Strike woes

The tube strike has not hit my travel times. As I use two overland lines and a bike in between I went home last night and came in this morning without the usual strike stress.

What did stress me out though, was the rest of the commuting population. Everyone gets grumpy on strike days. Raw animosity crackled in the air and I was smacked by large handbags/briefcases a lot more than usual as people stormed past. The train was rammed by the time we hit Paddington and the crush to get through the gates was far worse than usual.

Knowing all the bikes would be taken in the immediate vicinity, I walked the 10 minutes to my failsafe docking point where there are always bikes. I saddled up and set off. I'm used to a certain amount of snobbery from other cyclists when I'm on a Boris Bike. It's generally idiots though, so I shake it off. What really annoyed me today was the snobbery and attitude of the various people who had clearly bought themselves some lycra togs and then dug their monstrosities out of their sheds to bike the strike.

They were rude, they were arrogant and, sorry boys, they were mostly men. They ran lights, they overtook far too close, they went the wrong way down one-way streets. Sigh. One man in particular stands out.

He nearly hit me as I cycled through a junction because he ran a red light. I was a bit shocked and stammered that it was a red light. His response was to shout 'Oh f*** off!' into my face before wobbling off. He may have been in lycra but the rust on his chain told me he was a strike biker. There was just no need for that kind of attitude.

If only there wasn't that minority of arseholes. I should be rejoicing that so many people will have discovered they can cycle to work, instead I wish they'd just bugger off back onto the tube.

The rules

Take note boys:

• When a woman is skint so can't afford to buy any clothing, has a jazz gig coming up and wants to look nice so is trying on all her available dresses do not say the dress you prefer is the one she's already said she can barely breathe in. And definitely do not suggest she just dresses down.
• If a lady picks up her handbag when getting up at an odd time in the pub/workplace don't ask loudly 'where are you going?'. She's clearly on her period and now everybody knows, thank you for the news bulletin.
• Your girlfriend is irrationally moody, she's snapping, she's feeling unattractive and crying when haven't told her she's gorgeous for the fifteenth time today. Then inspiration hits: it's the right time for PMS. Revel in your cleverness at the realisation and act like nothing's different, do NOT, under any circumstances say something along the lines of 'Oh, I've just realised, you're really hormonal, I forgive you for being grumpy.' You may well be murdered.
• If you drive a rather sexy car, don't rev past lady cyclists closely and loudly to show off. She will assume that having a micropenis has dented your self-esteem and you have over-compensated by buying a luxury car that you can't drive properly.
• When a woman can't fit into her favourite dress, NEVER say 'Well you did eat all that ice-cream last night.'
• Shouting 'Wahey!' at a lady cyclist as she pedals past just makes you look sad.

This may be added to at a later date.

In other news....

A round-up of other exciting things while I was off:

• I went on a canal towpath for the first time since my fall last year. It was a stretch between Greenford and Alperton. I was seriously crapping myself but was determined to do it and survived. Beautiful herons and sunshine went unnoticed in my terrified state.
  
• I managed to half-swallow then cough up an enormous fly and it survived! A black cabbie behind me when I started to cough and splutter pulled over to check I was ok as I came to an abrupt halt and was hugely amused when I managed to say 'The little b*stard's still alive!' before pedalling off.
• Mr Weenie is considering cycling a bit locally and has asked to use Roger. Hurrah!
• My cycle map of France arrived so I can start planning my holiday, which will involve taking bikes on a ferry and cycling in Normandy.
• I had a marvellous jazz session with the boys for this Saturday's gig and spent a blissful two hours singing mostly about how rubbish men are.
  

Shower rage

My company's quite good when it comes to facilities for cyclists and runners. We have showers in every building with new ones installed recently and one more planned. What's not so lucky is some of the people who use them.

Now, I'm not your average girl, I shower quickly, don't wear make up and am happy to display my Wurzel Gummidge hair in the office and brush it at my desk. However, the reason I get the rage is that when I'm queueing for the showers it is generally the boys who take aaaaaaages.

We have a shower on each floor for three floors. They're in the stairwell and you can stand in one position and see all three doors and dash into the next vacant one. I've queued in this manner several times and at least one management bod knows that if I'm there the showers are full and always says hello.

