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Community: Real Life

On yer bike


Amy Burrows

Amy, 23, works in children's publishing. She enjoys working in an environment where underpants and dog detectives are discussed in serious meetings, but misses her carefree student days, where watching an entire series of The Mighty Boosh in one afternoon wasn't frowned upon.

Amy can understand why cyclists have a bad name. She's had enough of the wobbly riders who don't get how traffic lights work and those Lycra-clad, fluorescent covered riders who appear out of nowhere.

You might not have guessed yet, but I'm actually a cyclist myself. Personally, I promote cycling for many reasons.  In a career driven world where I don't leave work until after 6pm, after sitting at my desk all day I think it's important to get all the exercise I can. 

When those London bendy buses overtake me, forcing me into the curb with their reckless driving, I get to witness the other commuters.  I see their cheeks squashed up against the bus windows, and you can understand why I'm happy to be in the open air.  Although sometimes it's a close call - inhaling exhaust fumes or severe body odour, which would you prefer? I also cycle for environmental reasons and to save money, pots of money infact, when you consider the cost of a weekly travel card in London. 

I pedal along in my own little world and I'm in my element. My friends are the first people to tell me to shut my preachy gob about this. They get especially sick of my do-gooder spiel; my "I'm doing this for the environment" line rubs them up the wrong way.

So my friends may be slowly edging away, but you'd think that I'd at least be able to get on with other cyclists, right? At least we'd have cycle fury in common and environmental awareness.  We'd be able to unite in discussions of black cab drivers and the lack of cycle lanes, wouldn't we?

No!  I hate all other cyclists. I'm a black cab driver in the body of a cyclist, and trust me this is not a good predicament.

Imagine the scene. I'm late for work and there is a cyclist in front of me, a young man, who I feel nothing towards.  As I near him I see that he quite rightly has a helmet on, but it's unfastened and dangling. This is when the first stage of my rage begins to develop. 

"This idiot man speeds up in an attempt to prevent me from overtaking. I look to my left; his face is red, his veins are out and a drop of sweat falls from his brow."

"You Idiot," I think, "What is the point of that helmet if it's not done up?  Oh well, it's not my business so I calm down. 

As we approach a hill, it seems this young man has a slight lack of stamina, and he begins to slow down.  I am late, so I start to overtake.  He looks to his right.  "A girl," he thinks, "A girl can't overtake me, I'm a man, a strong young man."

And so, stage two of my hatred is set free.  This idiot man speeds up in an attempt to prevent me from overtaking.  I look to my left; his face is red, his veins are out and a drop of sweat falls from his brow.  My anger spurs me on, and I manage to push on past. 

At the next set of traffic lights he's disappeared out of sight.  I'm alone in the cycle lane, and I'm almost happy again.  The cars slow down and I know from experience that my light is about to turn green.  Red...amber...I brace myself.  But, before I have a chance to push off, a wobbling maniac appears out of nowhere, straight past the traffic lights, not slowing down for anyone waiting at the traffic lights before him.  My eyes focus and my fear is realised.  It is the same man as before.  The third and final stage of my anger is fully released.  I know that I will have to go through the whole ordeal again before I can overtake this man again, and I just can't bear it.

Can you see how bitter I've become? So, if you're a cyclist yourself, or a friend of a cyclist, I hope after reading this you will wobble less, or lend an ear to a rider every once in a while - we really need it.

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