaching round my bike’s overly wide handlebars, Specialized’s trademark, to put down the cat food in the hall that morning for my roaming cat, who often visits the neighbours’ flats when I’m out. When I got home at six I picked up the bowls, brought them in from the communal hallway and refilled them with food. I hadn’t noticed the bike missing then.

After a gruelling weekend of dancing, tired legs had urged me to save my energies and get the bus to work and cycle part way home on a Boris Bike. Unfortunately and slightly ironically my bike would have been safer that day locked up in Soho than with its feet up at home.

Returning from my thoughts I knocked on the door of the neighbour who shared the same floor as me, which opened directly onto the scene of the crime.

A shaggy-haired man in his mid-thirties appeared with a quizzical look.

‘My bike’s gone,’ I said with a wince. ‘Did you see anything?’

He hadn’t. He is a librarian it turns out, and was amid the books all day. More sensible or cautious than me, he informed me his bike was always stowed safely in his flat.

The man, who introduced himself as Andy, began to tell me about the time several years ago when he had a bike stolen from a lamp post. Staring at the empty space in the hall I failed to muster up much sympathy for this old wound I had inadvertently reopened, and I made vague sympathetic noises, while calculating I had now lost more than £1200 in bikes in five months.

As he forged on, describing the way his D-lock had been bent out of shape on one day and the next broken entirely, I started fidgeting. I had sleuthing to do, more doors to knock on and no time to waste. The crime was still fresh and I wanted answers.

With this in mind, I ploughed into the tail end of his story, thanking him loudly for his help while he was still mid-sentence and made my way upstairs to my next neighbour.

The next floor houses an attractive Aussie couple from whom you can sometimes hear raised voices from the site of the theft. Maybe they had heard something, I thought.

One half of this couple answered the door, and I launched into my tale of woe.

The man introduced himself as Jerry and a small fluffy cat named Heston appeared from behind the door. Very sympathetic though the human was, he had seen and heard nothing. We chatted as Heston and my cat, Possum, became acquainted.

The cats hovered on the stairs in an introductory stare-off as we postulated what could have happened to the bike. Soon there was nothing more to be said and before we bid adieu, Heston was dragged indoors and I ascended to the top floor.

The other nice couple, who had looked after the cat while I was on holiday, had moved out only a month or two before. They were replaced in March by a shifty man with an Eastern European accent and an intense stare. The knocking yielded no face at the door so I went to the ground floor to see my favourite neighbours.

I had seen Enrico earlier, before I realised the bike was gone. When I got home at six, Possum was visiting him and his sister in their ground floor flat and I knocked on their door to collect her for dinner.

Enrico told me he had whisked her inside earlier as the door next to his, leading down to the basement flat, was wide open and he was worried she would meet a terrible fate with the two surly dogs if she strayed down the stairs.

Looking back on this conversation I was now curious as to why they had left it open.

Claudia and Enrico weren’t in. Instead I knocked on the basement flat door. A young woman with a shaved head, a French accent and gaping holes in her ears opened the door.

I told her my bike was gone and she quickly told me how she was sick of people judging her and accusing her of things she hadn’t done. I explained that actually I wasn’t blaming her of anything and I’d knocked on everyone’s doors about my missing bike. To my great surprise at this moment she started cocking a thumb at Enrico and Claudia’s door and saying how they were bad people, making her life a misery.

These basement-flatters are people I hardly see but often hear, with random bouts of repetitive music permeating two floors to reach my ears late at night and on weekends. Their curtains are always closed and mine and Enrico’s flats overlook their dog turd infested garden.

Some monstrous black, angular graffiti on the back wall of their garden spelled out something indecipherable until it was painted magnolia recently after a visit by the landlord.

I found myself facing the second hard-luck story of the evening as she went on about how people always judge her by the way she looks and how she may have to move out because people don’t like her. I couldn’t help thinking how someone could easily use the discrimination card as an excuse not to change their own behaviour.

I had many dreadlocked, pierced, tattooed and shaved-haired friends as a teenager but looking on this person with odd tufts of hair left unshaven above her ears I wondered what she got out of it, given how unhappy she seemed.

Annoyed by her self-absorbed rant I left and called the police.

For about two weeks nothing much has happened at the scene of the crime except a Specialized inner tube appeared at my front gate two days later. For the next couple of days I half expected various bits of my bike to appear piece by piece, until I had the whole thing back again.

This hasn’t happened yet.

The trials of 'After You' Week

2011-04-11T14:10:00.000+01:00

Last time on the Laura LakerGraph I decided to be the perfect gentleman (or gentlewoman) with Londoners in an attempt to make our fair city a more genteel and generally nicer place to travel through. After innumerable errors on this front I can safely say that it's harder than one might imagine putting 'After You' Week into practice.

The nub of it was I'd decided to let others out in front of me for a week in a bid to reduce the incidence of road rage in London. Politeness to fight impoliteness was the basic premise.

In a city as crowded as London, on a bicycle continually jostling for space and safe position among the cars, buses, trucks, maniacal taxis and errant pedestrians, sometimes it's simply about asserting your position, however. Amid this onslaught of human movement politeness, I'm sorry to say, seems determined to take a back seat.

About fifteen times during 'After You' week I have found myself swerving and pressing down hard on the pedals, forging ahead of the dawdlers, slow coaches and geriatrics of London while racing to my destination. A moment later I remember what I was supposed to be doing, and hanging my head in shame or cursing mildly, I promised next time I wouldn't be so impatient.

It's an unfortunate admission in the light of my recent good intentions to let others go before me: I just can't cycle slowly.

I could make excuses and say there's a manic character lurking in me, a determined racer who won't let others pass because it's just too impatient. Somewhere in that moment between seeing and doing, the knee jerk reaction is to go when you can, to forge your path in the cut-and-thrust of rush hour traffic. If I waited for every slowcoach I came across, the fear is that maybe I would never get anywhere.

In the spirit of persistence, though, I got to thinking that perhaps more than one day or week of the year is needed to radically shift someone's behaviour, someone like, say, me. This regular event of selflessness I would like to call something like: Thoughtful Thursday or Friendly Friday.

I figure you can't just say to yourself: 'Today I will be a kind person to other road users,' and then the rest of the year be intent on running everyone down. You might forget to be nice at all that day and then where would AYW be?

On a road, there is often a split second between seeing the car on a side road, or someone trying to pull out and deciding whether you have enough time to go first. Perhaps it's a survival of the fittest reaction, an animal instinct.

Maybe I shouldn't even mind whether people are kind or unkind, after all it is a fact of life that some things are out of our control. Perhaps its just conditioning that has led me to believe I should consider others and therefore they should be considerate of me. Maybe this is just one of the trials of a hopeless optimist or a superhero wannabe: SuperLaura wants to right wrongs that are nothing to do with her.

Even if I don't possess a cape or flying powers I will stubbornly insist on believing someone's day is improved if someone else shows them a bit of courtesy, and I'd like to be one of the ones spreading good feeling, even if I can't prevent the bad.

International 'After You' Week - Laura's answer to all our road rage problems

2011-03-23T15:34:00.000Z

'After you.' 'No, after you.'

A common conversation snatched from the streets back when Charles Dickens was waxing lyrical, perhaps, but about as common nowadays as golden eagle omelet.

This morning, however, I was on the way out of my local contact lens-ologist just as a kindly older man came in. I held the door open for him and then found we were both trapped in a small area between the doorway and a shelf full of spectacles. Rather than the usual awkward squeezing and squashing, to my surprise he stood aside and beckoned me past. He just waited there patiently for me to get out of the way.

Frankly I wasn't even expecting a 'thank you', let alone an 'after you', so reduced has my opinion of Londoners become of late. It felt like the rarest of events and, thanking him, I left with a smile on my face.

Almost immediately I nearly bumped into someone else trying to get in the shop.

I have to say though, in general whether it's in their cars, on the bus or on foot, hardly anyone seems to want to let anyone past voluntarily. You might be forgiven for thinking it would be an affront to someone's humanity to give up a microsecond of their time to allow someone else to pass before them, but then again maybe it's just London.

But I've been thinking about this and have come up with a solution. I would like to propose a new way of dealing with the Pushy Pollys of London and I am going to call it: 'After You' Week.

On this day, or heck, even a week in the year, we should throw aside our fear and prejudice and anger towards other Londoners and just try to get along. Instead of thinking: 'I'm going first, or that person's getting handbagged,' why not try letting someone else through before you?

We've all been in the position where we're trying to get through a small gap in a crowd, feeling a bit like a camel about to pass through the eye of a needle. Someone's armpit is right by your nose, somebody else's elbow threatens you with a black eye. Just when it seems there is light at the end of the tunnel, a Cro Magnon with a squiffy eye decides he/she must also push through, defying physics and elbowing his/her way into your personal space and beyond. To prevent their brains hemmorhaging you feel the need to back down, but grudgingly.

Maybe there are just too many people. I sometimes find myself fearing for my personal space. I may be reaching for something on a shelf in the supermarket (my bad) or I may be attempting to make a perfectly reasonable turning on my bicycle. Just at a critical moment some special specimen of human barges into me or attempts to intimidate me off the road with the look of a psychotic cat just before it savages someone's foot.

One taxi driver got short shrift from me and a fellow cyclist yesterday. A part of me wishes it was shorter, but in the spirit of 'After You' Week I will offer an alternate ending.

I was calmly flying along Goldsmith's Row in Hackney when a taxi pulled out of a side junction. He performed the old 'creep forward until the cyclist's nerve goes or I am forced to stop' routine. I didn't capitulate, but offered him my own patented brand of long, lidless stare until, midway into my lane, he stopped.

After I passed I could hear him over-revving the engine, before he squeezed past me at some considerable speed on the single lane, leaving me and the oncoming cyclist barely enough room to breathe out.

The other cyclist yelled a few choice words into his open window, and I laughed.

I wondered at that moment if the taxi driver ever wonders why people get cross at him. Then he suddenly veered off to a turning on the right as a third cyclist was crossing the junction. Through luck or sheer bloody mindedness, driving casually at her as the taxi banked sharply, he left her just enough space to pedal away and breathe out.

Imagine for a moment that this demon taxi of Hackney decided that instead of waging a war of terror, he was instead to wage a campaign of peace on the cyclists of Goldsmith's Row. Let's just say he let me pass without intimidation and he chose not to try to run over that man and that woman in less than 15 seconds. Perhaps instead he could have offered a smile, or a deferential 'after you.'

Or maybe I should have let that belligerent driver out with a cheery wave. Maybe he would have felt differently about how his day was going and even feel differently about cyclists now. Perhaps we would all be happier by spreading sweetness and light than being the purveyors of incidental road rage.

Anyway, I'm willing to give this a shot and to make the next seven days 'After You' Week. No pedestrian, no car, nor fellow cyclist shall encounter me but I will let them go first. Let's see how it pans out.

I think with a bit of togetherness we can spread the love around London.

Food, fresh air and the scent of the Thames: a nautical life for me

2011-03-17T12:26:00.000Z

Always eating, always hungry. Whether it's two breakfasts, two lunches or two in the morning, it's never too late or too early for eating. I'm basically like Winnie the Pooh with a bicycle.

'Am I big?' you ask. 'Am I fat?' The answer is: 'No, I'm a cyclist.'

One of the fun side effects of constant movement in one's legs is that it uses up quite a lot of energy, cumulatively. At certain times of the year it is not uncommon for me to spend two or three hours a day just pedalling from here to there. Last year there was a lot of talk from scientists about exercise having little impact on weight loss, but I beg to differ. Travelling everywhere by bike the increase in appetite is tangible.

On Saturday, however, I left the bike at a friend's house near Brick Lane and decided to try out Shanks' pony for a change. Together my friend and I (and the ponies), strolling out of the flat and seeing its shining towers in the distance, decided to walk to Canary Wharf.

Our route took us alongside the railway tracks from Liverpool Street, along Cheshire Street, crossing Vallance Road to Dunbridge Street and then, leaving the trains behind we hacked our way Southwards through the urban jungle to the bleak but interesting Mile End Road.

Stopping for ginger beer at Mile End Road we admired this domain of the car while we slurped and mopped our brows. With its scattered buildings and a road of almost epic proportions, this place was evidently created by someone faced with a heavily bombed East End who decided spacious was the way to go.

Wandering along this paradise for automobiles and neck-straining monuments to affordable housing we started to feel we were lost. Our aim was Canary Wharf but our route at present relied as much on the prevailing wind and whatever mood happened to take us as a sense of direction.

We were basically orienteering in a half-arsed sort of way.

By accident our route transected the Regents Canal and scrambling down its banks like puppies at the sight of water and trees we felt we had found Elysium, turning our backs on urbanity. Both hailing from Somerset, we drank the scent of hawthorn blossom giddily, evoking memories of open fields and warm spring days without a care in the world. Sigh.

The canal offered up many interesting sites aside from the usual dog walkers and kamikaze cyclists (dude, seriously, get a bell). We peeked in the Mile End Climbing Wall and strolling on, met some canal boaters drinking strong beer on the back of their vessel with their feet up in the midday sun. We were coincidentally close, I later realised, to the humorously named Shandy Park.

My friend asked them for a lighter for his cigarette, which was a good ice breaker. I noted that one and all, excepting me, subscribed to the 'It's never too early for a can of cider' school of thought.

One of these salty old sea dogs had come from Somerset the day before and I couldn't resist telling him how I admired his intrepid spirit, given that his canal boat mustn't move that fast and Somerset is an awfully long way. Oh, we did laugh. Particularly me. Just picturing a canal boat tilted at 45 degrees with determination (and possibly nitroglycerine) on the quiet waterways of Britain was almost too much for a relaxing Saturday afternoon.

We headed off from this booze fest, but after half an hour or so my bag was cutting mercilessly into my shoulder. I started to wonder what was actually in there, given all I needed for the day was a wallet, my camera and the keys to get back into my flat. What I seemed to have taken was half the contents of the flat and possibly the cat by accident. Frankly, the bag was bulging in a rather awkward manner.

