Boys on Bikes

Cyclists vs. Drivers

It's war out there, yo. Road war. Peopled by Road Warriors.

One one side are the Pedal Powered Peeps, or the PPP (of which I am one, clearly) - putting their bodies on the line every day, weaving deftly between SUVs, trucks and buses (why does no one have a small car anymore?), scaring pedestrians*, all while saving the planet and solving the obesity crisis.

On the other side are the Miffed Melbourne Motorists, or the MMM - piloting the aforementioned SUVs, trucks and buses through the daily snarls of traffic, seeing red when cyclists squeeze past them, sail through red lights, whizz by their open doors with millimetres to spare, or slow them down by riding two abreast or single file in a narrow lane.

Things seem to have been escalating recently, with more people signing up on both sides as Melbourne's population booms. Truthfully, I think we're only a few years away from some kind of Mad Max scenario.

If you don't believe me, watch this video:



Ouch. Not a proud moment for the MMM (UK division). Don't think that it doesn't happen here, too - it's just that we don't have CCTV cameras on every street corner to capture the evidence. Closer to home, a fellow PPP swore at a driver who cut him off recently, only to have the driver chase him down, push him off and proceed to trash his bike.

You may have head about a recent clash between a PPP and a high-profile MMM. Shane Warne claimed the cyclist cut him off, abused him and hit his car. The cyclist claims that Warnie deliberately knocked him over and wrecked his expensive bike before hooning off. Naturally, the King of Spin got straight onto twitter to  blast the cyclist in a  drawn-out rant, rallying his followers in a public howl for cyclist blood.

I'm going to keep an uncharacteristically objective distance on this one and let you decide for yourself which side you are on - however, the I believe the evidence (one wrecked bike + one unscathed Merc + a driver who admitted leaving the scene of an accident) seems to fall in favour of the PPP.

The problem is that the PPP is a small movement that has been steadily growing in profile, while the MMM - a vast army of personal car users who are used to having everything built around their needs - are looking increasingly unsustainable.

What is the solution for bringing these two disparate sides together? Greater civility between both parties would be great, obviously - but the best way to encourage that? Bike registration, as called for by Warney and his pack, would be costly and largely pointless. Separate bike lanes are great, but controversial. Cyclist-awareness programs should definitely be a part of any driver licensing; and of course cyclists who endanger pedestrians or act unlawfully should be punished.

What many drivers don't appreciate is that the vast majority of cyclists are also car users - which means that they have an insight into the mind of their enemy, and they contribute to the cost of road infrastructure (one of the MMM's more petulant arguments being that cyclists don't pay to use the road, therefore they have no rights). Sadly, it seems that the MMM are just not ready to climb down from their SUVs, trucks and buses to experience the  road on two wheels, with only a styrofoam helmet for armour.


*anti-social cyclists. Yes, there are asshole cyclists just as there are asshole drivers. It's just that the asshole drivers are more numerous and control a machine capable of killing.

Cycling = community

I have certainly been spoilt by living right by the Yarra bike trail: I can ride into the city anytime, in complete safety and comfort (apart from the odd renegade lycra-cycla or kamikaze duck). However, I think this lucky state of affairs has left my road cycling skills somewhat lacking.

On the weekend, I had to cycle from Williamstown to North Melbourne, along some very busy stretches of road. Man, it was scary. Most of the time I was pedaling like mad on my big ol' Pashley, fingers mentally crossed and breath held as a truck/motobike/car seared past me. Every time I got onto the footpath after such an encounter, I would release my breath and say a little prayer of thanks.

It got me thinking, why don't we have more bike paths around Melbourne? Not just a laneway painted on the side of the road which might, for instance, COME TO AN ABRUPT END HALFWAY ACROSS A BRIDGE WITH NO FOOTPATH (hello Maribyrnong city council), but proper cyclist/pedestrian only paths that are separate from the road? It would certainly go some way to encouraging timid or new cyclists to take more journeys by bike, which has multiple benefits for everyone involved, as well as society in general.

Less congestion. Less pollution. More space. More freedom. Better health. Less expense. More enjoyment!

The cynic in me thinks that politicians aren't interested in supporting cycling infrastructure as it doesn't provide any source of revenue. If only they saw that investment in the quality of our collective environment and lifestyle will have it's own many knock-on benefits.

