Bicycle bullshit

Morning!

It’s ok, I’m back to normal.  No more poems or dark tales – although I have written a couple of raps that I’m considering putting up. They’re a bit graphic though. One’s called ‘Slut’ and the other’s called ‘Secret Slut’ – you can see the theme. Maybe when I can’t be bothered to write a blog I’ll show you.

Anyway.

So I’ve started cycling to work now I’ve moved. There are lots of positives to my new commute:

It’s quicker

It’s free

I can get up later

I don’t have to go to the gym

And I don’t have to interact with anyone.

The last one is my favourite.

However, even though it’s only been a week, I fear that I’m already developing ‘cyclist rage’. And, surprisingly, it’s not down to the usual array of cyclist complaints – buses, taxis, small children on scooters, inconsiderate trees, morons etc.

It’s other cyclists.

You see, there are several types of cyclist that I’ve noticed. I’m not entirely sure which one I fit into yet.

The bold and fearless

They’re the jocks of the cycling world. These people fly through red lights with reckless abandon, cutting up fellow cyclists in the process. They’re the type who complain about not being treated like a proper road user whilst flouting the Highway Code in the process. Basically cocks.

The deer in headlights

The opposite of ‘bold and fearless’. These people do not belong on the road. Everything is terrifying and they’re simply an obstacle that needs to be avoided.

The irresponsible parent

This is a very specific group that I only encounter while travelling through Chelsea and Fulham. The yummy-mummies decide to give the Range Rover a break and cycle the kids to school – nearly killing them in the process.

The dickheads

A fairly self-explanatory group. They have the arrogance of ‘the bold and fearless’ but none of the ability. The kind of people who still think it looks cool to cycle with no hands and ride a BMX. Seriously, a BMX…

I think I’m a combination of the first two. I’m quite bold and assertive. But I do tend to be screaming most of the time. And I still view arriving at home or work as a victory against death.

One day I won’t.

One day I’ll own the road and irresponsible parents will tremble at the very sound of my name.

The Bike King (it’s a working title).

The uninvited guest

It was a heavy, intense night. The city’s charms that had beguiled me in the daylight now looked menacing and claustaphobic. Looming tower blocks dominated my window with their small, anonymous panels of light. Just like mine.

The silence was un-nerving. No bustling commuters. No heaving traffic. Quiet. Just quiet.

I slowly drifted off to sleep. The moonlight reflecting in the mirror by the door.

Then, a noise. An interruption to the quiet. Not loud but all the more apparent. I tried to ignore it but it persisted. Surely not. It had only been a day since we moved in. Surely we weren’t already falling victim to a thief.

I hesitated. Dare I investigate? What was my plan?

I made a move, cautiously peering through the blind into the yard ­– the street lamps making me squint. Nothing. A lifeless snapshot.

I relaxed a little.

Again – the noise.

I opened the blind this time. My fear had been replaced by irritation.

Still nothing.

Then I spotted him ­– the cause of my awakening. He was pacing – clearly frustrated. As he circled I occasionally caught a glimpse of his face. His hollow eyes void of light. Had he seen me? If he had, he didn’t seem to care.

Exasperated by his failed attempt to invade, he leapt upon the shed – presumably his route for entering. His shadow enlarging his meagre frame.

And then he was gone. The uninvited guest.

No match for the taped-up cat flap.

An Ode to Cheam

Oh morning commute, how I will miss thee.

But alas, I am destined to travel for free.

No more big fat man, overflowing his seat.           

No more angry drunkard, picking his teeth.

My trip will be smooth and swift, without fuss.

That is, until I get hit by a bus…

But let me just say, without hesitation,

That I will miss the quaintness of Cheam station.

The smiling tea lady, always up for a chat.

I suppose it’s a shame that I've no time for that.

O Cheam, o Cheam, I love you, it’s true.

But now I really must go for a poo.

So far, so shit.

I’m really happy to be back at work.

Waking up whenever I wanted and doing whatever I liked was getting a little dull.

Oh no wait.

I could tell as soon as I woke up that it was going to be one of those days. I’d made the error of leaving my window slightly ajar overnight. It’s a skylight that’s directly above my bed and normally I’m safe from the weather, even if it’s open. But unfortunately, it was no match for last night’s ferocious winds. I awoke to discover a lovely pool of liquid at just about crotch level. My first reaction was of course, ‘shit I’ve pissed myself’, but I soon realised what had happened. The steady drip from the window frame was the giveaway. Still, not the best start to the day.

The next ordeal was the weather. Opening an umbrella was utterly pointless. I saw several blow inside out on the short walk to the station and the victims looked like retards. Just give up. You’re going to get wet. Accept it.

I then went to pay for my ticket and remembered the fares had gone up! Awesome. More money for a train that you can pretty much guarantee will be delayed everyday. Stupid bastards.

Then! I got on the train and sat in the usual bit I sit in (1^st class obv) and the guy who was already sat there hadn’t put the armrest down. This is a pet peeve of mine. If you’re sat by the window on a busy commuter train, always put the armrest down. I don’t want to share my seat with you. Why do you want to share your seat with me? All that happens is that I awkwardly have to say;

‘Excuse me, can I put the armrest down’.

Then we look slightly embarrassed at one another and the whole journey is marred with awkwardness.

And then, I foolishly thought I’d give myself some good karma and help a woman with a crutch carry her bag up the stairs at Clapham Junction. I had a good 3 minutes before my train was due, so plenty of time. Or so I thought. As she crawled up the stairs, the piercing shrill of the doors signalled that karma is an arsehole – and that I am a mug.

I finally got to work to discover that I’m actually not booked on anything today! I have literally nothing to do. So far I’ve had 5 coffees and 2 beers, so I’m feeling pretty good. But it’s only a matter of time until the crash hits.

So, I’ve decided my new years resolution is to avoid all verbal interaction with any other human being ever again.

Wish me luck!