After stopping to watch a canal boat navigating a loch (always fascinating), my friend exclaimed a need for more booze and I for a roast lunch. We agreed the place for us was a nice, cosy pub.

We passed the Ragged School Museum, (only open on Wednesdays and Thursdays and the first Sunday of every month) a tribute to London's many Victorian schools for the poor and orphaned, started by Dr Barnardo in the 1870s, without whom I may not be here today. One of Dr Barnardo's facilities rehoused my orphaned grandpa in the 1910s.

It took a while to get to our destination, what with the obstacles of distance and dawdling but we eventually found ourselves at Limehouse Basin, which I was surprised at. I hadn't realised it also provides access to the Regents Canal from the Thames. Getting my bearings from January's epic canal ride I thought we'd make for The Prospect of Whitby, but first we had to skirt the Basin.

Our route took us past the Docklands Light Railway, which near Limehouse Basin uses old sections of the former docks' railway infrastructure, which gave us some impressive old brick arches to admire. Our minds were on food, though. We encountered a section of CS3, too. Cycle Superhighway to the stars, or from Barking to Tower Gateway, depending on how you look at it. I missed cycling for a moment and then remembered my stomach.

We reached the river and could see our destination in the distance, its white walls seeming to whisper pie and chips along the water. We marched on, finally arriving at the ancient doors.

While waiting at the crowded bar for service and while my friend went off in search of a tobacconist, I tentatively opened up the bag to see what I had been carrying around with me all this time. I hoisted it up onto the bar, and cautiously started excavations. What I found surprised even me.

My appetite has gained almost legendary status among my friends and I have a reputation for always having some sort of food in my bag, often cake.

Today, along with a hefty orange and two apples from my weekly vegetable box, which I'd secreted away some days ago, I found a party size bag of mini eggs, half a packet of cough sweets from last month's cold, a packet of polo mints and an open bag of Brazil nuts, upside down and threatening to engulf my bags in a nutty tide. This on top of sunglasses, about six pens and pencils, a notepad covered with the remains of a mashed pear and an oversized wallet full of old receipts

That certainly would explain a lot of those uncomfortable bulges.

Ignoring this distraction I eventually ordered food and went in search of a table. The Prospect didn't let us down and I cosied myself by a large window while I waited for the return of my buddy. I did what I hadn't done in ages and just sat in a pub on a Saturday. It was quite blissful. I finished two halves of Guinness and we admired the Thames with a pie and chips from the safety of a window seat.

The remainder of the afternoon was spent first strolling back to Brick Lane and discovering a beautful section of old Whitechapel before making a beeline for the comfort of a sofa. We spent the evening in front of a film eating the contents of my bag and musing on our perfect Saturday.

Things that mean it's spring

2011-03-09T17:20:00.000Z

Some say spring starts on the first of March, but traditionally, the 21st/22nd March means winter is over, at the vernal equinox. Fnar fnar. Whatever whoever's requirements for spring are, I can happily say there are hints London's coming out of hibernation.

For me, longer bike rides are being planned. In preparation for an imminent cycle to Hertford I'm manning recces along the Lea River on a weekly basis, only this time in a Northwards direction. It's amazing how you can live for years somewhere and never explore a section of waterway that's at least as close as you would travel for a casual rendezvous on a Saturday. And I need green space like some need beer.

The thing is, winter has taken its toll on my cycling, what with snow and ice and flu and biting winds and the fear of falling off and scraping myself half to death on the road. To be fair, these are bloody good excuses, but of late, there has been a corner turned in the hibernating mind of this author, so excuses are no longer required.

Yes, it has been a happy few days with sunshine, the return of afternoons and the world not seeming such a horrid, gloomy place after all.

I'm now fighting the urge to pack in my cosy London life, put the kitten in the front basket (buy a front basket) and cycle continuously from place to place, like some two-wheeled tuneless minstrel of old.

This latest canal ride yielded many interesting spectacles, just to whet my whistle.

Heading North of the Lea Bridge Road the world around you almost immediately becomes countryside. Wonderful, green, open space offers stunning views, few humans in cars, many birds and a sprinkling of cyclists. That is until you reach the end of the Lea Valley Regional Park and enter the abandoned sofa zone, but that's another matter.

I was photographing some swans in the morning sun, trying to achieve an artistic composition with the dual challenges of bright sunshine in my face and limited skill, when I turned around and noticed a squirrel.

I'm taking evening classes in photojournalism and my photographic assignment this week is to snap animal portraits so, thrilled, I started snapping away. The squirrel quickly ran off up a tree and was joined by another. Oh good,I thought, a fight.

Then a third squirrel turned up and, frankly not believing the material taking place before my eyes I got several good snaps of the trio before the third squirrel buggered off and the first squirrel swiftly got on the back of the second one.

Yes, spring is on its way.

It's not just me and the squirrels though, something good has happened to London. It's metamorphosed from grey, cold behemoth of gloom to bright and cheery neighbour who pops round to ask if they can make you a nice cup of tea and entice you into their garden.

Maybe I say this because my neighbours invited me out into our square for tea at the weekend. On the first Sunday of the month residents around my square get together for a litter pick, a hot drink and a chin wag in the park in the middle.

I'd dragged a full-length mirror back from a house many streets away that morning in a wheelie suitcase, the first of my spring home improvements from an advert on Gumtree (don't think you're forgiven though Gumtree, I still remember who helped sell my stolen bike last year).

The one I like to call 'Coot, Crossing,' below

Anyway, I just got back from mirror collection in time to dash across for a jovial chat with what may be some of the nicest neighbours I've ever had. In the glamorous shelter of the communal kissing shed, I mean gazebo, I fielded a whirlwind of names and relationships and addresses and occupations. I came away with a good idea of where at least three of them live and their occupations, roughly, and afterwards wished I'd brought along a notepad. We stood about in the square's charming green edifice and generally shot the breeze for half an hour.

One man, introduced to me as 'my learned husband', held a grabber and a bin bag casually in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. This was the only evidence of manual labour, however, so evidently the litter had already been picked.

But what a great way to meet neighbours and what a wonderful idea, I thought. One woman told me the square used to be carpeted with rubbish and so the residents decided to do something about it. Thanks to these people, our square is now a pleasant place to roam, with nary a broken bottle in sight. Ever since this monthly purge the council have apparently been much more diligent in their litter duties, too.

One neighbour mentioned the broken window theory, the idea that an area which appears bedraggled and disorganised will attract loiterers and eventually crime, that litter can essentially become a social prefix to more littering and eventually criminal and antisocial behaviour.

The Abandoned Sofa Zone, just North of Lea Valley Regional Park.

With plans to attend the next monthly litter pick, and hopefully help with picking litter next time, I left to get ready for the rest of my Sunday. Feeling inspired, though, this week I set upon the litter that had accumulated in my front garden.

I'd pulled up some self-seeded trees from the front garden some weeks ago and in the absence of garden waste bags left them by the bin. In a matter of three weeks a little drift of bottle tops and yogurt pots had piled up, along with a profusion of dead leaves. The bin men had got as far as pulling everyone's bags into the street in preparation for collection that morning so I added my haul and left, satisfied.

If the broken window theory holds true, only a fool would now dare to sully my porch with fag ends now. We'll see

So, spring cleans, randy squirrels and a general feeling of energy again after months of hibernation. I think winter is finally over!

Arcola Theatre article for The Ecologist

2011-03-01T14:48:00.000Z

My latest article for The Ecologist on East London's Arcola Theatre and its plans to be carbon neutral is here.

The Beast and the Mysterious Mint

2011-03-01T10:46:00.000Z

A tale I wrote during my time in North London:

I’m going to tell a story now, so maybe you would like to sit in a comfy chair. An armchair? Why not?

It all began a few summers ago when a girl, who looks a lot like me and used to live in my old house – OK, it was actually me – went to Kenwood House’s kitchen garden on Hampstead Heath. It was sunny and I sat on a bench with the warm sun on my face.

In this, one of the chilliest winters ever, let’s just take a few moments to imagine that.

I’m very British in my love of plants. There are lots of wonderful plants at Kenwood House and I was happy just sitting and sniffing the air. Back in those halcyon days I was just getting into the idea that encouraging creepy crawlies and bees into a garden is a very good idea, for the purposes of biodiversity.

In front of me there were lavender rows and some other strange plant somewhat like a mint, with tiny stinging nettle-like leaves. It grew in big fat shrubs and was notably surrounded by a cloud of bees. There were probably tiny purple flowers on it at that time of year, I can’t remember. One thing’s for sure though, it smelled amazing. Like lemongrass and mint and about as fragrant as you would care to imagine.

Anyway, thinking ‘wouldn’t these be nice in my sparse little garden in Tufnell Park?’ I snitched a snipping of both lavender and bee mint. Being jolly efficient I stopped on the way back to pick up rooting powder and returning home I eagerly placed the powder on the stems and the stems in the soil, and sat and waited. Not really, I went off and did something else.

Eventually, the lavender produced one flower in a small display of courage, before it keeled over and died. My Greek housemate’s parents were staying at the time, and mummy said you can’t take cuttings like that from shrubs, because it just won’t work. That was true.

The consolation in the midst of this tiny loss was that the strange mint took off very well, producing miniature flowers that are a lot like tiny orchids. You have to get very close to appreciate them, so I sat in the garden a couple of times with my nose all but touching the plant, admiring the flowers at close quarters. I still had no idea what the strange plant was but when I moved house, I dug it up and took it with me.

As an aside, it was a hectic time, because I was finishing my dissertation for my degree, but I threw a Barbie to celebrate the move anyway. The day of said Barbie, amid preparations I went to my new garden for some fresh air and to see how the plants were settling in. At the time, the mint had two stems with flowers on, and I noted with surprise that one of the stems was all mangled and covered in what looked like animal hair.

I began to suspect I’d moved in next door to the Exmoor Beast.

No-one else at the Barbie could guess who or what had done the damage, and it all seemed very mysterious, if not a little sinister.

Could it be a fox, I thought? A very small dog that can squeeze under fences, perhaps? Or was it a massive beast, possibly with fangs, that was jumping over the top of the fence and was actually after my throat? Maybe it was lurking under the barbecue waiting for an opportune moment, for me to crouch down, and out it would leap to savage my elbow.

I visited the Geffyre Museum soon after this episode, and wandering round the garden I discovered my plant, labelled as ‘Cat Mint’. Theirs was an impressive-sized shrub in the flowerbed and a little helpful sign said it would attract cats and deter rats.

Bingo, I thought. No rats for me. Maybe cats will come along instead, and scare the barbecue monster away while they’re at it.

And, what do you know? Hey presto, a few days later I was unpacking some boxes and I heard an ominous thud from the garden. I crept forward to look, holding my breath and leaning, craning my neck expecting to see, well I wasn’t sure what. But there it was - a massive, rotund tortoiseshell cat squatted down on the ground with its back to me, furtively licking my plant.

It seemed to be having a lovely time, and didn’t notice me at first, so engrossed was it. I could have slapped my forehead. The plant that is supposed to attract cats was in fact attracting cats. This meant, to my relief, that there were probably no monsters in Finsbury Park and I could sleep safe again.

So there it was, the mystery solved. And for many happy weeks the same cat kept coming back to lick and dismember my Cat Mint. I came to admire it from a distance, its fat form wobbling along the fence in an un-catlike gracelessness; jumping down from the fence with a thud, and scrambling humorously back up again when I approached.

The garden became a little snack and refreshment bar for the fat cat, as it drank the water from my old plant trays and licked my plants before buggering off again.

It never did make friends with me but at least the thing, carrying its sagging belly about in a comedy waddle, had a distinct entertainment value and still holds a special place in my memory.

The Terrorisation of Tyres

2011-02-07T18:28:00.000Z

A jangly, upbeat piano starts a catchy tune in my ear. Before long, some snappy strings have joined in. In a flash there is Annie Lennox. Yes, I'm still in East London.

A dangerous substance is all over the roads at the moment. It's on the pavements, the gutters, it's between the cobbles on almost every street. It's even on cycle paths, and damn it, it's screwing up my tyres. More and more I find myself cycling on broken glass (insert tenuous Annie Lennox link here).

I've started to wonder in a city of 7.5 million people just how many things we can accidentally smash? The last time I broke anything glass my cafetiere fell to its death off the worktop of my very cramped kitchen. In fact, only a bit broke off and I still use it. Beyond that, my glass smashing memory is as clean a slate as you could hope to find.

"Bad week? Less money than last year? Credit card swallowing up your life? Hell, let's just break stuff."

This coating of glass across the East End has got me forming some imaginative conclusions, as is my wont.

My theories are fourfold:

1) The road sweepers have secretly vowed not to pick up any more glass. No-one ever knows how to dispose of it properly anyway, right?

2) In the recession everyone has become a bellicose, bottle-flinging drunkard.

3) There is a nasty and highly contagious disease which forces the sufferer, when in contact with a glass object, to hurl it uncontrollably at the nearest hard surface, ensuring it is instantly pulverised.

4) Members of a secret London cult get up in the night to wander the streets in their pyjamas smashing glass objects to smithereens while the city sleeps. Nobody talks about glass smashing club. NOBODY talks about glass smashing club. Excepting quite a few people seem to be aware of its existence and merrily joining in, or we wouldn't be in this pickle now, would we?

What used to be for me a simple game of weaving precariously through humans milling aimlessly along Brick Lane is now also a thrilling broken bottle dodge.

Just before I lost my old bike, I'd gone through two inner tubes in two days before realising a piece of brown glass the size of a tooth had bitten so far into my tyre it was puncturing every inner tube that dared make contact.

After proudly disengaging the brakes and chain on said bike I spent an eternity hopelessly levering and muttering oaths against the unfeasibly deep rim of the wheel. After 40 minutes my fingers were so red and sore I conceded defeat and went to the bike shop.