Lately I've been getting more involved with the Melbourne cycling community, which is made up of various interesting people from all walks of life; families, sporty types, alternative thinkers, hipsters. I'm proud to be associated with The Squeaky Wheel, a fantastic volunteer group that's all about promoting cycle culture in Melbourne. Next weekend we start the My Bike program, where we'll be working with migrant communities to pair up young people with bikes donated by the Victorian Police.

One of the things we'll be doing is teaching them about road safety. I could brush up on this, myself.

I can't wait!

Bikes and boys ahoy

The more observant amongst you may have noticed that I put a blog post up recently, only to take it back down again a few days later. The truth is, I'm sick of hearing myself whinge about singledom/men. As someone* pointed out to me earlier tonight (when I was less drunk than I am now**), I was making lots of generalisations about an entire gender. I really need to stop doing that. People are individuals who happen to be male or female, beyond that - well, it's really not up to me to make sweeping judgements based on a handful of experiences with individuals.

*changes subject apropos of nothing*

You know one side effect of riding a beautiful bike that I really love? The people who start up random conversations with me because of it. It's like having an adorable puppy***; everyone wants to stop a while and  exclaim and fuss over it, ask questions about it, and maybe even pet it. Tonight as my friend* and I approached the princess, there was a small group of well-dressed people taking a close look over it, and as I got closer they cooed over my panniers, wanted to know where I got my (knock-off knogg) lights, and asked did I buy the bike from Steve, purveyor of fine bicycles in South Melbourne?**** We all stood around and had a nice little late night (drunken**) chat about how fine it is to ride a bike in Melbourne.

And just like that, I'm feeling more hopeful about the world once more.

Good night!

*you know who you are!
**two glasses of wine and I'm officially off my face.
***God I wish I did have an adorable puppy. Then my life would truly be complete.
****Details may not be correct, see '**' above.

Girls on Bikes (an erratic series)

Twiggy cuteness!

Girls on Bikes (an irregular series)

Cate Blanchett puts her feet up...

Girls on Bikes (a sporadic series)

The gorgeous Audrey Hepburn (and terrier).

Man I'd love to get a dog. A little basket-sized dog.

Girls on Bikes (an intermittent series)

A fresh-faced Marilyn Monroe (and puppy).

Bikes, bikes, everywhere!

London has been taken over by hire-bikes! I first spotted a bank of shiny new bikes sitting along Southwark Street behind the Tate a few weeks ago, and was so entranced by the spectacle that I stopped to take a closer look.

It turns out that this is another of Boris' initiatives to get Londoners on their bikes: 6,000 brand new hire-bikes located at 400 stations throughout the capital. You sign up to the scheme online, pay an access fee (which starts at £1 for 24 hours) plus a usage charge - which is nada for the first half hour and pretty reasonable thereafter - and off you go! You can return the bike to any docking station, and if the one nearest to you happens to be full, you can request an extra 15 minutes to find another one close by. They are dotted all over London - I have noticed at least 5 on my way to work - so it shouldn't be too arduous to pick up or return a bike no matter where you are.

The bikes themselves look to be built for comfort and practicality rather than speed. The low bar, enclosed chain, fat tires, wide seat and wire basket on the front make them quite girl-friendly, but their no-nonsense sturdiness and dark blue colour makes them look more like a unisex work bike.

To some this scheme may seem wildly optimistic - I was a little wary myself, thinking that most of the people who want to cycle in London probably already do so; knowing that a similar scheme in Paris has been marred by thefts and vandalism; not to mention how the bikes will cope with being left outdoors through the London Winter - but in fact, I've seen lots of people using them out and about (a mix of men and women, usually in business attire) and it is very cheering to see these smart new bikes being used as they were intended. I haven't seen any cases of vandalism yet (apart from - shock horror! - a box of fried chicken left in the basket of a parked bike), but it's inevitable that some will fall victim to the rougher elements of London. I sincerely hope those tyres are slash-proof, especially the ones stationed just off the Elephant & Castle roundabout.

Despite my concern for the innocence of these lovely and thus-far pristine bikes, I truly hope that they become an iconic symbol of London, similar to the red buses or black cabs. There is something very British about cycling; it implies a free spirit and somewhat eccentric outlook to sail along on a contraption that has changed very little since it's invention in the 19th Century amidst the roar of trucks, cars, cabs and buses. And anything that introduces more people to the many pleasures of getting in the saddle is a very fine thing indeed.

Things I've learned while cycling

1. Babies/toddlers can't get enough of you. If your kid doesn't look up and smile ecstatically at each bike that goes past, pointing their chubby fingers and saying "buh! buh!", then I'm sorry but there's something wrong with them and you really should check in with your paediatrician.