This morning I was there for bloody forever waiting and it was deemed all the more shocking by the fact that at least two of the showers were running when I started waiting. I heard at least one go off then start up again, I presume for the second hair wash rinse or similar.

I'm all for men taking a bit of an interest in their appearance but do it at home. Some of us are waiting to become office butterflies and are forced to wait in the stairwell still cocooned in sweaty lycra.

This morning I actually had visions of fitting buzzing timers that cut off the hot water after 10 minutes, perhaps that would shrink their..... shower time.

The rain may not be pissing but the boys are

This morning I got hot, steamy and wet.

Eugh.

I got fully tooled up ready for the promised downpour: waterproof jacket in bright yellow; waterproof socks; shorts because legs dry quicker than fabric; positive mental attitude.

I was prepared, I was ready ... and it didn't bloody rain. Don't get me wrong, there was spittage and slight weeing of water onto my helmet but it wasn't real rain. So false was it that I had to take off my jacket two miles in because I was so hot. My feet got sweaty and I got all red. I was reduced to a pootling speed so as not to overheat. At the same time however, my bottom got increasingly sodden as I splashed through the puddles left by the proper rain that came down early this morning.

The lack of pissing from the sky was more than made up for by the pissing that went on last night however. More specifically, the pissing contests...

I was boxed in twice by boys racing at lights. To their credit they had stopped for them but the revving of engines was replaced by meaningful but polite middle-class looks and the clipping in of SPDs. As the light went amber there was knashing of teeth and furious peddling. Muscles were tested and lycra strained. Panniers bounced madly as potholes were hit and the rattle of mudguards was something to behold.

Half a mile later they all looked knackered when I went past them.

Lycra, practical on men, pervy on women.

There's a bike shop fairly near work and I like it. The staff are generally very helpful and most of them remember who I am. However, there is a problem and it's one of their other regular customers. He's around twice my age and never looks at my face.

He's said hello before and I've always given the nod and silent smile of 'I'm being polite but not giving the go ahead for you to talk to me'. Normally I've managed to time my departure so I'm not alone with him and can cycle on in peace. This morning, after popping in for valve dust caps, I woefully mistimed it.

He followed me out admired my bike, then made several comments around the theme of 'You must be fit with a figure like that', 'You must cycle quite far to look like that' etc etc. I was desperately trying to get my panniers clipped and get out of there.

I've always admired women who know how to handle this kind of situation because I really don't. I cringe, I'm overly polite and all the time I'm panicking inside. When he said 'Which way are you going, because I reckon I should go that way too' with a leer I wanted the ground to swallow me. Instead I pedalled off, very fast.

So fast in fact that I overtook several swanky roadies and got into work much faster than usual.

I was wearing black cycle shorts that stop two inches above my knee, a bright pink short-sleeved jersey, trainers and a helmet. Hardly come hither attire. I've been whistled at and catcalled a few times but what I wear is not hugely different from other people on the road, it's just that I'm female.

What makes it ok to perv over a women in lycra when, quite frankly, the sight of a man in bibshorts inspires giggles in most women?

Why is lycra seen as a practical measure when men wear it and a come-on when women do?

So unfair.

Racing....

Last night I got perved on by a van driver. Rather than be offended I was cheered, quite frankly it's about bloody time.

So I was waiting at a junction and the guys were making mock bets on which of the three cyclists at the lights would get across the junction first and whether the van would beat them all. I tried to ignore it but I could feel my heart thumping as my eyes focused on the amber light. Come on baby turn!

As soon as it was lit I stood up on the pedals and bombed across. If I'm honest I don't think I went particularly fast and I often bomb across that particular spot as it's a very wide junction and the lights change quickly. What shocked me was that I beat the van. They looked sheepish as they caught up but the passenger had the good grace to shout 'You're quite fast, well done mate!' before they turned off. I was on a high and for that reason I tackled the horrible steep hill near my parents rather than use the workaround route. I managed to get up it with two gear changes and some heavy breathing and glided down the hill to their house.

I made dad's dinner, washed up, did some ironing, met the lovely bass player who will be playing fr me at a mate's wedding and got down to more ironing (mum was out or she never would have allowed me to do her housework).