I carried the maimed wheel down the street, sans bike, only to have a rather smug mechanic jimmy it on in seconds.

So that was ten pounds and my sense of mechanical prowess down the drain.

In all fairness I think back to previous Brick Lane expeditions and they were pretty much the same the whole time I've lived in this rather clumsy city. In fact it was the same story with both of my previous London bicycles.

One handy thing a fellow at Holloway Cycles once showed me was that every now and then it is wise and immensely satisfying to remove your tyre and pluck out the offending bits of glass with a Stanley knife.

The deal is, you take off the tyre and folding each section as you turn it round, allowing you to spot the pieces of glass more easily, you lever them out with the knife. That stops the little suckers worming their way further into the tyre and wreaking havoc with your inner tubes. Children should seek adult assistance for this job.

In conclusion, my message to Londoners this week is: Please, stop smashing stuff, it's annoying and in the long run it is unlikely to solve any real problems.

The art of forgiveness, or something like that.

2011-02-02T21:39:00.000Z

I'm being tormented by dreams of my old bike.

The other night I dreamed I spotted it coming towards me along a dark street. I bided my time behind a hedge before launching myself at its surprised rider. I dragged the bastard by his hoodie towards a bevvy of helpful-looking police officers, giving him a good talking to about the wrongs of theft while I was at it.

Just as my elation about the justice being done peaked into sheer smug righteousness, I looked closer and realised it wasn't my bike. It didn't even resemble my bike, in fact.

I feel sad to report that following the whole theft fiasco in November any love for my fellow cyclist and their bicycle has soured slightly. I have unwittingly found myself starting every time I see a blue bike, my heart quickening perceptibly, wondering for an awful moment if it's mine. I even start for the grey ones, in fact.

You can imagine in a city full of bicycles this isn't a happy state of affairs.

I have tried to move on from the painful experience of last year's theft and the crushing blow of meeting the thief and still being unable to retrieve my bike, but this hasn't been easy. Now, rather than feeling that each cyclist is one more exciting step towards a healthier, quieter, less stressful city I no longer know what to feel about them.

Strangely, my thief seemed like a fairly decent teenager.

Five years ago, when I first moved to London, a bicycle was a thing of both romance and adventure. How do people ride in the traffic like that, I thought?

In among all the cars and buses and the noise and confusion seemed just about the worst place to put yourself as a cyclist, unless you were a bit short on cash and hoping for a hefty compensation from someone.

Bicycles came and went in the street and I was more interested in their riders than in the bikes themselves. I laughed at a friend of mine whose ears used to prick up when he saw one, like a meercat stalking a tasty grub. His eyes would follow them, looking like there was something else he should be doing, before he returned to the conversation in hand.

How obsessed with bicycles do you have to be, I chortled, to do that?

Of course as my enthusiasm grew, I eventually found myself at the junction of no return, past which I too felt the inexplicable magnetism of the bicycle.

What kind of bicycle is that? I ask myself. And would I like one like that? What does that bike say about that person? Do they ride a lot? Do they have good control, is their seat at the right height/tyres flat/frame the right size? Do they have hub gears or fixed? Are they moving sensibly in the traffic?

So I ended up with that same distracted look as my friend.

Now without meaning to, I've started looking at each bike and thinking: 'Is that mine?' I sometimes look at people, too and wonder who might steal a person's bicycle from them.

On Sunday I visited a friend near Brick Lane. When I arrived there were three young teenagers hanging around the front door, whom I could tell straight away were bored. They had that listless look my friends and I used to sport on those long winter nights hanging around aimlessly outdoors.

These ones looked a mite naughtier than us, though.

Sure enough, as I approached one uttered some incidental obscenity about women and then, catching sight of me, mumbled that I was a good example of this unflattering stereotype. I ignored him and fixed my eyes on the flats' intercom system.

'You'll get robbed for a bike like that,' he commented jovially.

As we drew level I levelled at him what I hoped was a hard stare. To my surprise he apologetically informed me he had been taking drugs and was only joking.

Repressing fear and a smidgen of rage, I felt I should offer this youth some helpful advice. He may possess the air of a scallywag but I could tell he wasn't a bad sort.

I can't remember exactly what I said but it was something along the lines of drugs being a waste of his brain cells and that he should take up something more worthwhile.

'Like what?' he chirped, in an instant.

'Erm.' Cripes, this was an unexpected response. 'I don't know, football or something,' I added.

There was no coherent reply and by now my friend had buzzed me in, so I beat a hasty retreat just as the other two teenagers, who had disappeared round the corner during our brief chat, reappeared.

The door has a self-closing mechanism but as they advanced on me, slowly like zombies from an awful film, I pulled the door hurriedly shut.

The little one was shouting something sexual at me as I hefted my bike up the stairs. I told him he was too young for those sorts of shenanigans, and breathed a sigh of relief at being safely indoors. I was still shaking when I got inside the flat.

Some people may be difficult, some weird and a few sometimes awful. Whatever conclusions one can draw from such random encounters I'm hoping this phase of mistrust will pass soon and I can ascend to some sort of zen-like state of forgiveness.

Well, we'll see.

Cold, cold, cold

2011-01-27T18:24:00.000Z

Trip to the Bahamas? Nice stroll down a sun-soaked beach in Bali? Nah, think I'll stay in London. For what do any of your choice winter sun destinations have on offer that our fair capital doesn't?

Erm, sun. Whereas London has a lot of winter.

Just take a stroll down any given street today and you have felt you've been plunged back to the bad old days surrounding Christmas where any trip outside felt like a military exercise and preparation would spell the difference between a bearable hop to the shop and a slightly terrifying ordeal. Just when we thought it was safe, that wind that tried to take everyone's face off with a crowbar is back.

As a cyclist this poses the myriad problems experienced by anyone travelling outdoors in winter with their head, feet and hands thrust in the face of the wind, but never before did it affect me like this.

This year's bitter fight for survival against the cold has led me to think back to my last winters as a cyclist in London and some rather interesting statistics I studied recently, because that's what I like to do.

Each winter, according to Transport for London, numbers of cyclists on the road decline sharply in December as the temperature plummets. Or maybe the presence of Christmas parties forces everyone to leave cycling alone in favour of an inebriated tube ride, who knows. Anyway, it seems cold more than any other meteorological condition sends most bicycle-lovers screaming in terror towards public transport.

If memory serves correct, during previous winters I have laughed off the cold, wrapped up in multiple ill-matching layers and to hell with what any passers-by/work colleagues may think of me.

I've waved two fingers at lazy comfort in favour of a spirit of adventure and said: bugger public transport, I'm bloody well cycling. I daresay I laughed at those too weak to get on their bikes, even when all known bodies of water froze (including to my amazement, St Catherine's Dock) and only Aslan himself could wrestle those winter months from the icy grip of the White Witch. Or something like that.

What was it that was different about this year? Apart from the fact it's been colder, I have been ill-prepared. I decided I have simply not been making use of my Merino Wool clothing this year. What was I thinking? Suddenly I've gone all form over function in an attempt to look ladylike on my bike. This is virtually unheard of for someone who shaved her head at 17 because she didn't like her 'poodle hairdo' and only last year went out looking like this:

Yes, winter 2010/2011 was the year I decide to make a sartorial effort on the bike. This is all very well when it's mild outside, but a pair of woolly tights won't protect me from the Easterly wind, no matter how much cable knit they possess.

Even though the temperature plummeted brutally in the last 24 hours, this was only to be expected from Britain. All that remains to be said in conclusion is: sod this, I'm bloody well wrapping up warm again.

The canal, in epic form

2011-01-23T09:59:00.000Z

Ah, the canal. Following my last rather feeble attempt at exploration and a spell in bed, I decided I was finally in a fit state to do the good old waterway justice. What better, then, on the first weekend of January than some adventure before the weather warmed up?

Taking advantage of my day off, I prevaricated to the extreme until finally venturing out at about 11am. The sun had cruelly tricked me, and I shunned the winter coat for a flimsy body warmer. After five minutes it ran for cover behind the clouds again and the temperature plummeted.

This still-beautiful morning led me down my usual route through the terraced housing of Lower Clapton to the canal path, and past the furthest reaches of previous expeditions on that body of water I ventured into pastures unchartered.

I should mention at this point that the canal isn’t actually a canal, but a section of the River Lea, which runs from the Thames to Hertford and has been a functioning waterway since Vikings invaded Hertford in the first millennium. It played a vital role in transporting grain for beer and bread and unlike most canals wasn’t constructed from scratch, but is in fact a canalised river moulded by human hands over centuries to fit its purpose. So there you go.

My last expedition had taken me from Lea Bridge at the Middlesex Filter Beds to the Old Ford Lock, where the canal is manmade, built to cut off a loop in the natural river. Today I planned to travel further to see the real river.

At much higher speeds than last time, the raw surface of the towpath alongside Springfield Park added a frisson of danger to the expedition. Its covering of small loose stones, like those put down just before a path is resurfaced, regularly sent the back end of the bike out suddenly, causing my skin to prickle. I pushed on determinedly though, figuring constant propulsion would keep me on the straight and narrow, or prove me disastrously wrong and propel me instead into the freezing water.

Up ahead on the opposite bank a mighty flock of seagulls circled wildly around a diminutive figure who must have had bread and whom I had to assume never visited St. Ives. As I approached, the wide seabirds wheeled in a tumble of huge white wings, dwarfing their maitre d’, and diving onto the water as each chunk of loaf hit its surface. The deed done, the birder wiped their hands and left the scene, one can only assume satisfied.

Seagull attack

Passing Old Ford Lock I ventured into the unknown. The path, running a short distance to the next bridge, became soft mud and passing another cyclist coming at speed I dutifully got out of the way. Emerging from the bridge to the river, the scenery changed dramatically to that of neglected urban industry, with collections of old barges moored to one side and old industrial buildings looking raw and interesting in the January light.

Under the next bridge the scene was transformed again, with tall green hedges sheltering the path, while new apartments stood opposite, looking slightly out of place. Only yards away large red brick buildings with long chutes tapering down to the floor stood back from the canal, partially obscured by other flotsam of the industrial age. As I stopped to take photos a runner passed me, before doing a little loop on the path and returning the way he had come. Evidently this was far enough for runners.

Me and the canal

Before long the towpath led up a slope and along a causeway over the river with brick speed bumps to deter cyclists. I didn’t realise this was their purpose at first and, taking one foot out of its toe hook in case of an accident, I was doing pretty well at bouncing along until, rounding the final corner, the dangling toe hook caught on a ridge and forced me rudely onto my feet. I saw the path was strewn with broken glass after this point and felt fate had dealt me a kind blow.

Bumpy bridge

I stood confused as the path now joined an almighty junction with wide roads going in every direction, topped off with a flyover. It was cold and grey and in the unflattering light the already unattractive scene looked hideous.

With only a small unhelpful signpost to direct ill-equipped towpath users I stood there staring for a moment until two young women stopped to ask if I was lost. As I was merely following the Lea to the Thames, and the former had now disappeared under a large intersection all I could think to say, rather lamely, was:

‘I was looking for the river.’

Unsure whether I was bonkers or not they asked: ‘Which one?’

‘Um, the Thames,’ I offered, thinking water would take the direct route and so, logically, would I.

They pointed in the general direction the river had been heading, and I saw that it re-emerged a couple of hundred yards away, across the junction. I thanked my good Samaritans and headed off, feeling slightly hapless.

After cycling the wrong way up a filter lane and weaving across the traffic waiting at the traffic lights, I was left with no other option than to get off and push, or to cycle along the pavement, as the entrance to the river lay alongside two lanes of a dual carriageway upon which I didn't really fancy my chances of survival.

I then stood at the entrance to what could have been an industrial estate, with a concrete path leading down to the canal behind a barrier with a 5mph speed limit. A tall blue fence ran down to the water, and large containers sat on the opposite bank in the shadow of what looked like an almighty satellite dish, looming over all next to the flyover.

Concerned about trespassing and potentially large growling dogs I looked around for No Entry signs. It was only when two walkers emerged that I decided to carry on.

The path joined the river at a large concrete area with low, fat bollards at the waterside, I assumed for unloading the barges. I guessed this was one of the last points larger boats could access the river before it became the canal.

The prevailing scene was one of decrepitude and drooping low in the water, barges sat rusty and bedraggled, looking like the Deputy Dawgs of the waterways.

A large green hoarding stretched along the opposite bank, adding a swathe of colour to the grey and marking some imminent construction, behind which low graffiti-strewn warehouses crouched moodily. Even the grass here seemed to shrink and yellow, slowly giving itself up to the black soil beneath.

Another new block of flats stood incongruously up ahead, tastefully built in wood and metal, and stacked up like cargo on the bank. Once again the path met a bridge and left the water, climbing up another lumpy brick ladder to an old iron and brick humpback bridge. What stood before me was in such stark contrast to the previous scene I stared at it for a full minute.

The Three Mills

The Three Mills houses what is believed to be the largest standing tidal mill in the world and it sits in a complex of picturesque brick buildings, some fashioned into interesting conical shapes. The Three Mills was one of many such mills along the river competing with the barges for use of the water. Now it is a film studio with an education and conference centre.

In the wrong mood for this tame section of the waterway, I moved on in the direction of a trio of gas towers, under a metal bridge and towards further concrete bridges. Upon closer inspection this area out to be part of a large canal intersection where the river and canal briefly meet.

Running south away from this intersection is The Limehouse Cut, constructed following the passing of The River Lee act in 1766. The Limehouse Cut directs canal traffic away from the River Lea along a very straight line into the Limehouse Basin, to the West of where the River Lea joins the Thames.

Where these two waterways converge briefly, a pair of side by side locks stand as a gateway between the two. I was impressed to see that instead of the usual human operated levers these locks were controlled electronically from a booth.