2. Cowl neck tops and cycling do not mix, especially when pedalling into a strong headwind.

3. Likewise wrap dresses.

4. In order of danger: trucks, buses, white van men, pedestrians, 4WDs, young men whose cars reek of marijuana, sedans, hatchbacks, Smart cars.

Red lights make me see red

Let's be clear about this: today, as I do every single working day when it's not raining, I broke the law. I, Kelly Sarah Reynolds, run red lights. Not just occasionally, but every single day that I ride my bike. Normally, I don't think twice about this, for several reasons:

1. It's far safer for cyclists to cross with pedestrians rather than battling the traffic as it takes off, especially if you need to turn right;

2. it means you don't lose momentum, and if you are cycling over 11 miles everyday, that lost momentum at every intersection adds up to one big pain in the ass; and

3. I don't like rules. They make me feel hemmed in, and my natural response is to bust out. Rules are for game shows and beauty pageants.

Today, however, as I rounded one particular corner, I came across a police car sitting in the line of traffic going in the opposite direction. AWKWARD. There seemed no point stopping and backing up, so I just pedalled gingerly on, holding my breath and waiting for the sound of sirens to puncture the early morning air.

And then... nothing. The sweet, sweet sound of silence.

Obviously they were on their way to something more important than busting a lone cyclist committing a victim-less crime - like a stapler theft at a nearby office? Or some blatant littering involving a piece of gum rolled up in some paper? Or an illegal release of a helium balloon that hadn't been approved by the local council?

I couldn't help but wonder - I have been watching a lot of SaTC lately - how great was that show? - the movies really don't do it justice - whether there wasn't a better way to organise the road so that cyclists could legally cross at the lights, separately from cars and without endangering pedestrians.

So here's my idea: continue the cycle lanes (which are already demarcated on the left hand side of most roads) through intersections, and add a green "cycle crossing" light next to the green walking man. This already exists in some random places, but there aren't defined places for cyclists and pedestrians, and it's not really clear whether it's legal for cyclists to ride through these lights or whether we're supposed to get off and walk. The pedestrian crossing lane would take prominence over the cycling lane, so that cyclists would have to slow down and give way to pedestrians, but if it was clear, they could just pedal straight through. I think this would go some way towards making the road safer for cyclists and pedestrians, and encourage more cyclists onto the road (which is what every city should be aiming for).

You're welcome, London.

Just another day in the big, bad city

Pedalling to work this morning in the peak hour rush, I see a couple of stretch limo's ahead trying to pull out into the traffic. The first one gets though, but the second nearly runs into the cyclist in front of me and honks his horn - even though he's supposed to give way. Dickhead. I keep pedalling, following the first cyclist and giving the limo a wide berth, but unbelievably he is still pulling out and nearly knocks me down 'cos he's too busy staring after the first cyclist. I veer sharply to the right to avoid being crushed by his huge fender, and yell "HEY, WATCHIT!! DICKHEAD!" and pedal past him, shooting him a furious glare all the while.

I pedal on, shaky but righteous. I miss the turn-off in my rattled state and adjust the map in my head to compensate.

Hmm, those people in the back of the limo didn't look very happy. Aren't you supposed to be having fun in a limo? Isn't that the whole point of a limousine, getting tipsy in the back of a big car on your way to a party?

It's pretty early to be going to a party.

Oh my god, I think I just swore at some people in a hearse.

I am definitely going to hell.

The thick blue line

I was quite excited when I started noticing some buzz about Boris' fabled Cycle Superhighways in London. I have been doing a lot more cycling on main roads since the move South, and I am aware that my risk of accident and/or injury is higher than it was previously. Unfortunately, there just isn't a nice, quiet, straight road that goes directly to my work like there was when I lived oop Norf.

[think of the cake Kelly, think of the cake!]

Cycle superhighways! Don't they sound super-whizzy and safe? Doesn't it conjure images of some sort of futuristic elevated monorail type thing far above the traffic and particles and stop lights and clueless f*ckers pedestrians? It does for me. I could picture myself sailing along the Cycle Superhighway to work, a gentle downward slope obviating the need for pedalling as I high-five other like-minded cyclists all the way. Rainbows would shimmer on the horizon as the sunlight winked off lovingly buffed spokes and handlebars.

