We got rather fond of cyclists this summer. Bradley Wiggins, with his
sideboards, on his throne at Hampton Court, lovely Victoria Pendleton and those
stoic girls who cycled through storms. They and their Olympics colleagues
brought home medals, with charm and cheerfulness, and changed our view of
cyclists for the better. From traffic-light jumpers and ratty road-users, they
morphed into champions and heroes.
We were glued to the Velodrome and learnt phrases such as keirin and peloton.
I even thought of buying a bike myself. It was a summer of love, for the
handlebar brigade.
But then along bowled Andrew Mitchell and, with his petulant tirade, reminded
us all of Everything We Hate About Cyclists.
Everyone loses their temper once in a while, but nobody loses their temper
more often than a bike rider. Cyclists believe they are a superior race. Or in a
superior race. They are convinced that, because they’re on a bike, they’re more
responsible, intelligent and healthy than the rest of us in cars, buses or
trains, or even just standing around, doing our jobs.
We are lesser mortals: they look down their noses, from their elevated
position on those wince-inducing saddles, on us poor saps, munching
cheeseburgers in our nice warm cars.
I live right in the middle of the Olympic cycling route. At the weekend, our
cafés are packed with lean (very) mean cycling machines, sprawled over the
tables and sweating into their bacon baguettes. They have absolutely no spatial
awareness of anything that isn’t passing them on two wheels. They never look up,
or enjoy the passing scene. They only talk to other cyclists. The rest of us,
they verbally abuse.
Heads down, teeth clenched, buttocks unappetisingly upended and cased in
white neoprene, they hurtle past, buzzing loudly, like a plague of Technicolor
locusts. Why are they always in such a hurry anyway?
Try to amble across the road here, perhaps with an elderly dog in tow, and
you’re likely to be knocked down by these neon Lycra louts, riding two abreast,
desperate to “do a Bradley” on the roads of Surrey – and swearing at us locals
for daring to traverse our own roads at anything less than a sprint.
Walk along the Thames Path, contemplating the tranquil beauty of the
riverbank, and your reverie will be interrupted by persistent bell-ringing (if
you’re lucky), or you’ll simply be overtaken by a hurricane of metal and
luminous leggings careering past within inches of your elbows.
I make it a rule always to say “Good morning” to these belting bikers. With
any luck, it will take them by surprise so much that they’ll slow down, or
better still, fall off.
I also shout, “That’s all right!” after them, in the vain hope that they
might be shamed into saying “Thank you” the next time they force a walker to
slide down the riverbank to get out of their way. It’s childish, I know.
Everyone ought to keep fit, and it’s lovely that the Olympics has encouraged
so many to get on their bikes. But too many cyclists think that being disguised
as a lumpy glowworm means they can behave like spoilt brats, whose route to
glory is being obstructed by the rest of us.
All that fresh air and freewheeling should make you a nicer person and, of
course, many cyclists are perfectly charming. I’ve seen the Mayor of London,
Boris Johnson, cycling around London. He seems to manage a cheery smile, take in
his surroundings, stop for a chat. But then he’s not a Lycra lout.
You see, I think it’s the sheer embarrassment of the outfits they have to
wear that makes many of these cyclists so bad-tempered. I’m sure they can hear
the mocking laughter of onlookers whenever they whizz past, flashing their
glistening, logo-strewn limbs.
But Mr Mitchell has no such excuse. He can’t plead the “I Was Wearing
Embarrassing Lycra And They Laughed At Me” get-out clause, because he was
wearing a suit when he verbally abused the Downing Street security guards, who
wouldn’t let him out of the big gate and directed him instead towards the small
one. I can only conclude that size means a lot to him.
And why wasn’t he wearing a helmet? Presumably, he didn’t want to meet the PM
with “helmet hair”. But his formal attire and annoying Miss Marple basket
(what’s in it anyway? Not humble pie, that’s for sure) don’t fool us at all.
I’m convinced that beneath his façade lurks a Lycra lout, squirming in a
bodysuit of wasp yellow. Remember The Incredible Hulk? Apparently normal guy,
gets ratty, bursts out of clothes and gets nasty?
No wonder Mitchell was in such a hurry to pedal off – it was before he turned
green and split his trousers. Now, of course, Mitchell, the Incredible Sulk,
wants us all to “move on” (which is roughly what the police asked him to do in
the first place) and is fuming because we’re still talking about Gategate.
Not only did he offend the officers who were trying to protect his boss, and
damage further the reputation of his party, but – sorry, Wiggo and Victoria –
the Chief Whip punctured all the post-Olympian goodwill we felt towards
cyclists, in one foul swoop.
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