I had to get off the bike to cross the bridge, so I walked across and peered into the locks, musing on the history of this body of water before a fellow cyclist pushing along disturbed me, and the cold forced me on. Passing the Thames 21 offices, I pedalled fast in an attempt to keep the bitter cold from reducing me to a pile of old bones on the floor, which it threatened to do.

A wooden pontoon bridge ran along the next pathless section of canal, under a road bridge and making a satisfying rumbling sound as I sped along. I dinged my bell happily coming out from under the bridge and met the long, straight section of the canal, stretching to infinity with modern warehouses leading to yet further housing developments on the right, opposite bank.

The Limehouse Cut: To Infinity and Beyond!

Ahead of me a stooped old man fed pigeons under a road bridge, and the sight of him fascinated me stangely. I took lots of covert photos before pushing on.

Covert bird feeding

More flats stood opposite more crumbly brick buildings, both seeming to loom in on each other like uncomfortable neighbours, or opposing sides of a bitter territory dispute.

A long staring match

Under Commercial Road, a low, old brick bridge revealed a little oasis beyond. A stack of tasteful apartments stood among well-established trees, in an almost idyllic setting. I marvelled at this quaint city retreat and was even more surprised to round the next bend, turning away from Canary Wharf’s looming towers to find Limehouse Basin open up suddenly in front of me.

Limehouse Basin was constructed as a lock and dock in 1820, allowing seagoing vessels to offload onto barges for transport up the river. After initial commercial failure, by the mid 1800s it provided the primary entrance to the national canal network from the Thames.

After the growth of the railways, canal use declined and the buildings became derelict until redevelopment in 1983, which dragged on until 2004, by which time most of the luxury waterside apartments you see today were completed, overlooking a bevy of expensive yachts.

I searched around this windy lap of luxury for a hot drink and found The Narrow, apparently a Gordon Ramsey restaurant. I wondered if I’d fit in here in my attire, but I couldn’t see anything else around so I went in.

Gordon's Gaff: The Narrow, completing my journey with hot chocolate
After locking my bike to a fence I headed through the back door straight for the bathroom where I discovered my mascara had splattered across my face, leaving the impression I was trying to look like someone from A Clockwork Orange. Embarrassed, thinking of all those people I had happily smiled at, unaware I looked like a clown, I tidied myself up and headed to the bar half expecting to be escorted out for being too messy. I was not, it turned out, and it was a very accommodating place.

I chatted to a local at the bar briefly about the weather, an oldish man in a very smart hat and long coat. In an East End accent he told me it was going to get even colder. I settled into my sofa overlooking the open expanse of the Thames and enjoyed a hot drink from the restaurant area, as he headed outside to smoke.

'What do you know?' I thought, a Ramsay regular.

I made fast work of the return journey, which passed without event except for a brief race with an unfeasibly fast runner. I first passed him near the lock bridge where cyclists must get off and push. I’d passed him before the pontoon but by the time I was halfway across the footbridge he was overtaking me again. I caught up with him before the Three Mills but by the nobbly bridge where I where I was forced to go slowly, he was hot on my tail once more.

Nearing the giant road intersection and gaining ground, two cyclists came towards me. I slowed down and stayed on the left, hedge side. The man passed, then the woman. As I sped up once more I heard a rustling sound and looking back saw the woman’s bike nose first in the hedge.

She must have plunged in after passing me, perhaps a nervous, wobbly cyclist. Her fellow cyclist was with her and by this point so was the runner, so I decided there was enough help to remove her from the foliage and with a little evil laugh took my opportunity to gain some ground on the runner, and sped home to thaw out.

An Ode to Road Rage: Speed Isn't Everything

2011-01-21T21:24:00.000Z

There's more to life than increasing its speed.

That's what Gandhi once said, and it is an important sentiment to me, especially now I live in one of the busiest cities in the world.

I am naturally someone who likes to be in control and so for me, the hindrance of crowds and helplessly slow nature of travel in London is often frustrating.

These are feelings I try to keep in check for my sake as well as for others, and tempting though it is to do so, I hope to avoid becoming one of those unfortunate souls who stands in the road shouting at the traffic.

You don't even have to look around you; on any given day in London you can hear almost everyone is in a rush. Honking of horns, shouting and the roar of the traffic permeate our lives and during the week there is often a desperation to city travel.

A holidaymaker may look out on the morning rush hour with their croissant and coffee and laugh, because removed from the situation you see how ridiculous it can get. When you're in the crowd, however, crushed in with hundreds of others, you're late, grouchy and impatient and nothing matters but putting the journey behind you and getting on with something else.

I imagine someone could race through their whole life like this and suddenly find they are at the end without having appreciated the journey, or even achieved what they wanted.

Of course, in a crowded place people bump into one another occasionally. Just the other day in Hackney I was waiting at a bus stop with my kitten in a carrying basket on the way to the vet, where she was having her neutering stitches out. A teenage girl, walking alongside her friends, slowly passed me - indeed tried her best to walk through me -nearly pushing me off the pavement.

Enraged, I called after her as I got on the bus: 'Don't bump me.'

She replied over her shoulder: 'You were just standing there.'

Well, that explains it. What else would someone do at a bus stop, I thought?

Being from the country it strikes me how the crowded environment seems to offer an excuse for behaving like an animal, and a particularly bad-tempered one at that.

People dash wildly for the tube, prizing the doors open with such desperation a casual observer would be hard-pushed to believe they were merely averting a two minute wait until the next train, and may in fact think they were wrestling for their very lives.

The aggression on the roads seems to have worsened in these grey, gloomy weeks as people seem to be taking their frustrations out on each other. Last week I witnessed the aftermath of a bad car accident, and this made me think of road rage afresh.

At the junction of Old Street and Goswell Street on Friday I saw a purple van sat across the opposite lane at the lights as a stretcher bore a figure slowly towards the waiting ambulance. My eyes were fixed on the scene until the lights turned green and on the stretchered person, who was wearing what looked like motorcycle clothing.

As a fellow two-wheeler watching this, I suddenly felt my vulnerability acutely. A van pulling away from the lights revved aggressively behind me as we left the junction, but another wide van coming from the opposite direction near the crash sat partially in my lane, bottlenecking the traffic. This scene of chaos seemed an oddly apt moment to be set upon by a maniacal driver, and I began to think I'd wandered into the angry vortex, a feeling which permeated the rest of my ride that evening.

As a cyclist, safety is always my number one priority and I started to think about the risks people take with one another every day, and about the risks I take.

Rarely have I been so scared on London's roads as I was that night. I stupidly forgot to bring my lights to work so I was very conscious of being seen. Heading from Old Street along Great Eastern Street, the traffic behind me gained momentum and I looked over my shoulder and saw cars hurtling towards me in both lanes, seemingly unconcerned about me as they sped past. I felt genuinely at risk and vulnerable after what I saw, and each time a car narrowly avoided me, I gasped in panic.

Maybe it's me, maybe it's the cold, grey time of year, but London's drivers seem to be appalling to the point of homicidal at the moment. I'm never complementary about London driving, and can't help but feel a third of its road users shouldn't be in possession of a vehicle, but lately bad driving has become something else.

On a number of occasions people have seemed to drive deliberately at me at speed just when I'm clearly trying to change lanes, and then honked at me for trying to do so, as if I shouldn't be on the road at all.

A bus driver did this on High Holborn last week. I had found myself in the outside lane having tried to reach the advanced stop line just when the lights changed. I was trying to get in so he could overtake, but he seemed determined to intimidate me, beeping me to pull in, yet driving alonside me so I couldn't. He kept me in the outside lane so I was blocking anyone else from overtaking.

Of course you think about these moments more objectively after the adrenaline has subsided and conclude that person was unhappy, or perhaps even routinely psychotic, but the risk you are exposed to at the time was still real.

Later that night, completing the trio of terror, on the way home from visiting friends another van driver sped ferociously past me as we both headed off from the lights. There was barely any room for that manoeuvre at low speeds, let alone at full throttle, with me narrowly sandwiched between curb and van.

I glared at the driver as I passed him at the next lights, and he seemed blissfully unaware of causing any danger, chatting away to his colleague. I almost wish I'd yelled at him but it isn't really my style.

I suspect that in fact most of the time these crazed road users are simply unaware of others' plight around them, but a simple episode of lead foot on the pedal could mean unwittingly scaring the bejeesus out of some innocent cyclist, or worse.

Even on such a night when it is cold, dark and you have had a bad week, everyone who uses the road is still responsible for themselves and the lives those around them. One small lapse in concentration, one leap of impatience, one aggressive move could lead to tragedy.

If I could appeal to Londoners today, I would remind them: There is more to life than increasing its speed.

And I might add: try to enjoy the jouney while you're at it.

Back from the Bed

2011-01-02T18:01:00.000Z

Gosh, how neglected my cycling has been! I've been about as sick as a girl can be, with sore throat and demonic cough in an episode of flu which confined me to bed for a week, and left the cat very confused.

My poor new bike has been hiding in the hallway unused while I watched Nanny McPhee and other such nurturing televisual treats. Barely a morsel passed my lips, and my usual racehorse level of nutritional intake was reduced to that of a small mouse with a gastric band. With two mousy meals a day and no waking up in the night hungry, it was indeed a strange time.

Possum, my ever loyal feline companion, napped with me all day and then at night napped with me some more.

Just when I was giving up all hope of getting better, without food, fresh air or friends, and enduring a sore throat sent by Beelzebub himself, my ear drum perforated itself.

Apparently this can happen when your ear joins in the infection party and gets filled with fluid, which then escapes through your ear drum like something out of Alien.

Thanks to only hearing in only one ear, I've been plunged into a surreal world where I can't tell where sounds are coming from. I've been disorientated and dizzy, and frankly a little scared to go outside.

After a few days I was determined to go out on the bike, though. The canal, I thought, was the perfect place to taste the air, feel the love of nature and look at some water, which is always good for recuperating.

But how strange to cycle with only one ear. I wobbled along, unused to even being on two wheels, where a gentle coast down a timid slope felt like a white knuckle rollercoaster.

I persevered, and headed for the Lea Valley canal path towards the new Olympics complex. In the late morning sun it was beautiful, its warmth on my skin, and the water alive with a great flock of Canadian geese all taking off at once.

People were going about their various Sundays, from boat owners moored to the green banks chopping wood in plumes of grey fragrant smoke, to couples walking hand in hand with gangly dogs.

It is a fantastic section of canal, and thankfully not like London at all. For a country girl the Lea Valley is an important getaway, and I'm very glad to live near its rugged beauty. For a while parkland stretches out on both sides of the water behind established trees, and Hackney Marshes reaches far away to one side, enticing walkers and nature lovers away from the canal’s glossy surface.

This Sunday swarms of colours had gathered in the distance as various footballers did their weekend practice.

Travelling slowly along the towpath, the green soon gives way to the awesome, high-fenced construction site of the 2012 Olympics and new build flats, with construction workers seemingly there permanently. But there is a sense of community in all this industry, with Lea Bank Square, covered in its purple planters, proudly advertising its own thriving community blog.

What makes it interesting is that a sort of beautiful dereliction exists here in sections, with crumbly, graffiti-strewn walls sitting amid brand new architecture. The odd silent swan floats by, creating a neat juxtaposition between nature and urban decay, as if either of these elements could eventually win out.

One swan...on its stately progess along the canal.

As the canal winds its way through Hackney Wick, the shiny buildings begin to outnumber the decrepit and tall buildings loom over the water. Here the canal splits, with one side heading for Victoria Park and The Towpath Cafe and the other towards the Thames and East India Docks. Canary Wharf stands in the distance like a monument to the modern but with my head swooning I wouldn’t make it that far.

I turned around and headed for home and to my surprise, didn't fall in the canal. Blimey did I feel wobbly, though. I'm fairly cautious alongside water at the best of times, it not being a natural element for me, but after a week in bed, every time someone approached me on the bridleway the fear was magnified and I broke out in a sweat.

I'd slow down to a crawl and plunge into the hedge, tangling my hat up in the brambles for the sake of staying away from the dreaded canal water. Bumps on the path didn't faze me but steering accurately was still a tricky concept. I slowly and carefully steered my way home and then collapsed on the sofa. Maybe it would take a few more days to get my balance back, I decided.

They say you never forget how to ride a bike, but boy can you forget how to ride it with finesse. I’m taking it slowly but I can't wait to get back into my regular cycling rhythm and become a cycling pro once more!

Ecomodo article

2011-01-02T17:47:00.000Z

My latest lovely article for The Ecologist:

You want to put up a set of shelves, but don’t own a drill. What do you do? A. Reach for a catalogue? B. Visit the nearest DIY shop? Or C. Borrow from a neighbour?

It is relatively cheap to buy everything we need, from hedge trimmers to awnings and many of us buy them without even thinking. With around 50% of UK homes now owning a power drill which is used an average of 12-15 minutes in its entire life, perhaps we don’t need to buy everything we will ever use.

To read the rest, click here.

Laura's mini arctic cycling adventure

2011-01-01T21:33:00.001Z

I've been somewhat remiss of late on the blog front due to illness and then some more illness, namely the worst virus known to man, which left me without either the power to cycle or to get out of bed at all. Thank heavens for recovery, however, and for my renewed ability to string a sentence together.

I'm now writing on Bike Revolution's blog, so we'll see how that goes.

My first installation can be found here.

Or you can read it here:

Wellies, check. Super warm gloves, check. Bobble hat pulled comically down to below eyebrows, check. Actually, maybe wellies aren’t a good idea, they’re not well known for their compatibility with cycling in adverse weather.

I wasn’t going to venture out into the snow on my bike but curiosity eventually got the better of me, and the draw of a novel experience was overwhelming.

The snow had been more like rain when I woke up and was entirely absent when I headed out of the door in the morning, evident only in the accumulated slush on trees, walls and untrodden pavements. By lunch, however, it was coming down from the sky in chunks, and great fluffy clumps flew tantalisingly past the window.