The reality is turning out to be somewhat different to my shiny happy daydreams. Somehow this initiative - which, bear in mind, may cost as much as £150m - amounts to painting the side of some roads blue. Not even clear roads at that; roads which have parking bays along them for Chrissake, which renders the whole exercise depressingly futile. Not to mention, it's a blue freakin' stripe. This isn't a toothpaste commercial, Boris. How is a blue stripe going to protect me from homicidal bendy bus drivers? How is a blue stripe going to make my journey any faster, especially when I am still weaving around traffic and parked cars like a third class citizen of the road-nation? How, in fact, is this any different from my commute right now, except that I will have a different colour to gaze at while I lay on the ground waiting for the ambulance? "Oh look, a bit of blue to comfort me before I die of being run over by a bus. How nice and calming. Reminds me of..." [fade to black]

If you want to discuss a more sensible mono-rail cycling system, Boris, you know where to find me. I am prepared to be flexible on the rainbows.

Panic at the zebra crossing

I am making my way home, cycling along in a little bubble of a daydream and feeling a little shaky because I have forgotten to throw back a late afternoon snack to keep me going. I try to change lanes in the peak hour traffic at a particularly tricksome roundabout when the car in front of me brakes suddenly and I skid to a halt just behind it, my tyre bumping their back bumper.

I can see the businessman in the front seat put on his handbrake as he hauls his massive bulk out of the drivers seat and waddles around to the back of the car, sun glinting off his bling-tastic cuff links. "Sorry!" I smile apologetically, a little surprised that he feels the need to come and inspect the back of his vehicle. There is a tiny scuff mark where my tyre touched his bumper, which he points to with a chubby finger, bellowing "What do you think you're doing?". He reaches down and wipes the smidge of dust off his bumper. There is now no trace of any contact on the bumper. "I could SUE you for this you know!" he spits in my face, turning purple in his rage. "Really?" is all I can think to respond. I look down at the invisible mark on his bumper. I stare at him. He stares back. "You cyclists think you OWN the road!!" We stare at each other some more. I say "sorry" again, because I really don't know where this is going and I am tired and need some food. The collars of his expensive looking purple shirt quiver.

He stares at me some more. I sit back on my bike seat. He finally decides to leave it, and walks back around to the drivers seat, stopping to give me one final hard stare (just in case I didn't get it with ALL THE STARING). He takes off in a fug of petulance and I cycle on home.

I've been seething quietly ever since.

You want to know who acts like they own the road, Mr. 40-carat cufflinks? DRIVERS, THAT'S WHO. Drivers who turn left in front of me. Drivers who get impatient if I delay their journey by all of two seconds who then scream past me with a whisker to spare. Drivers who nearly run me off the road twelve times a day. Drivers who pull out without checking for cyclists (the cause of all the accidents I and other friends have ever been involved in). Drivers who refuse to give way to me at roundabouts. Drivers whose short-sightedness and lack of care and general recklessness I am CONSTANTLY compensating for. And don't even get me started on white van men!

And yes, I reserve the right to feel slightly superior to fat car-driving types like yourself.

And So It Begins

I have been doing a lot more cycling down south of the river of late, largely because a certain stubbon mister lives down there and he starts getting twitchy if he leaves the SW postcode, poor rabbit.

There is a noticeable culture difference between the cyclists up norf compared to those down sarf. In my [slightly jaded and bedgruding] experience, cyclists in the Southerly parts of London are:

-faster, no question.

-more likely to be of a manly persuasion; yet

-less likely to sport a moustache.

-if of a feminine persuasion; less likely to be wearing heels and skirts.

-more likely to cycle in packs, like hyenas. Or is it a cackle of hyenas? Either way, like hyenas.

-more likely to wear hi-vis and helmets. Well, duh! South London roads are much meaner than the quiet back streets of Hackney that constitute my current commute.

-less likely to have a child seat on the back (see above).

- more aggressive. I copped an earful of bile this morning from a bunch of bad-tempered wheelers when I failed to take off the instant the light turned green (I was still folding my map back into my pocket). In North London, they would have waited patiently or maybe ding-a-linged their bell.

-more likely to wear full-body lycra and those hideous yellow sunglasses that don't look much like this:



-less likely to have a pair of bike polo sticks (bats? racquets? mallets?) attached to the back. Actually that is pretty specific to Shoreditch.

Layered like lasagne

Boxing Day AM: I am attending a BBQ on the Yarra in honour of Middle Bro's 30th birthday, enjoying the hot, hot rays of sunshine on the last day of my holiday.

