You are reading a single comment by @TheorySwine and its replies.
Click here to read the full conversation.
London Fixed Gear and Single-Speed is a community of predominantly fixed gear and single-speed cyclists in and around London, UK.
This site is supported almost exclusively by donations. Please consider donating a small amount regularly.
@TheorySwine
As others have said already, yesterday was a day made for cycling. Shame my physique isn't made for the at least one size too large padded Lycra shorts I persist in wearing, but a razor-sharp saggy gusset's a good prompt to awaken those cyclists' slumped in the fashion doldrums of properly fitting attire while waiting at the traffic-lights.
Off I set into the sun's promise with legs keen to oblige 50 miles without straying beyond the centre of town or repeating a street, and maybe to find a few rewarding new ones that brighten the eyes. Within minutes my mind had turned to a video Pistanator posted a while back in the 'epic fail' thread of two spotty little lads 'rapping' about how best to manage an incomparable sense of criminality that had outgrown Crewe's limitations - in recognition of their struggle to avoid eating too many sweets on bullet-ridden streets I hummed silently to their melody, which made an obvious connection to the 'what do you sing while cycling?' thread.
Funny where the mind wanders as the body fights to catch up. Dismissing such thinking I realised as I passed alongside the Thames how much we rely on sunlight to cheer not just ourselves, but the built environment that itself afflicts our mood - yet more connections. But not only that - the conditions gave me the sense I could ride forever, beyond any horizon or forever occupied pelican crossing. There's no stopping a cyclist with conviction and freedom his companion.
Apart from the Rapha cafe of course, where I paused with 28 furiously zig-zagging miles on the clock to be greeted with Dancing James who didn't, and Cornelius Blackfoot who if he did needs to improve his footwork. After sampling a couple of Greasy Slag's finest crème brûlée tarts it was time to ride...somewhere. That place turned out to be Regent Park's Inner Circle. To a cyclist I immediately noticed I was heading in the opposite direction to everyone else - me clockwise, them the opposite. This made good sense though, as it saved them from gawping at my arse unleashed from any restrictive Lycra burden. A good move on their part.
After a single lap I tired of going nowhere. Even when I'm heading nowhere I like to still remain on the go, to be somewhere different than I was just moments before. So I headed up to Highgate. What's marvellous about London is the activity in every corner - it doesn't fizzle out like a comedian's tepid punchline lost to the heights and disinterest of a theatre's stalls. Up there were people doing much the same as those in Soho or Clapham, oblivious to one another but tied in commonality. Folk lounged around Highgate Ponds as I struggled my way up Fitzroy Park, a climb that satisfied my hope to discover a new road if not my inner-masochist. To be riding around and through the best of life was somehow affirmative.
Come the end I'd crossed the river twice and only briefly broke the grip of zone 2 of this ceaseless metropolis. Arriving home Strava announced 50.1 miles, only to change its mind once the ride had been synched and dock me 0.4 of a mile. No matter. Within minutes of setting off a few hours earlier it had already been worth it. I couldn't have enjoyed it more.