By early afternoon I was desperate to get outdoors so I quickly threw on as many clothes as I could lay my hands on and went out, wondering if this were safe or wise on my strange new bicycle with its slick tyres.

A couple of people looked at me askance – or I imagined they did - as I cycled slowly off, but the roads seemed clear so I thought: what’s the worst that can happen? Anyway, by this point the snow had almost ceased and I was anticipating a disappointing white winter mission.

Somehow, though, being out in the cold, wet air I imagined a time where going out in winter meant being intrepid and hardy, when blankets were often necessary and heated seats never an option. Yes, I felt to go out on such a day took a degree of bravery. I imagined myself travelling by horseback with knees covered in tartan and a stiff drink waiting at journey’s end.

Nevertheless I was apprehensive about snow cycling from last winter’s disastrous skid, where I suddenly found myself coming to blows with the ground, an incident from which I still bear a scar on my right elbow. I remained suspicious during this winter foray that any patch of snow could be harbouring a lethal under layer of ice, just waiting to catch me unawares.

The last thing I wanted was a collision between the floor and one of my limbs but as far as I could tell the roads were freer of ice than the pavements, and the snow had only gathered at the edges, so I started to relax. Maybe this was indeed the perfect time for a cautious bike ride.

I decided to head for the park for a chance to gawp at London’s answer to a winter wonderland. Hackney Downs did not disappoint and offered up swathes of white grass crowned with majestic frosted plane trees and a whole lot more white now tumbling down from the skies. The only green protruded from the ground into the grey air in brave little clutches.

The gathered snow on the path made friendly ‘chush, chush’ sounds under my wheels and all the the sounds seemed magnified, with the alternating splash-and-quiet as the trees dripped melted snow onto autumn’s recently-shed leaves before the sky opened up between trees and only distant car sounds were audible.

All seemed safe thus far and I spotted an opportunity to experiment with my off-road skills, so I veered across the open, snowy terrain towards the distant horizon.

It was bumpy and slow going but the scene that stretched before me in this vast winter tundra was just what I’d come looking for. The park had Nordic adventure written all over it, as billions of tiny white snowflakes flew sideways across the grey-white wasteland that used to be Hackney Downs. Unsheltered by the trees the wind blew chillingly into all the draughts of my coat and right through my flimsy bobble hat.

I made my slow progress in a nice easy gear. Snow stuck to the tyres and bunched up in my brakes, which probably wouldn’t have helped at this point anyway, and I felt like a child on a snow day. Leaves, hidden in drifts, made secretive noises as my wheels buried into the white blanket and deposited clumps of snow behind them.

As I approached the other side, signs of other life emerged in the form of two teenagers on mountain bikes. They appeared slowly out of the white and grinned at me as they passed. As I ran out of snow-covered grass, I rejoined tarmac at the meeting of several footpaths. The snow looked treacherous and revealed well-trampled whiteness underneath and every now and again the snow parted suddenly under my wheels and I would shift position unnervingly.

Every time I go in a park I like to make a passing comment about someone else’s dog and this time I wasn’t disappointed. A particularly woolly specimen approached, so I noted to his owner how appropriately dressed he was for the weather. Satisfied, it seemed like a good time to seek a warm cup of tea.

Back on the road a man on a bike came slowly towards me, huddled down over the handlebars. We gazed at one another for a long while, and I was almost anticipating a Mexican standoff before a smile spread slowly across his face. He looked around him at the weather in general, and said: ‘This is really bad.’ We both laughed, excited to be out in such extreme conditions.

The snow started to gather intensity as I neared the shop, making me feel I’d acquired a strange gravitational field. Great fluffy flakes lingered unhurried in the middle distance, but as soon as they came near they would fly at my face alarmingly. I didn’t know what this meant but decided I didn’t much like the weather’s change of tactics.

I quickly got what I needed, stuffed shopping in my handbag and made my stately progress home. I got back cold but refreshed and feeling I’d achieved something. I was glad of that particular ride because thanks to an ensuing freezing spell and one of the worst viruses I’ve ever had, I didn’t ride again for almost another two weeks, which is almost a record.

The Machine

2010-11-24T10:44:00.000Z

I’m just not accustomed to wobbling on a bike. After thousands of miles and years of cycling I’m not accustomed to having trouble getting started, or having to think about what to do when I stop. But I’ve now entered a new world of cycle technology and my new shiny speed machine is literally keeping me on my toes, in the name of progress.

This is an accidental development I’ve embraced simply because instead of just normal pedals the new bike has special pedal hooks for feet.

At first I rode out of the shop barely giving them any notice, thinking: ‘I don’t use this kind of pedal.’ Still in a daze from the loss of my lovely blue bike I ignored this affront to my normal cycling customs.

I’d intended to remove the hooks as soon as I could get my hands on a screwdriver, because unless hooked onto feet they dangle underneath the pedals and every time you round a corner they grind annoyingly into the road unless you slow down so much leaning isn’t necessary.

I cycled all the way to Camberwell one freezing day like this, and it took forever. Travelling via Victoria on the way home neither foot ventured even near the weird contraptions, insofar as that’s possible on a set of pedals. Corners were frustrating, upright, scrapey affairs.

As I got used to the hooks being there, however, I thought I’d try cycling with just one foot through the left contraption, practicing getting it in and out safely for fun.

I had painful if humorous memories of such hooks from Herne Hill Velodrome last summer where I rode a fixie round and round very adeptly for an hour or so, speeding up and slowing down like a pro, braking using only the pedals.

‘You’ve done this before,’ said the man helping us newbies grasp the whole arrangement. But I hadn’t, I told him with an air of smugness.

Imagine my embarrassment when I came to a beautiful, smooth stop with no brakes and calmly sat there next to the railing in the blazing August sun, before slowly capsizing onto the concrete as I forgot both my feet were still firmly strapped in. I failed to remember I was supposed to hold on before dismounting, a massive knee wound ensued and I still have the lump on my shin bone as a trophy.

Anyway, mindful of the potential for disaster, I would put one foot in as I set off, taking it out again when I stopped at lights and obstacles. The other foot joined the foray about a week later and became the anchor pedal, the one that’s always hooked in. It’s a strange concept concentrating not to wobble at the lights. I’ve now become, after some practice, quite adept at flipping the left pedal upside down at set-off, though, and gamely sliding my foot in before I race off.

The speed I can achieve with the new bike and its more efficient pedalling system is startlingly better. Where my foot used to slip and jump around on the pedal vainly seeking extra purchase, now it has a full rotation of push and pull to power me along. It’s like it was meant to be.

Perhaps the lack of pannier rack and mudguards (which I still haven’t got around to buying after three weeks) are giving me some weight advantage, but by God the new thing is fast. I’m like a rocket once the feet are hooked in, unstoppable on my new speed machine. I just keep pedalling faster and faster and I’m proud to have shaved several minutes off my daily commute.

Of course, the strange thing is that the new bike doesn’t have a soul yet. I just took the character of my old bike for granted, with its plucky blue colour just daring you to look.

‘The Machine’ as I like to call it, in its black shiny paintwork, is a bit more understated. It almost says: ‘I don’t need to be a flashy colour, you won’t even see me as I fly past.’

The nerves of locking this expensive new thing up, especially on Brick Lane where the theft occurred, are subsiding now I have skewer wheel locks, and I know how to avoid letting a thief’s car jack in my D-lock.

I forgot you attribute a bit of yourself to your transport; it is a very personal thing. Still, now I'm growing accustomed to it, and life goes on pretty much as it did. Before long I’m sure I will have bonded with this incredible bike which I am lucky enough to own and it’ll be like an old friend in no time, just me and my new machine taking on the world once more.

The Girl, her Bike, the Thief and the Police

2010-11-16T19:13:00.000Z

Afterthree years believing my bike was a fortress, the unthinkable happened: myever-reliable friend was stolen. When I bought it I thought I’d done everythingto make it unattractive to thieves - pinhead locks, expensive d-lock and brightblue frame - but the fact remained that it was a relatively expensive bike,desirable to someone who knew what they were looking for.

I’dparked outside a bar on Brick Lane on a Tuesday night; I left it at eight pmand I returned to the bike rack at 11pm. I locked it in the usual way, aroundthe top section of the frame. I never even worried about locking the wheelsbecause of the skewer locks I’d bought.

WhenI got to the bike rack and realized it was gone, it felt like I’d stepped intoan alternate reality where I had never possessed the bike: somehow it seemed amore plausible explanation than the possibility it was gone from my lifeforever.

Whatwould I do without it, I thought? I went everywhere on that bike, travelledthousands of miles across four countries, weathered horizontal rain, roastingheat and bad traffic. We had great experiences together, me and that bike and seensome funny things, including a garden of eerie broken toys in Northern France.

Ieven learned to fix the punctures myself, eventually. It was the most reliablemachine I’d ever owned and on it I had grown from a newbie cyclist to one witha wealth of experience and confidence on the road, not to mention a whole lotmore muscle on my legs.

Ididn’t even have an oyster card to get home that night.

AsI walked to the bus stop, wondering how much a bus fare cost, I thought: ‘If Isee someone riding that bike I don’t know what I might be capable of.’ I had changedfrom calm to furious.

Theadrenaline told me I should look for whoever took it. Of course this wasimpossible and dangerous so I asked around for the local police number. I wastold by bar workers there was no point calling them and that I should just goto Brick Lane market on Sunday. It wasn’t enough for me, so called the policethen and there.

Bythe time I made it home (after an encounter with an angry man with blood on hisface at the bus stop, followed by a swift hailing of a taxi) I couldn’t sleepuntil 2am. I called my mum up at 6am in tears the next morning; I couldn’tbelieve my bike was gone. Everything suddenly seemed so much more difficult: Irelied on the bike for food shopping, for getting to parts of the cityinaccessible by tube or painfully slow by bus, and for exercise. In fact I’ddeveloped a positive aversion to bus travel, I just can’t stand sitting stillin traffic.

Iregistered my bike stolen on Bike Revolution’s website that morning, and postedthe link on my Facebook and Twitter accounts in the hope of anyone seeing it,but I decided to look straight away for a replacement. I couldn’t facedowngrading, so I reserved a lovely Specialized from my bike shop and went to work.

Thebus journey was so slow thanks to a tube strike that I got off and ran the lasthalf mile in fits and starts, arriving ten minutes late.

Ichecked Bikeshd (www.bikeshd.co.uk) every few hoursthroughout the day, and my concentration came and went in waves, betweenstaring blankly into space.

Thatnight I returned home and all the emotion caught up with me, I was overcome bya sick feeling and could barely stand. I cancelled my evening’s plans andrented a DVD instead. The moment after I pressed play, my friend Mike from theLCC (www.lcc.org.uk) called me to sayhe’d seen a bike just like mine on Gumtree. My heart sank. I followed the linkand sure enough it was the same bike, but advertised as brand new.

Hesuggested I go and meet the person selling it, pretending to be a buyer. If itwas mine I would say I’d think about it, and then call the police. When Icalled him back to say I wanted it, the police would be there.

AlthoughI didn’t have my frame number it was an unusual bike and I had the only key tothe Pinhead locks on both wheels, which I hoped would be enough.

Icalled the seller. He was very evasive about where the bike was and who itbelonged to, he told me he was just selling it for a friend who couldn’t use acomputer. He’d meet me outside a station but not at his house. It all soundedvery suspicious.

Weagreed to meet outside a pub at his request, though I chose one close to home.I took a friend with me and by the time he arrived ten minutes late my heartwas racing.

Itried to keep control of any outward signs of nerves, but after less thana minute I realised it was my bike, though the yellow handlegrips were changed togrey ones and the front mudguard was gone (probably damaged when the lock wasforced).

Ithad my pinhead locks on the wheels and the saddle I bought to replace the oneI’d worn out, my pannier rack. Even my worn out Cateye light was still on theback, from where I forgot to take it off the night before. All the familiardents in the paint were the same, save for one additional deep scratch where mylock had attached it to a Brick Lane bike rack less than 24 hours earlier.

Theman who was selling it must have been less than 21 years old. He said it washis dad’s bike; he certainly wasn’t the same man I’d spoken to on the phone. Iwas shaking too much to test ride it myself so my friend did. I held herBrompton as she circled around and he admired her bike. He asked me if I rode aBrompton and what had happened to my bike. Distracted I just made something upabout wanting to upgrade.

Ifinally steadied myself enough to get on and even pretended to wobble as I setoff, in a bizarre piece of theatre. He told me: ‘Oh, it fits you a lot better.’

Icouldn’t believe I was riding my bike that this toe rag was trying tosell to me for £170. It cost me £550 new. ‘It’s a great bike,’ he said. ‘I rodeit over here and it’s really fast.’ He commented on its unusual colour -ironically the reason I chose it was that very few people have a bright bluebike, making it less attractive to thieves.

AsI sat there on my bike he rambled on about how quickly it would sell. Iimagined someone else riding it, and felt helpless and confused. He offered towalk with me to a cash machine and I seriously considered just riding off, butmy friend was there and I couldn’t leave her, or risk putting us both in danger.

Igot off the bike and handed it back to him, thinking: ‘At least the police willhelp me get it back.’ I had until his next client at 8pm to decide. It wasalmost 7pm now.

Shaking,I called the police straight away. I practically gnawed my fingers as they tookdetails of the bike and what happened. All the while I was conscious of theminutes slipping by, my bike getting further away. They will call when they’renear, the operator told me. So we waited.

Aphone call came five minutes later saying there were no units available. Icould scarcely believe it as I shook my head at my friend: No-one was coming.

Theoperator gave me the Safer Neighbourhoods Team’s numbers who could arrange ameeting with me the next day, by which time the bike would be long gone. Desperate,I called my friend again who had mentioned he knew someone from a special bikepolice unit, but he was cycling and didn’t answer.