Boxing Day PM: While lying in the park with a friend as the sun sinks behind palm trees, I discover that the backs of my arms are pink and tender, and I have acquired some really quite impressive sandal marks on the tops of my feet. Never have I been so delighted to be sunburnt. If nothing else it will remind me of the sun as I return to bleak mid-Winter London.

Two days later: I land at Heathrow amid a flurry of the usual doomsday Winter headlines: "ARCTIC WINTER", "TRANSPORT CHAOS" etc. etc., which I ignore in much the same way I ignore the "HEATWAVE", "TRANSPORT CHAOS" headlines that pop up every time the mercury hits a sweltering 28 degrees in the Summer. The British media love nothing more than exaggerating the effects of any weather that differs from "fine and mild" (unless it's gleefully reporting on drunk young celebs showing their undies).

This time, however, it turns out to be slightly closer to the truth than usual.

I have completely forgotten how to dress for this weather, as I seem to do every year. It's like childbirth, I guess, in that we are wired to forget the pain so that we don't all move to the Bahamas (and stop reproducing).

A few days after I get back, I cycle to work in an extra vest and big Winter coat, with just one layer of tights under a miniskirt. They're wool, I tell myself, it'll be fine. Except that it's not. The wind wooshes up my coat sleeves, down my neck, straight through my wool tights, and assaults my exposed face. I'm stunned by how cold it is. It is literally breath-taking. A truck driver stopped at the lights yells "LEGGGGS!" out of his window at me, which would make me smile wryly under normal circumstances (it does seem a fairly polite observation, and is to the point without being smutty or using rude words), but my face feels like it's carved of ice, and the few brain cells that aren't frozen solid are concentrating very hard on my survival, which depends on me reaching the office before hypothermia sets in.

Must keep moving. Must ignore pain in forehead and chin. Must get to office.

By the time I get there, I am rigid with cold, absolutely frozen to the bone, and my face is bright red. I feel like a big Australian fool.

So I have retired the bike for now. The streets are treacherous, especially the back streets which haven't been gritted and are covered in the Invisible Black Ice of Death.

But I think I'm learning to outsmart that grinning idiot Jack Frost. I have taken to wearing 2 vests under my work top, and a fleece under my coat. Six layers in total, plus various woolen accessories for exposed bits. I'm eating twice as much as in the Summer, strictly for the purposes of building up a prudent layer of insulation, you understand.

Pass me the After Eights, will you? And that leftover Christmas cake while you're at it. Don't be shy with the brandy butter.

Cyclists vs. Da Police

There is an annoying little section of my ride to work every day where the cycle path ends abruptly and you are supposed to get off your bike and walk through a short section of pedestrian-only area.

Problem is, it's a very wide and inviting bit of pavement and it takes about 2 seconds to freewheel through it to where the cycle path continues, even when you're braking so that you're moving at the same speed as the zombies pedestrians are walking. It's a no-brainer for most cyclists - like riding through red lights (always giving way to pedestrians, of course) to avoid the traffic, it seems so pointless a rule that it would offend your common sense not to break it.

A couple of times I've been caught out - ages ago a community police officer pulled me over, took my details and gave me a warning, and another time a couple of bobbies were officiously blasting their whistles to warn cyclists to get off.

This morning, however, as I rode up to this area (as I have been doing twice a day for over two years), I noticed a group of policemen who had obviously pulled over a couple of cyclists and were ticketing them. The girl on the bike ahead of me turned around to warn me, even as I was getting off, and we shared a wry smile.

As I walked my bike through the pedestrian area, I passed about five other cyclists coming from the opposite direction, casually walking their bikes as though they do it every day. We all shared a glance, a roll of the eyes, or a "those-dumb-cops-with-their-silly-rules" kind of a smile. I felt part of a subversive group of rule breakers. A well mannered, slightly scruffy, but generally law abiding group of rule breakers.

Good times for a change

A while ago, as part of my ongoing efforts to be less cynical and to take postive action towards alleviating my depression, I made a decision - albeit a guilt-ridden one - to curb my exposure to the news. Yes, being aware of what is going on in the world is important - and I realise that some people will be horrified by this admission - but some time back I decided that my mental health was more important to me than knowing all about what's going on outside my door.

Watching or reading the news in the UK makes me anxious, feaful and unhappy. I am not sure what it is about this country and its presentation of current events, but much of the time it seems there are only two kinds of coverage - the gloomy and the inane. It doesn't help that my father, who worked as a film editor at a news station in Melbourne for many years, had a very low opinion of the manipulative nature of the media and the self-important unscrupulousness of the journalists who worked there.

