To Critical Mass! …just as the South London sun was starting to set over the four chimneys across Transpontonia. Best not to spend too long admiring the beautiful view though.
WOH!
Where the chuffers did that come from?
Right up my arse and totally oblivious to my lit up like a Christmas tree spring cycling look. I was cut up badly trying to navigate Vauxhall Cross.
Not for the first time, Comrades.
I seem to remember bashing out a blog post almost a decade ago about To Critical Mass! …and how Vauxhall Cross will be the literal death of me.
It hasn’t happened yet and I continue to ride.
But back in the day and the *shame* cycling warrior within would have chased down the Petrol Head and shouted some profanities in his face.
Not so now.
I paused, regained my road position and pondered that hey - I’m still riding, still smiling and only minutes away from the Critical Mass greeting of other London-centric cyclists that simply want to have some fun whilst cycling around their city on a Friday night.
And whaddya know - ring, ring, ring - the Mass is about to roll out.
Chapeau!
Critical Mass use to be a protest for me. It probably still is for some. The feeling now though is one very much of a celebration.
Does that mean that we won? Was it ever a bicycling battle in the first place?
Nah - we’ve just all become bloody hippies.
And what a massive Mass is was on Friday. I’m notoriously crap as these guestimates, but I reckon 1,500 plus people randomly met under the arches of Waterloo early on Friday evening and then randomly decided to cycle around the city together.
The first:
“Fucking Boris Bikes”
…was overheard in the short Col du Imax Roundabout.
ARF.
The cycling snob within can appreciate that it’s best to keep some distance from *some* of the inexperienced blue branded bicycle riders. Equally the inverse snobbery often leads me to dropping off whenever a fixie is in sight.
#space4cycling etc, Comrades.
I was personally rolling out feeling super cycling snobbish on a recently serviced Brompton. Tight brakes, tight gear shifters, tight lycra tights.
Chapeau!
The Brompton rode beautifully as the Mass crossed at Waterloo, headed towards Euston and then a Camden circuit.
With Chalk Farm looming just past the Roundhouse, one two-wheeled wag declared:
“Can we go back to London now please?”
ARF bloody ARF.
Sense was seen and the Hamstead Hills were firmly off the Critical Mass radar. Back down towards Great Portland Street and then a sound off between the many sound systems as we entered the West End.
“WHOSE STREETS?”
“OUR STREETS!”
Got a rather joyous reception as the Mass paused for thought at Oxford Circus.
We clipped down Piccadilly, and then down towards Trafalgar Square.
“What are you doing?”
…asked a tourist taking snaps of the BLUE COCK.
“Having a bicycle ride”
…remains my FAVE Critical Mass response.
Tell It Like It Is - the same sentence that I probably said some ten years ago whilst trying to calm down after being cut up around Vauxhall Cross.
Still We Ride.
Still We Smile.
Chapeau!