Two Wheels Good

A couple of weeks ago I started cycling to work, along the Regent’s Canal, the age old jugular feeding Victorian London coal and cotton, tar and tea and various other imperial booty.

Now it is the domain of joggers, early morning dog walkers and holiday boats, casually mooring along side, in the clean and healthy waters filled with ugly ducklings, green weed and fishing lines, their floats bobbing in the sun, flashing across slow waves.

But more than that - there are cyclists – hundreds of them. Streaming in snakes, weaving in and out of pedestrians and the occasional goose, speeding by cobbled locks and trendy Hoxton warehouse conversations.

When I first joined their ranks I was a classic weekender, a fair weathered bicycleler. Courteous and conscientious to my fellow road and toe path users. Braking and smiling thanks or pleasant apologies as I rode over people’s feet. I even stopped at red lights.

But no more.

I didn’t take me long to remember.

For I am one of them now.

An ethereal blend of man and machine, a perfect mix of muscle and metal. Gracefully cruising in top gear, effortlessly leaping from curb to road ignoring the laws of mortal man - for they no longer apply to me. Traffic lights are nothing but road side decorations.

I look down from noble heights on an ugly world, over the other transportees in their cars and busses and shoes, with mild disinterested contempt, a world I am selflessly saving for its ignorant and wasteful inhabitants.

As I pedal past, the wind ripping over my elegant features they must bow down before me - for I am like a God. They must part, running in fear out of my path or they will face the full force of my terrible wrath as tinkle my little bell.