Mymouth was so dry from the adrenaline. We had both called everyone we knew, no-onewas near enough. We even asked smokers in the beer garden if they would helpus, but I wasn’t confident of their commitment and so we waited.

At7:40 my friend called me with the Police Cycle Taskforce number, a 30-strongcycle-specific policing team, and I phoned them straight away. I spoke to thehead of the unit Jim Morris who told me to call the seller, stall him and theywould be there soon. It was like a lifeline.

ElatedI called the seller back. It was 7:55pm and the bike was sold. He had sold it for£150 ten minutes after we parted.

Itwas all over, and although it was a disappointment it was also a relief. Thepast hour and a half had been a rollercoaster of intense adrenaline and emotionand I couldn’t take much more. I called Jim back and told him it was too late. Hesaid if only I’d called him at the start they would have arranged it allthemselves. Of course I hadn’t realized at the start that’s how they work.

Unfortunatelythe CCTV from the site of theft and attempted sale yielded nothing we could use,they were either too far away or merely dummy cameras.

Althoughmy retrieval was unsuccessful despite all my efforts, I was shocked to discoverpeople often don’t report the theft of a bike. When the police stop someonesuspicious on a bike they can check the frame number against a database ofstolen bikes, but if it’s not reported stolen it’s much harder to do anything.

OneTaskforce officer told me he can name 50 police stations with hundreds of bikesin the yard which cannot be claimed because the frame number wasn’t known orthe theft was never even reported.

Iwould urge people to write down frame numbers and report the theft of a bikebecause with a concerted effort we stand a much better chance of stopping bikethieves.

The stolen bike, and tears.

2010-11-03T12:34:00.000Z

It was a dark and fairly cool night. A shiny blue hybrid bike shivered as the wind blew across Brick Lanes and rattled its chains like some eerie spectre from a Victorian horror story. Voices chattered from the picnic tables outside the bar and then faded slowly as the Tuesday night revellers yawned and stretched and decided it was prudent to head home.

Inside, Laura was swing dancing, the music and laughter drifting down onto the cobbled street below. Three hours the blue Trek had waited patiently, until a stranger headed her way.

With a dark hoody and a face of quiet determination the stranger eyed up the diminished rack of bikes until its eyes alighted on her. She drew a quiet breath.

'That bike isn't locked,' thought he. A moment.

'Oh, wait, it is. But I can jimmy that lock, no problem, with this here handy car jack. I'll squeeze and squeeze until that lock pops open, like a tube of Pringles.

And after the job was done, quick as a flash he reached into the rack and lifted the helpless creature out from safety among the other bikes. And before she knew it she was ridden off to strange, uncharted lands.

Yes, that is the sad tale of the events of Tuesday night. Without too much melodrama, my lovely trusty bike was taken.

Thousands of miles we had ridden together, thousands of mini adventures we had, with joy, tears, stalkers, friends and the occasional cat or dog towing along beside us.

So it is a bizarre experience coming back to something you rely on, to find it isn't there. My initial feeling was that I had entered a parallel universe where I didn't actually have a bike. Somehow that was more plausible than the reality I was faced with.

The bouncers at Vibe Bar were sympathetic but couldn't do anything, of course.

After a stroll up Brick Lane with a friend I stopped dead, recalling the image of a man on a blue bike which had caught my eye as I kissed my goodbyes earlier in the bar lobby.

'Gosh, that's the same colour as mine,' I had thought. That was my bike, I suddenly realised.

After my friend and I parted, a transformation occurred. All of a sudden the gall and the assault hit me like a slap in the face, and enraged I gazed wild-eyed about me for signs of the thieves.

I thought: either I will catch them myself, with these two hands and wrestle the suckers to the floor until they're sorry, or I must report this to the police. In shock, I wandered into a bar. They didn't have the police number and couldn't help me. I didn't want to hear anything else from them, let alone suggestions of finding it for sale in the market that Sunday, so I strode off for someone who could help.

Heading back down Brick Lane my eyes must have spelled murder. Anyone trying to give me flyers received the cold stare of a woman baying for blood. I was on a mission of vengeance, or at least justice. Heaven help those thieves if I had seen them then.

Storming down the road I found the empty police station, with the out of hours number and called the police to tell them my tale of woe. They took details and after that I felt mildly vindicated.

I went to bed to an uneasy sleep and an even stranger tale the next day, involving meeting my bike again but being unable to get it back.

I am now helping the special police bike taskforce with their enquiries.

We will catch them, I hope but I will have to recount that tale another time. Soon, I promise.

The cycling economy

2010-11-02T11:48:00.000Z

Oh, the glory of Boris Bikes (I know Ken Livingstone started the ball rolling, sorry Ken!). The marvel of just how many of them I see sailing around London, all blue and shiny and large and glorious. Yes, cycling is truly sponsored by TfL and Barclays.

I often think as I whoosh over this junction or struggle against that autumnal cyclone: would that person there amid swirling leaves be cycling were it not for the handy presence of the now ubiquitous blue bike? Would they venture on the road at all if it weren't for BBs' (Blue or Boris Bikes) ever-handy positioning around Central London? Probably not: this is in fact another step towards the London-wide domination of the bicycle.

And now the bicycle has a place in the world of business.

Spend any time in Central London these days with your eyes to the road and you will see a City gent traversing by in his suit.

Cycling alongside or behind them I think: 'Are you, snazzy fella, going to a meeting by bicycle? What an excellent way to do business.'

'Why yes,' they might reply. 'I need to go and see old Smithy in Underwriting House, I've hopped on this here handy bike and now I'm pedalling there.' Or: 'We need those contracts signed now, yesterday, so I grabbed the nearest two wheels and am cycling them there myself! It's great to get out of the office for half an hour and get a bit of air and exercise. I go back with the grey cells all stirred up and the happy hormones a-pumping.'

Yes, and Barclays' sponsorship of cycling is stimulating growth in the City. From new muscle growth and blood flow to grey cells, to the spread of renewed enjoyment of outdoors. Of the idea that simple pleasures can bring true wealth to the soul, an empathy towards the ecology of the City, its people and the traffic (and how slowly the latter actually moves, if we're honest).

Yes, banking is starting to love the small things in life, too. Good on it. Maybe banking will take a leisurely ride to Smithy in Underwriting House one day and think to itself: 'Dammit, I've been wrong all along. Life is not about perpetually increasing growth, the amount of resources we can use or the money we can make out of those finite resources. One day someone's going to have pay for all this borrowing we're doing, goshdarnit. And anyway, what were we going to spend all that money on?'

Yes it's a nice world the bikes have created.

Maybe banking will decide to hold cycle meetings in the park (on the designated lanes, at a leisurely pace), discussing the next deal or what to do about Jeff in accounts. After all, what better thinking time is there than when you're cycling?

There could be new cycle refreshment stops, roadside bike mechanics, cycle washes to ensure your wheels are kept looking and performing in tip top condition. Like shoe-shiners but wearing cycling caps instead.

I'm sure there are other ways for cycling to create more jobs.

School Travel Plans...how to...

2010-10-19T13:40:00.000+01:00

My latest article in The Ecologist

With the kids settled in to a new year at school, now is the perfect time to start considering how you get them there. We know the school run contributes significantly to congestion, and traffic levels at peak times can make it feel like a war of attrition. In the UK around 32% of pupils are driven to school, and one quarter of all school journeys made by car are under half a mile.

A school travel plan aims to reduce car journeys to and from school by identifying barriers to healthier alternatives, and seeks to remove them, while encouraging the use of ‘active travel’.

To read on, click here.

The Psychic Cyclist

2010-10-09T09:39:00.000+01:00

Derren Brown, Russel Grant, Mystic Meg. All purveyors of a supernatural ability to detect, what is to most people, the undetectable. As undoubtedly talented as they are, these people aren't alone. I have recently discovered there are psychics all around us.

Where have I been hanging out, you may ask? The grave yard? The astrology club? My local jos-stick shop?

No no no, my friend. I have merely been observing the behaviour of my fellow cyclists on my daily travels around London. You may have seen it too, and just not recognised it.

The shocking revelation is that while cycling around London many people appear to be assisted by mystic spirit guides. This is the conclusion I reached after careful observation of what could otherwise be called suicidal recklessness.

Many pull out into a heavy stream of traffic without looking, some change direction at the very last moment you are able to swerve out of their way. A large number routinely sit so far forward of the traffic lights that only God can tell them when the signal changes.

Take the other day. On my way to work a young woman on an old blue shopper pulled out from behind a bus into High Holborn during the morning rush hour, without either looking or giving any indication of what she was about to do.

In later reflection I decided only someone possessing powerful psychic abilities would attempt such a manoeuvre into that mighty stream of traffic. I was compelled to ride wide of her to shepherd any unwary traffic away and save this ethereal creature from a messy collision.

Maybe I was her guardian angel.

To my surprise there was another one on the way home. This time a man on a sporty single speed weaved wildly between parked and moving vehicles without even a cursory glance over either shoulder, as if daring chance to do its worst.

Only a few hundred yards along I noticed a woman cycling wearing earphones. Not those crappy little ones that are inaudible over the traffic, mind you, but great clonking ones which ensure you remain blissfully aware of anything short of a Millennium-scale fireworks display going off in the car next to you.

Bus coming up behind you? Lorry beeping wildly as he threatens to mow you down? Who cares, when you have spirit guides to steer you to safety?

Sometimes it's problem enough hearing what's happening on London's roads, where all the sounds mingle to one. Add to that Coldplay singing The Scientist right in your ear (where, I'll add, his girlfriend dies in a car crash, and he asks to 'go back to the start'), and you've got a veritable recipe for disaster.

I can imagine any number of situations -motorbikes over/undertaking, buses coming too close, aggressive taxis suddenly overtaking (and woe betide anyone who ends up in front of them), where one would need to put their ears to use...why a parade of elephants could be sneaking up behind you and without either adequate awareness or ESP you could remain blissfully unaware, and quite flat.

Yesterday a van driver became irate when I scooped in front of him at the lights, in one of my favourite new manoeuvres. He started revving violently in what I imagine was frustration, so I turned around, stared at the number plate, stared him in the eyes for a moment, and kapoosh, no more revving, the kitten was tamed.

Without my ears he could have mistaken my not hearing for capitulation, or he may have assumed that he could drive at me with maximum acceleration and my guardian angel would protect me.

I can honestly say that not only was I not capitulating to this aggression, but in the absence of a guardian angel I was making full use of all my senses.

Because you never know when your spirit friends may be taking a holiday/helping someone else/filing their nails and you may have to look out for yourself.

The Yellow Jersey

2010-10-05T11:28:00.000+01:00

I feel like a child describing an item of clothing here but the combination of my new cardigan and fresh muscles after a holiday is making me feel like a cycle champion.

Yesterday I went back to work after a week walking in the Lake District, and at lunch time I found the mustard-yellow cardigan. I never owned anything that colour before, but then it just seemed right, so I bought it and wore it on the way home.

Although I love regular cycling, one of the things I love most is a long, fast ride after time off the bike. It's something about all the energy in rested legs. It's the joy of having my hands back on their handle grips, worn to that familiar smoothness by miles of road riding, it's the feel of the pedals responding to a slow, steady increase in speed as I zip in between the traffic until it feels like no-one can overtake me. It's like coming home with rocket packs in my legs.

Despite a gruelling 800ft hill climb for a novice walker, the muscles I used on holiday just weren't the same. Now I'm eagerly back in the saddle with the wind in my face, and the traffic in just about everything.

I'm dipping into the corners with one knee out like a motorbike racer. I'm putting one arm proudly out to announce that yes, I am turning. I'm racing the traffic lights just in time and manoeuvring that overtake just right so I don't get squashed.

It's the gratification of being King of the Road, or at least king of my journey, that I love.

Despite the familiarity of the roads, their landscape is always changing. Each careering vehicle has a different character, each with varying frames of mind and abilities. It is that split-second judgment you're constantly making that counts.

Scanning the reams of pedestrians both on and off the road, noting each direction and speed, you try to predict which ones are going to step out at that crucial moment. You use the bell just in time to forewarn the ones that step out without looking.

Because no matter how much of a daze I may be in the rest of the day, in those moments perched on my bike, I'm the most sentient being on the road. I see all that happens around me, and I only take the risks I know I can.

Yesterday cyclists in unfeasible volumes made their way to work alongside me in the absence of tube services. It was a fantastic sight seeing all those people pedalling to work, I almost couldn't believe how many there were. It was also a big go-slow because there simply wasn't any getting past the hundreds of cycles.

On the way back it was a different route, a different journey. Coming from the West End it was one of those glorious rides when there is infinite power in my legs and they keep saying to me: 'Faster, faster.'

Coming across Dalston Junction a dangerous van zoomed closely by, but I overtook him again as the traffic lights went red on his lane and it was priority for the bus lane. I pedalled and pedalled down that road like lightning. Passing the stopped traffic in my own lane and bursting out into the empty road ahead I truly felt, in my yellow jersey, like I'd just won the Tour de France. I could have punched the air.

The van driver had a loud and amusing conversation with a colleague up ahead of him, next to me at the lights. Then he pinched me into the pavement again after the junction as he sped away, to offload some pallets to God knows where. Judging by his speed and the desperate revving tone of his engine I'd say he was building up for the Pearly Gates.

Still, he couldn't have gotten as high as me on that glory lap home. That would take some beating.

Come transport Armageddon, the cyclists will be fine

2010-09-07T19:55:00.000+01:00

On top of wardrobes, underneath beds and in people's coat pockets hiding behind that fluff that always accumulates, and whose origins are never known.

Wherever they were before, all the cars of London were well and truly out in force today. In a spectacular show of machinery they were paraded very slowly to work in the sad absence of underground transportation. And boy, were there a lot of them.

Joining Hackney Road this morning near the city farm all seemed normal. The traffic, I soon realised, was queueing across usually tame junctions even after the lights had gone red.

