In the dark lanes under the Vauxhall train bridge I know that a Royal Mail van is coming because I take pains to look behind me when I cycle. I think that the driver has seen me, but he probably doesn’t care.
When lazy I can feel my saddle a little too well over the speed bumps.
Once I have picked a line, a pedestrian will probably enter it without a second look. If I focus on them, I feel the urge to hit them.
I have several friends who have worked out how to break bones.
I have to ride 10 miles to work on just a coffee because I’m too lazy to get up with enough time for breakfast.
I would rather drivers ride.
The next skid mark to appear on the road could be me.
Switching to auto pilot in the saddle is when accidents happen. Every action occurring around you must be observed.
I will sweat for a bit at my desk after the ride in. It’s a horrible feeling.
I can’t get the tube home with a broken bike. Although if I can persuade the driver and eBay a kidney I may be able to take a taxi.
I know that once I reach a certain speed the lights will change.
Riding is winter is good because there are fewer fair weather cyclists around.
The worst part of riding in the wet is getting caught half way to work and realising that you don’t have a spare pair of trousers.
The effort involved in attempting to maintain a clean chain and gears in the city is disproportionate to the benefits gained.
If I’m relaxed while cycling I’m not commuting.
Some days my body finds the ride hard, but I can’t use that as an excuse for being late for work.
I know that to ride faster I need better luck with the lights and fewer Bromptons getting in the way. I have no particular wish to ride further.
I’m alive when I ride, but I’ll be dead quite quickly when hit by a white Ford Transit or Mumsy and Tarquin in their ludicrously oversized Chelsea taxi.
I know peace of mind when I’ve shouted at a few pedestrians and given a few cabbies the finger.
I hope I’ll still be alive in six months time.
With apologies to Howies and Adrian Gunn.
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