Checking the BBC news site now and again is about as much as I will tolerate now, and that's only because it gives the user some semblance of control over what they are ingesting.

Every now and again, however, a story bucks the trend by reaffirming my faith in humankind. So it is that I heard of Lloyd Gardener, a young man who came forward with information relating to a horrific rape case, and subsequently donated the £10,000 witness reward money he received to the victim of the crime. Decent.

I experienced some Pure Human Decency (PHD) myself recently while cycling home late one night, when a motorcyclist pulled up next to me at the lights and warned me I'd lost my rear light a way back. I thanked him and hopped off, cursing my bad luck - cycling through London at night without a rear light is a bit too kamikaze for my liking - and started walking back down the busy street to see if I could find it. Just as it was dawning on me how hopeless the task was, a Japanese couple walked up to me, the woman's cupped hands extended towards me with a hopeful smile on her face. They had seen me lose my light, fetched it from the gutter and waited for me to come back. I smiled broadly and thanked them profusely, while they bowed and smiled back at me. It was a lovely moment of human connection amid the chaos of Tottenham Court Road on a Friday night.

* * * *

If you'd like to partake of some PHD, consider joining the Karma Army. You don't even have to sign up if you don't want to, you can just practice some random acts of kindness under your own steam. Not newsworthy, perhaps, but definitely worthy.

More Bike-Related Outrage

So I finally levered £100 out of the now-notorious van lady. It took a few weeks worth of negotiations over the phone, during which she tried to convince me the damage was superficial (it wasn't); to get me to let her take the bike to a mate of hers to fix up (I refused); to avoid my increasingly irate calls by "losing" her mobile down the toilet (the lovely WPC Caroline gave me a hand there by leaving her a no-nonsense voice message); and finally, to bargain me down to £80 (by now I was too furious to budge).

GRR!

So imagine my horror when I got back to Angel station to discover the bike that I had left locked up there - a bike which I had borrowed from a friend of a friend while I am temporarily wheel-less - was gone. Gone! Oh god. Lesson learnt: do not leave a bike of any description at Angel, no matter how good your locks are (I had a D-lock worth £40). This is London, y'all - you could bludgeon somebody to death on the street and everyone would avoid eye contact and step carefully around the body. A bike being lifted by some punk at one of the busiest hubs in North London wouldn't be worth breaking your stride for.

Thankfully the owner was very understanding and didn't seem all that fazed (I was prepared to be sworn at). She even suggested that it saved her the hassle of getting it from Islington to Chiswick, funnily enough.

I guess this gives me a good excuse to buy a new bike...

Of white vans and buckled tyres

This is the blog post that had to happen eventually: earlier today a white van ran into me and knocked me off my bike. Not fun, but I'm OK! It could have been worse! No broken bones, trips in an ambulance, or long-distance funeral for my parents to attend. Just a few superficial scrapes and bruises. The first thought I had once I sat up and took my bearings was my best jeans are ruined! My second thought was my bike is ruined! and my third thought was I'm alive! Which tells you a lot about how important those jeans are to me. I have only ever had one pair of jeans that have fitted me properly in my life, and now they have an irreparable tear down the left shin. Grr.

To put it in perspective, I've been cycling the mean streets of the capital regularly for the past two years, which is a decent amount of time to have gotten away with no incident. Truthfully, I feel a little bit triumphant - like I have finally been indoctrinated into the inner sanctum of true, hardcore London cyclists: entry only on presentation of x-rays, colostomy bag and/or scars over 5 inches long. I felt pretty cool as I rocked up at the local Old Bill on Borough High Street in my ripped jeans and nonchalantly asked the attending copper for an incident form.

Pity I've only got a plastered little finger and a brand new batch of bruises to show for it.

* * * *

Oddly, the very same night of the Bike Crash Incident, I went to see a play about three elite cyclists competing at the Tour de France, staged in a disused office space near Oxford Circus. I highly recommend it for a couple of reasons - firstly, even if you don't follow cycling as a sport (I don't), it is a riveting account of three very distinct sporting personalities - American Lance Armstrong, Italian Marco Pantani and German Jan Ullrich - and their relationship to each other, as well as the psychology of competing at such an elite level. Secondly, it is incredibly inventive in the way it utilises very basic props - the actors use plastic chairs in a variety of ways to evoke cycling in various conditions, and crash barriers stand in for everything from a press security barrier to a car to a jail.

Gripping, intense, and more than a little inspiring.