I squeezed my way down their ranks, and all the way across Shoreditch High Street they were waiting patiently for the next big push forwards.

By the time I'd reached the Old Street roundabout, it was pretty much like Armageddon. Three lanes were jammed with vehicles of every ilk. So little space was there in that last desperate fifty yards, I got onto the pavement with other beleaguered bicycles, and walked.

Some plucky cyclists took this opportunity to play dodgems with the pedestrians, emerging surprisingly through bus shelters in foiled attempts to mow someone down.

In all fairness to Londoners, though, the drivers I saw were calm and no pedestrians showed surprise at the onslaught.

In situations where something out of the ordinary occurs, and things are shaken up, you start asking: What is going to happen? Where will this crazy experiment take us?

Weaving in and out of stopped traffic on that roundabout it felt like everyone was trying to leave London. But the cyclists were the only ones moving.

But jeez did the air stink. It was like sticking your head into a big catalytic converter, with that acrid taste there's no escaping that gets right in your face and then blows a raspberry.

Dodging an infeasible volume of cars, bikes and motorbikes along with the usual road fayre of irate taxis and high-sided vans, you needed your wits about you out there. Novelty cyclists, unused to London roads at the best of times, were pulling all sorts of unexpected tricks, changing direction without looking or giving any indications, leaving you to do your best with the minute alternative space available for manoeuvre. All the while motorbikes weaved, cars squeezed and buses edged gracefully along, slowly threatening a cycle sandwich if you chose the wrong moment to squeeze by.

On the way home Shaftesbury avenue was a traffic jam right through to Holborn, making my progress slow. I smiled at a guy leaning out of a van window, before realising he'd probably be there for the next 30 minutes, the poor bastard.

At traffic lights, heaps of cyclists piled up next to tangles of mopeds and superbikes, and the odd supercar was dragged out for the party, too, in the absence of a more average mode of road-based transport. I wondered how much an Aston Martin used in the way of fuel during half an hour in the same place.

Circumnavigating a queue of cars I actually managed to travel for a spell in the wrong direction on the leviathan Old Street roundabout, without fearing even remotely for my life.

What with all this jostling and weaving, my journey took a lot longer than usual, but it certainly provided food for thought.

I think someone missed a trick today. Just think of all those people who could have been encouraged to cycle today. In my fantasy world, the roads would have been shut to motorised transport and scores of experienced leaders would have escorted novice cyclists to work, like in the good old days of Cycle Fridays, or like a continuation of the weekend's Skyride.

Those led rides are surely worth a second try in these cases: certainly no-one in a car was moving far in Central London today.

I want to park my bicycle!

2010-09-04T10:46:00.000+01:00

I'm liking the cute new ads by TfL (complete with celebrities) but reading Adam Vaughan's comments in the Guardian Bike Blog I can't help but agree with him - maybe that £441, 000 would have been better spent on infrastructure.

To me it seems it's a balance between promoting cycling as an easy, healthy, and dare I say it, fashionable means of transport, and providing the tools to make that a reality. People I've spoken to have given up cycling or never tried it in London because it's perceived as dangerous, or very commonly, their bike was stolen and they simply never replaced it.

I wandered onto Broadway Market yesterday, to my usual coffee shop to at least pretend to do some laptop work. Rejoicing at the fact my usual cycle rack was empty on one side (two bikes sharing the other side), a thought occurred to me.

Each time I cross Broadway Market it's like a game of dodgems, with scores of cyclists and their at times odd sense of road use careering towards you like two-wheeled zombies. As a cyclist it's even more daunting as you sail along feeling like silent death on the lookout for unsuspecting pedestrians to quietly mow down.

Or at least that's the way I feel until my good angel reminds me to ding my bell twice, to avoid litigation.

So the way I see it on my rounds, cyclists are to Hackney what yummy mummies are to Upper Street. We therefore should have plenty of places to leave our proud steeds, and water for them to sip should they want it. What a weird thing that in this cycling mecca, that on Broadway Market often a clutch of bikes are tied to a moveable fence (essentially a big gate for Saturday's market) with the warning they could be removed at any time.

When I returned later, another bike was snuggled up against mine, making it four bikes locked to one n-shaped hoop of metal. Outrageous.

In all fairness, cycling has picked up speed quicker than many councils can afford to catch up. And though I'm happy about the widespread guardrail removal in London, it's taking away many handy bike parking spaces.

But there is hope on the horizon. Last week I posed for a photoshoot for a new bike parking website by the LCC, where you can suggest places for new bike racks. What a fabulous idea, I can't wait to make a few suggestions.

My other bike parking choice would be the West End. I'm working near Golden Square at the moment, and my bike's locked to scaffolding during the day. Who knows where she'll be stabled all day after it comes down.

I would be grateful if the lovely Edith Bowman could help me on that, too.

How do you like them apples? So ask environmentalists and capitalists alike, as farmer is faced with a tricky decision

2010-08-26T11:12:00.000+01:00

An ancient and rare find of apples from an Ice Age hoard has been discovered this week under a Somerset orchard beneath the Pelican Pond.

How the fruits got underneath Braeburn Farm near Frome, Somerset, and how they remain so well-preserved is a matter of mystery that may become myth.

They were discovered by local farmer-and-schoolboy team Mr John and young Jeff from next door who regularly patrol the area for treasure.

'Somehow the apples just came up on our radar,' said farmer John.

Excited ten-year-old archaeology fanatic and co-discoverer of the hoard, Jeff Perkins, added: 'How cellulosic compounds came to activate the metallurgic receivers in our metal detectors, no-one can guess. The only thing I know is, we've struck gold!'

However, a major stumbling block in this seeming oilfield of opportunity is that there are already established apple trees growing in the usual way on top of the ground.

Farmer John aptly put it: 'The trouble with this is my orchard is a potentially unlimited resource as long as the sun shines. To get at these underground apples, if they really exist, the whole field would have to be uprooted and the pelicans, used as deterrents against marauding foxes, would lose their pond for the foreseeable future.'

'It's like God's playing a trick on us,' Farmer John said.

The presence of the apples was confirmed after the farmer-and-boy team unearthed one or two of the bright yellow apples close to the surface. By chance, there had been an article about them in Farmer John's agricultural weekly, Clods, only a fortnight before, allowing him to identify the strange fruit.

'We would love to get at those weird apples but to do so we'd destroy the ecosystem of the orchard.

'We'd only regain our capacity in, say, 20 years,' he added, when asked how the orchard would recover from being completely obliterated by heavy digging machinery.

The trouble is, Mr. John is now not the only person interested in these rare apples, most probably laid down by hunter-gatherers wishing to capitalise on a bumper crop.

The fruits are considered a rare delicacy around the world, and offer a culinary glimpse of what would have been enjoyed by our ancestors after Britain's Ice Age, roughly 10,000 years ago.

'Apparently, these things are valuable to rich folks in London,' said Mr. John. 'And there's been pressure from my neighbours to take the money and run.'

One hard-of-hearing neighbour took the opportunity to poke his head round the door at this moment to shout: 'I'd buy a Ferrari, if I were you.'

'The trouble is, I don't want to upset things here,' added Farmer John, after escorting the man safely back home. 'The pelicans are happy, and I'll be blowed if I know where the pygmies will live once their foraging land has gone,' he said, referring to a family of gnomes who fish in the pond.

'All these people only think short-term. Well, that's all fine, but what will happen once the apples have gone and the media circus is over and all I'm left with is a biologically inert farm and my memories?'

Reminded that he'd be one of the richest farmers with memories in England, he replied: 'Pooh.'

Faced with a brutal choice between short-term gain and long-term investment, he continues to mull things over while local green campaigners are worried about the upset to the pelicans.

'Just let the apples rot there,' said one strong critic of unearthing ancient apples. 'I've tasted them, and they're not that good. What will the farmer do once this stash has gone? All he'll have is mounds of soil and no decent cider for the next 20 years. It would be ludicrous short-termism to bow to this sort of pressure.'

Previous famous hauls of ancient fruit include the Easter Island Pomegranate stash found in 1984,buried by Islanders for times of hardship and then presumably forgotten about; and the Edinburgh turnips, found in the city's network of underground streets when a particularly thin young girl fell down a drain onto a heap of them. The latter were thought to be from times when poor city dwellers lived on a diet of turnip and rat and eventually reached saturation point.

Scientists are now using seismic technology to ascertain just how many apples are down there. 'This could be bigger than the crop above ground in all of Somerset,' said one expert.

But one green campaigner, Marty McDuff, referred to an old phrase particularly poignant at this time: 'Unearth some ancient apples and you're full for a week, but grow your own and you'll have so many, you'll soon be sick of the buggers.'

Farmer John is yet to decide either way.

=============

Inspired in one part by The Onion and in three parts, equally, by Indian tribe's recent victory over Vedanta, who wanted to mine their mountain to death for Bauxite, and the discovery of oil in Greenland.

I know it's random, but it was fun to write.

LA loves bikes

2010-08-19T15:10:00.000+01:00

Just look for yourself! It seems the Mayor of LA has taken a shine to cycling, and he wants to take the city with him. One more urban area loving the bicycle.

See the LA Streetsblog comments here.

'Street Champions' inspire commuities to adopt low carbon lifestyles

2010-08-19T14:50:00.001+01:00

My latest article for The Ecologist.

We all know that turning off lights and insulating our homes saves money. So why are so many people still not taking all the advice that's available?

A pioneering social marketing project in Richmond is using neighbourhood networks to improve energy efficiency in the borough.

To read on, click here.

Mamils! (or Middle Aged Men in Lycra)

2010-08-18T11:24:00.000+01:00

At last! Some excellent news regarding middle-aged men! Just when I thought anyone over 35 and male could only satisfy their manly spending urges in a Top Gear-style splurge on our remaining oil supplies, along comes a story which proves me wrong.

To my delight, it seems there is a new breed of middle-aged male on our roads: the Mamil. These middle-aged men in lycra are my new heroes. Setting the scene for numerous ad campaigns from companies wishing to cash in on their mid-life crisis spending spree, we sure have a treat in store for us.

Gosh that sounds sarcastic, but really, I'm overjoyed. Fair play, I say to the man whose lifetime spent behind the wheel just doesn't seem to fit anymore and is brave enough to make a leap into the unknown.

So let's tell you how it works. In a burst of derring-do, more and more men are taking up biking as the mid-life crisis activity of choice.

Our man dashes down to the local bike shop, limbering up limbs and some lingo on the way ("I'll have the Campagnola derailleur, thanks, none of your Shimano shenanigans for me," you may hear them say).

And off he goes, pedalling happily into the sunset and taking one Ferrari sale down with him. Or so I'd like to think.

Instead of the noisy hum of over-tuned, over revving sportswagons driving aimlessly around our cities we may instead behold the sight of would-have-been flabby men looking lean, trim and fighting fit on their two-wheeled mean pedal machines.

Perhaps we'll move on to a chivalrous age of side cars for lady friends, or tandems, perhaps ("I'll pick you up at eight, darling, and don't forget your trouser clips/stylish hair scarf")? Of blissfully quiet streets and sweet-smelling air (aside from the whiff of masculine competitiveness as they dash away from the lights)?

Will we see swanky restaurants with shiny bicycles lined up outside? Will bike shops go all upmarket? Park Lane Trek, anyone? Mayfair Ridgeback?

And you know once all the money's in the bike market, we may look forward to waving goodbye to all those awful adverts portraying the latest 4x4 as some kind of three-ton skateboard (which was never very responsible or realistic if you ask me).

Instead of assigning some random nimbleness to vehicles, many of which you couldn't even u-turn on 90% of London's streets (unlike our new trusty steeds, my friends), these men will have adverts pitched at them showing buff, happy and healthy guys riding bikes in clean streets, and no need for the ridiculous fantasies. Or at least perhaps slightly less galling ones.

Cycling is cool, thank God, and now, as always with these things, its spreading out from the Shoreditch fixies to everyone else, who want in on the cool, too.

Before long, we'll see James Bond chasing down the villain with the latest in pedal technology, complete with bike bat cape (allowing one to take off while still pedalling), a little dinghy for when the rascals hit the water (turning your pedal power into a water-churning speed machine), etc, etc.

And before long the real James Bonds of our streets will have thighs like steel, a youthful glow and the ability to speed themselves into any action-based scenario going.

Now there's a real hero for you.

Life without supermarkets: Community action is the best way to beat them

2010-08-13T10:36:00.000+01:00

My latest Ecologist blog...

In the absence of government intervention on the monopoly of supermarkets, I’ve discovered individuals and groups really can make a difference to their local economies, and there is plenty of evidence to show why they should try.

Though there haven’t been great developments either way in recent plans to open a Tesco Metro near my beloved corner shop, there’s still been one in the eye for the Tescopoly this week. Local groups’ opposition has successfully scuppered proposals for a 13-story Tesco hypermarket and housing complex to replace the already monstrous supermarket in the centre of Hackney, despite support from the local council on the plans.

To read on, do click your cursor arrow right here.

Hayfever and Hydrogen

2010-08-04T10:45:00.000+01:00

There's a weird tingling in my nose this week, and at times it's refused to work at all. I don't know if it's hay fever but my spider sense is telling me this is the culprit, in the absence of any further cold or flu-like symptoms.

The lightheadedness has been punctuated with feelings of blame at London's bad air quality. Looking out from this week's lofty temp office out onto a world of smog I can't help but feel vaguely vindicated.

How are the two linked, you may ask? Or you may already know.

Hay fever, something which I've escaped so far for nearly three decades, has suddenly arrived, possibly aggravated by pollution, which can trap pollen in the air. Which explains why the last few years have seen my tickly nose and sore throat symptoms slowly intensify into a sporadic yet tangible unwell feeling.

So, has the air quality in London got worse? Even despite the low emission zone and the congestion charge zones, are there more cars in London, or is it some weather system which is gracing us with the remnants of our profligate oil use?

