Well, today I got knocked off again, this time by a pedestrian who thought crossing Oxford Street didn't require looking out for oncoming traffic. Bless... I think my bike left on him as many bruises as it did on me. At first apologetic and sheepish, he then proceeded to rush off at the speed of light as I was crawling from underneath the bike frame, disappearing into the Underground before I had time to check the damage he had done. Fortunately, I only report a bruise on my left hand and another one below my left hip.
Whenever I tell people that I am a cyclist in London, they stick out their eyes and murmur "Oh, you're so brave", a claim which I instantly dismiss as ridiculous. I churn out statistics, data and urban legends to persuade them that really it is FAR more dangerous to use a toaster in the morning. But, inside, I revel in the idea that they really think I'm part of this cool club of people who risk their lives every day.
Yes, there's something about cycling that manages to tick all the right boxes in my head. I am doing the "right" environmental thing, which makes me feel good. I am being active and healthy, which makes me look good. I am not having to use the dreadful Underground or the overcrowded buses, which makes me feel VERY relieved. I am generally saving money, which can't be a bad thing. And I am surrounded by fellow cyclists who, unlike tube or bus users, are generally nice to each other: after 5 years cycling in London, I don't recall a single incident or argument involving another cyclist, but the list of clashes with motorists is endless. All these things, you'd think, are pretty compelling arguments to explain why I am such a cycling fanatic. Yet, I can't help thinking there is something else, something that goes deeper and that somehow touches a primordial chord inside me.
Much as I pride myself on being a social maverick, who hates labels and categories of any shape or form, I came to the conclusion that this attraction I have to cycling comes down to an identity void, to the need for a new kin in this urban sprawl that surrounds me. When I arrived in London, I was too old to do the whole tribal-exploration thing (or maybe I was always a little too cynical to do it in the first place). But soon my instincts must have kicked in, because I embraced cycling with the irrational dogmatism of a new convert. I instantly became part of this sect, easily identifiable on the streets, which - despite being itself split into many sub-species - is still very much a united group when relating to the others.
When I get on my bike and onto the road, my eye instinctively searches for other cyclists. At traffic lights, I study the movements of those who are lined up in front of me waiting for the green light, especially the couriers (the rare times they stop) performing their bizarre dances to avoid touching the ground with their feet. When I was run over, cyclists were the first ones to stop and inform themselves about my conditions. When buckets of water are pouring from the sky, we look at each other with a complicit and encouraging smile, that says: "Hang in there!", as much as "They don't know what they're missing out!". The glances that dog-owners exchange when walking their pets late at night under the rain must be the closest the non-cycling world gets to this feeling of human bonding and solidarity.
But there might be another explanation for this attraction I have to cycling. My father, you see, adored bicycles, and my happiest childhood memories of him revolve around cycling: him giving me my first bike, a light-blue Bianchi, and teaching me how to ride it; him sitting in front of the telly watching the Giro d'Italia or the Tour de France; us riding together to the bastions of the city castle and then rolling down the hill back home. Maybe genetics actually DO mean something. Maybe this is the legacy that my father left me. Or maybe this is my own way of keeping him alive inside me. In which case, this attraction I have to cycling is a tribute to him and to his lifetime passion.
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