Does Balki really exist?

Will picked up the pace as he rode onto Clerkenwell Road, the "Hipster Highway". His mind ran over the journeys that he had made on this tarmac, the packages he had delivered and his adventures with lorries and taxicabs. He rode fixed and he rode without using his brakes. He skidded to a halt at a redlight and sat in a statuesque trackstand.

His mission had been to absorb the existence of the bicycle courier and to translate the ways of the messenger into a literary form. In the early years he had passed short typescripts back to the faculty for their review. Repeatedly he was told to observe and absorb more before committing himself to paper. He became frustrated.

After years of riding he had stormed back to Gower Street only to be confronted by a new head of department. He was sat down in a tattered leather armchair and given sweet sherry by a man in a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches. Will reacted violenly to the academic cliche and had to be restrained by a beadle. When calm and only after a few refills of his schooner, Will was told what was expected of him.

"Will, we need you ou there. Kerouac had his road and we're giving you yours. Look observe and take it in. When the time comes we will supply the stimulents and the opportunity to type solidly for two weeks but first you must experience. Will, we need characters and observation. Do you have a camera? No. Here have this one. Use the camera and not your pen. Meet other cyclists and not just couriers. Live a little. Broaden your horizons."

Will was uncomfortable hearing the additional cliches but, being unable to stomach any further sherry, kept his annoyance hidden. He clutched the camera and left.

Back in his room he turned on his computer and stared into the abyss of the internet. Google. "Cyclists, London, Fixed" he typed.

The web site was enormous and filled with strange sounding hipsters muttering in jokes and scathing comments against new comers. Nervously he typed his first post. He asked if anyone would agree to being photographed. He doubted he would receive any interest but thought it worth a try. He underestimated the vainity of the hipsters. Within minutes dozens of strangers were contacting him, pleading with him to take their pictures.

It was early on a Wednesday morning that he rode into a smart street in Islington. A Mercedes sat in the driveway of the imposing house and a four by four on the street outside. Will tried to imagine the type of hipster that would live in a place like that. He rang the bell.

A middle aged man with greying hair came to the door. "Ah Will" he exclaimed in a posh voice that sounded generations of command. "Where do you want me".

Will looked in amazement. This was no hipster but a rotund, red faced man dressed from head to foot in figure clinging black lycra. A dark version of the Michelin Man. A deformed reptile bursting from its skin. The black helmet and dark glasses completed the ghastly look.

Will said little, other than to give directions as to where his subject should stand and took the pictures. He cycled off quickly and in shock.

It took Will a few days to recover from the experience and to gain sufficient courage to photograph the next of his subjects.