Apparently, sunlight can alter the particles of pollution creating something delightfully named photochemical smog. With city pollen counts supposedly dropping, hay fever has doubled in 20 years. This summer it's my turn.

When I get ill I get grumpy, and as I cycle around at the moment I mutter phrases of irritation at the people in their smelly cars, going nowhere in the gridlock, at the stench of the vans, at the catalytic converters' distinctive odour of poison. And the fact they're all right in my face.

Of course, in many ways you can't blame these people for choosing to move about in their 'safe' wagons, protected from what they see as a dangerous world, full of other wagons ready to mow them down in a heartbeat ('Just you make one wrong move, flabby, and I'll squash you into the floor,' they might hear other drivers say).

The thought-provoking words of Koy Thomson in his last editorial as the London Cycling Campaign's Chief Executive got me thinking recently.

It's not so much that cycling has many enemies, just that it is lacking enough friends, he said. Well, I've seen any number of angry drivers who look like they would kill all cyclists, were it not for the legal repercussions, but I see what he means.

And yet transport, he points out, has the potential to define a city. Half of the world's population lives in urban areas and traffic is one of the key issues that affects everyone, whether it is getting to work, or choosing a place to live, or being stuck with a busy, stinking road outside your window (like this writer).

A well-designed, pedestrian and cycle-centric city would be a healthier, cleaner, fitter, more productive place, he adds. Which we know, right? But it made me really imagine what this would look like. I took parts of the City in my mind and just dispensed with the cars. It was a wonderful image.

It also made me want to be a good ambassador for for cycling, in an attempt to recruit friends. I imagine that wobbly cyclist ahead of me is brand new to the outfit and offer them an encouraging smile or two. I use my bell politely, and say 'thank you'.

I still scowl at the drivers who text and drive, but it's a series of small steps.

But my friendship doesn't help the ones who are too scared to get out there in the first place.

A new taxi, run on Hydrogen cells, is being developed for the 2012 Olympics, and the cycle hire scheme is in place. These things have the potential to make the smelliest city in the UK a little less offensive.

Koy Thomson's words also reminded me that charities like the LCC face a massive challenge against the bureaucracy of government, and need all the support and members they can get. What we need now is to remind our politicians in as many ways as we can that cycling could be the answer to our bad air, health and hay fever problems.

The blue paint is a start but many people will need a bit more of a boost to get them in the saddle for good, and rid us of the doom of tickly noses.

Last day to respond! Congestion Charge consultation nearly ends!

2010-08-02T14:52:00.000+01:00

Today is thelast day to respond to the Western Extension of the Congestion Zone.

The consultation includes:

Removing the Western extension of the Congestion Zone, between Park Lane and Shepherd's Bush. This area makes up almost half of the total congestion zone. The Congestion Zone received applause from environmentalists, but is unpopular with businesses, and those on the outskirts who believe it pushed the congestion onto their doorsteps.
Further discounts for cars with low CO2 emissions, including exemptions for plug-in hybrids and any conventional car that emits less than 100g/km.
Increasing the charge from £8 to £9.

Pipe up now, or later repent.

Bikeshd saves the day!

2010-07-22T16:18:00.000+01:00

A new way to reunite people with their stolen bikes.

Bikeshd skims images from sites such as Gumtree and eBay, and posts them onto its gallery, allowing you to browse and click on the picture, redirecting you to the original advert.

Here's an article I wrote last year for the London Cycling Campaign about an owner who got his bike back under incredible circumstances thanks to Bristol bobbies and the power of the internet (LCC don't always keep archives so it's a summary of my piece of journo work, posted on the fine cycle website Roadcc).

Here's hoping the bike snatchers won't know what's hit them.

WWOOFing

2010-07-16T12:37:00.000+01:00

My latest Ecologist article on WWOOFing:

WWOOF (World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms) is not just a cheap way to see the world, it's a hands-on way to learn new skills of sustainable living.

Bending arm-deep in a permaculture-style flower, weed and vegatable bed in the glorious Norfolk sun, trying to work out which plants to pull up and which to leave, I ended up with nettle-rash in some interesting places. Though the stinging soon reduced itself to a tingle, the impression WWOOFing left will last much longer.

To read on, click here...

Life without supermarkets: forget posh organic shops, check out food co-ops

2010-07-15T11:05:00.000+01:00

My latest Ecologist blog:

At some point this week, any wishy-washy ideas I had about an idyllic life of local shopping have met with the practicalities of life as a supermarket avoider. I realised I need to be a lot savvier, if only for the sake of financial stability.

To read on, click here...

Cycle Cafes!

2010-07-12T11:27:00.000+01:00

As a writer spending much time at home with my laptop, London's cafes provides a welcome break from the hardships of solitude (cue violins). Many, however, employ techniques which seem to indicate they want you out of their cafe rather than in.

Perhaps it is the hours spent by many glued to the screen, while time whizzes by unheeded, and the remnants of that long-forgotten coffee coagulates on the sides of the cup, which forces them to extreme measures.

Yes, cafes house many of these long-enduring guests, many of whom I wouldn't necessarily want to share a space with: the sorts that chew noisily and barge your drink all over the table-top while you're engrossed in some errant sentence or other.

Yes, it's a tricky life, with little imagined battles for space, metaphorical and physical. The further abuses inflicted on the hapless cafe lizard are manifold.

One cafe I have grown fond of for its friendly staff and pleasant, cosy decor has the most haphazard music selection of any single being I have ever encountered. One minute you are listening to Otis Redding soothingly bemoaning losing your money and discovering your friends are fickle, the next you are being assaulted by some monstrous death-techno at volumes that threaten to peel the ears right off your face.

So, thank God for my new cycle cafe, 'Look Mum No Hands!' . To sit in a bright, airy room surrounded by beautiful bicycles and music that if not consistent, is consistently background, is truly wonderful.

I look forward to checking out the other two cycle cafes I have just heard about. I'm hoping they don't share the love of what I like to call 'Dinosaur Rock' (aka heavy, voice wrenching prehistoric beast-style yodelling) that my old bike shop used to play. That's never going to play well with the creative output of a peace-loving writer.

In the meantime, I'd like to say hooray for cycle-themed cafes!

Micycle, 47 Barnsbury Street, N1 www.micycle.org.uk

Rapha Cycle Club, 146 Clerkenwell Road, EC1 www.rapha.cc

Look Mum No Hands! 49 Old Street, EC1 www.lookmumnohands.com

Cycling in London in pictures

2010-07-08T11:37:00.000+01:00

Some beautiful illustrations of cycling in London are currently on show at the London Transport Museum, as part of TfL's launch of its Cycle Superhighways.

See the Guardian's slide show of some of the best here.

Pedestrians vs. Italy

2010-07-05T16:39:00.000+01:00

In a grand spirit of expedition, a friend and I hiked down a steep hill on Lake Como last week on a whim. It was my first ever swing dancing holiday, it was hot, we'd been travelling since 3am and by late afternoon our legs were restless for some downhill flip flop action.

Feeling unsatisfied by the entertaining but short funicular ride which took us up the wooded hill, we took it upon ourselves to find our own way back down.

It was slow going. After an hour on the zigzag road, stopping for every diversion in sight - photographing balconies perched dizzyingly above the valley, stopping to pose by a Campari-branded water fountain, sticking our faces through the metal bars protecting a religious cave-cum-grotto - we found ourselves about seven metres from the start of our journey, near the funicular's engine room.

For the purpose of trying my first Italian coffee, we stopped to rest our weary feet at a nearby cafe, commanding spectacular hilltop views across the lake with an incredible array of distant mountain peaks. This afforded the added benefit of proximity to the funicular's engineering. Not that we looked at it.

After the coffee, and admiring the quaint wording on the menu - I wish I'd taken a picture - we stopped to photograph a spooky old iron gate straight out of an Addams Family film, which seemed to lead nowhere but certain death over the edge of a cliff.

Walking away from the top of the hill, with its incredible grand, multi-balconied houses scattered with well-tended window boxes, we marched into uncertain territory, where the un-pavemented roads offered precisely no pedestrian protection and washing dripped from balconies on to the street below.

We noted with amusement a frisson of danger as vehicles large and small careered round high-walled corners leaving us scurrying out of the way with the impression we'd been whisked to some Italian automotive version of the running of the bulls. And boy, do the Italians take those corners wide.

At this point, after the most exciting houses had gone and the road traversed a less grand part of the village I wondered if my friend was truly serious about walking all the way down the hill. We were still high above Como, and I considered whether we'd ever make it back to enjoy the luxuries of a bed and a warm shower.

Much to my friend's delight, and for the purposes of amusement, as the afternoon wore on I made up for feelings of uncertainty by complaining at every opportunity about the arduous journey ahead.

The road veered distinctly away from the direction of Como, into uncharted woodland. My disquiet was multiplied as the corners became suddenly sharp, and we adopted a survival-inspired camaraderie, me shepherding my friend out of the way of cars on treacherous bends, and she bravely walking behind me in case of careering vehicles from the rear.

As we descended into the forest we started to joke about our bodies being found months later, squashed by a passing moped, or ravaged by a random swarm of mosquitoes.

The going soon became rather unremarkable, though, as my inadequately-cushioned flip flops slapped into the ground hypnotically, jarring my bones with every step.

I'll add now the holiday was regularly punctuated by my not small obsession with little dogs. I've taken it upon myself to compile an amusing compendium of pictures of said dogs and their owners, and Italy was positively a gold mine of opportunity. It was an obsession which, to my delight, soon rubbed off on my friend.

You can imagine our joy, then, when a distant barking emerged from somewhere ahead of us. As soon as I heard this merry sound I joined in the hound's chorus.

The dog started sounding riled, so I sounded riled back. We discovered here, much to our surprise, I do a very good line in angered terrier, the trouble being the dog felt the same, and was evidently running determinedly in our direction, from one of the gated houses ahead.

Not only did we find two small angry dogs running at us, they were soon joined on the opposite side of the road by a freakishly scary short-haired brown muscle dog, looking like something out of a zombie movie. Terrified, we made a run for it.

As we rounded a hairpin corner at speed, the zombie dog charged for the other side of his territory to meet the sound of my flapping flip flops on the road.

We prayed now that the property was well fenced and the beast couldn't get out to come and eat us, as we panicked our noisy way down the mountain.

It seemed that after that every dog on the hillsides of Como could smell the fear on us, and we descended much like hunted prey. At each opportunity one would come charging at a set of gates as we passed and we jumped out of our skins before repeating a prayer to the god of dog tamers that each alsatian-infested property was sensibly fenced.

The sound of scores of dogs soon rang around the valley as we walked, with dogs from balconies, dogs in gardens, dogs behind walls, fences and appearing from just about every other orifice of the hillside came to scare the bejesus out of us.

I started to wonder as we found ourselves back in civilisation: Do all walkers in Italy face the same fate? What was supposed to be a gentle stroll had become, as in some deranged computer game, a battle of nerves against the country's inhabitants.

I realised now we met almost no other pedestrians on the hillside.

What we did see were about thirty battle-hardened cyclists at various times in full lycra outfits struggling up the steep roads, an apparently normal occurrence and something I salute, especially given the prevailing gradient and the age of some of the participants.

Frankly neither of us were up to biking it, though, something which seemed to require superhuman endurance.

I don't say this often, but what about the walkers? Where were the walkers to enjoy this spirit of adventure? Our escapade was a fun and exciting part of our trip, and wouldn't have been half as good if we had simply driven a metal box down the hillside.

Without our little stroll, we would have missed the hedges of fragrant jasmine, the clean air, the insects, dog attacks and other curiosities. I urge everyone to try it, it was bloody good fun.

To me our success at finally reaching the town in time for dinner was worth all of the effort it took and more, even if the Italians don't provide their pedestrians with something safe to walk on.

The cost of trams, and my idea for a TV series

2010-06-20T13:20:00.000+01:00

The Edinburgh tram, a favourite public transport development of mine, needs another £55 million to complete, causing an independent MSP to call for the scheme to be scrapped altogether.

Just imagine for a moment you're having a household extension. How likely is it the builders come up to you halfway through laying your shiny new flooring and say: "Sorry love/gov (delete as necessary), we need another few grand. Bad estimating on my part, I'm afraid."

Or how likely that they say it and walk away with their faces intact?

And how, in the name of the little tram gods, is £545 million not enough? When doing the quote, did the successful tender forget they would need erect tram stops for people to wait at? Did they turn round halfway through and say: "Bugger, we'll need doors on these trams!"

If they did, they should be escorted off the site immediately with a warm cup of cocoa. Indeed the city bosses are thinking of replacing Bilfinger Berger.

There's a long history of under quoted infrastructure, here (the BBC), here (central government overspends) and here (my local council), for a fun few.

I'm curious: is the competition is so stiff contractors end up under quoting their jobs? Do they say: "It'll cost £600 million, but that sounds a lot, so we'll make it around £545m instead. We'll just break it to them in segments."

Maybe they do, maybe they don't, but if the old Mcwhack-em-up House builders that grace our green and glorious landscape can throw up a block of flats these days faster than you can say: "What about the energy ratings?!"....

...if Big Brother can have its hundredth series this year...

Surely we could have infrastructure on time and on budget.

Why not?

I propose we have a 'rogue builders'-style investigative team on telly to protect our hapless civil servants from potential ruthless practices by large businesses. Let's laugh at the sods who dare to try and waste our money and our public transport services just when we need them most.

I'm no TV expert, indeed I barely watch it, but I'd say a reality-style TV show with a brave and plucky soul scooting around saving our municipal funds is the kind of hero I want.

Maybe they could have some sort of bicycle with a basket and a small white terrier in it called Jimbo.

Seriously, though, surely the situation could be remedied somehow, other than closing down the unhappy tram? It's transport for goodness sake, not an exploration to the edge of the known galaxy.