CYCLO

In between returning from a sunsoaked dream of a holiday and getting stuck into the juicy offerings of my MA course, I've had an odd two weeks not entirely bargained for. Next week sees me return to the green and greys of Lancashire to squeeze in some more delicious work experience (Christmas supplement! Already!), and to try and hoover up the odd pound or ten. If only my wallet wasn't barer than a baboon's bum, I would quite happily continue to potter the streets of my new hometown, mooching about art galleries like an old dear up from the country, Boots meal deals with successful, career-minded mates in the Square Mile, and pootering around on my NBF, a Boris Bike.

For those not entirely au fait with the London Transport System (can hardly say I'm an expert, to be honest), this year saw the launch of a public bicycle system in the city not unlike those in many cities worldwide. The Mayor of London, Boris Johnson (a lovable, womanising fop with a shaggy mop or a sleazebag idiot, take your pick)headed up the scheme which is entirely in keeping with his promotion of cycling across the city, leading to the completely predictable alliterative, "Boris Bike".

Boris and his gleaming array of machines.

Somewhat unsurprisingly, the scheme attracted a whole array of criticism, ranging from the unsafeness of the bikes (they are quite chunky beasties) to the unsafeness of those riding them. Wobbling into Parliament Square, sweat pouring down my back, tights torn to bits, taxi driver abuse fading into my reddened ears, I couldn't have been more of an archetypal wannabe on a bike.

It had all begun so well, worryingly so. From the safety of a room located within a skip, hop and a jump to no less than 3 bike stations, a route pored over for a good ten minutes AND written down, merrily peeking out of my well-stowed bag, it seemed things couldn't go wrong. I navigated the rush of City Road, scooted down poky sidestreets ...and then, found I wanted to go the wrong way down a one way street. You see, the Cycle Map may give you sites of the nearest docking stations (more on THAT later) but it prefers to leave the orientation of its streets a veritable mystery. Emerging from sun-dappled streets into the roaring jumble of revving motorbikes and shuddering lorries, not to mention cheeky taxis who don't give a toss who they overtake, I was sucked into the heady madness that was Smithfield Market and its inextricable one way system. I can only compare this to the sensation of white water rafting, being thrown against obstacles and heart juddering in terror, with the small beacon of hope held in a nearby docking station, evidenced on my map. Extracting myself from the tumult, I scoured the street for the neat row of bike docks.

There was no sign.

With minutes slipping away and the threat of being charged an extortionate sum of a POUND for my torture, there was nothing to do but throw myself back into the fray. Time to face the music...time for Holborn Circus.

I'd like to thank the two city slickers who skidded to a halt next to me at the thrumming traffic lights, like beauteous guardian angels, except with bulging wallets and well-cut suits. With all the confidence required for the mania of a trading floor, they skillfully navigated the clogged motorcades and swung cleanly towards Chancery Lane, yours truly following sweatily in pursuit.

The utter relief of sliding that bicycle into a dock, the light gleaming green in acceptance, cannot be underestimated.

Neither can the sher idiocy of deciding to take on Parliament Square and Birdcage Walk just a few hours later.

But that's another story...

Song of the moment - caught them after a four hour straight danceathon at LED festival and really appreciated their lushness. This song is a delectable truffle of a treat.



© Miranda Thompson 2010.
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