I prepared to set off home at about 9.15pm and, because I was in a good mood I decided to go the more difficult route home. Again, a big hill is involved. Halfway up the hill is a set of traffic lights. I pulled up and prepared for the steeper second leg. Two young men on nice-looking roadies pulled up behind as the lights changed and without stopping nosed ahead. I snapped.

I don't know if the van race earlier on had galvanised me but I went off like a shot and even though I stopped at the second light* I still beat them to the top and remained in front all the way home. I was going at least 20mph on the flat it felt fantastic to hear 'Oh God mate, we're having the s*** beaten out of us by a girl!' floating on the breeze. I never got terribly far ahead and we were all giggling about it when we stopped at the roundabout near my house and we both shouted a friendly 'Night' when I turned off into my street.

I wasn't going very far and they'd probably been at the pub all night but it felt good all the same. When I first got a road bike a friend nodded knowingly and said 'Soon you'll be visualising yourself in the yellow jersey.' A couple of months later not only do I know what that means but sadly enough I can visualise it. Tour de Ealing here I come.

*They didn't stop at the light and asked why I didn't just run it. They were shocked when I told then they could get fined for running them.

The bumblebee men

Imagine a David Attenborough voice.......

There are many varieties of cyclist that populate London and no more so than here, on the Uxbridge Road. In fact, so numerous are they that space is at a premium and competing for females can be quite vicious.

And here's just such an example.

A female is commuting in. Her bright pink top and ponytail signal her gender and, although her bike looks male, that's just a cunning ruse to put off males. And here's one now, a bumblebee man. His yellow jersey aims to emulate stronger, fitter species such as Lancearmstronginus but gives no real indication of speed or agility, while his black shorts are an attempt to play down his enormous bottom. To signal his intention he swings out in front of her, demonstrating his speed, then cuts back in front of her nearly causing a collision and therefore signalling his high level of testosterone. She is not impressed, but his tactic forces her to follow him as every time she tries to flee he swings right to prevent her from doing so.

But the battle is not won. Another yellow-jerseyed bumblebee man comes up from behind, also demonstrating his prowess by cutting up the female. He then attempts to assert his dominance over the first male. They tussle, over- and undertaking and leaving no more than six inches between their front wheel and the bike in front.

The battle for dominace reaches its peak, one of them is nearly hit by a bus as he attempts a last overtaking manouvre but he takes the lead. The traffic lights go to red. The second male and the female are left waiting as the winner signals victory by clicking his gears down the hill. The female will mate with neither.

A disgusting revelation

I'm sure I'm not the only person who wears pants under lycra. Seriously, I'm not, right?

I'm no longer so sure. Apparently men just don't wear anything, I discovered this yesterday after following a thread on a cycling forum about a man's lycra malfunction. Yes, you've guessed it, his testicle made a surprise appearance at his in-laws after his shorts ripped on the way over.

This led me to ask, in all innocence, whether his pants had ripped as well only to be laughed off the forum for thinking men wore anything underneath their lycra.

But what about the hair? What about the humanity?

It meant that last night's cycle was made all the more difficult as I tried desperately not to look at any man passing me in lycra. It was a morbid curiosity akin to that of seeing a train crash, it's awful but you just can't drag your eyes away. It meant also that a lot of polite murmurs of 'Evening' were met with me looking at the floor while bright pink rather than my usual cheery return greeting. There are many distractions on the road, I can live without this one.

I, for one, will continue wearing my Bridget Jones pants thank you very much!

*Update: Apparently it's 'amateur' to be wearing pants under cycling shorts and it's against etiquette. Hmmmmm I'll let you know my decision when I've calmed down and gone slightly less pink!

The sweat crack, eugh!

This is an announcement worth doing a second post in one day.

Boys, if you have to wear lycra, wear black

I'm still recovering from the unnerving experience of staring at a pair of light blue shorts with what appeared to be a navy stripe up the bottom crack area. I was forced to follow this particular lycra junkie up a large hill and over the time I was behind him it slowly dawned that there was no stripe, there was only bum-sweat. Oh God, why, WHY????????????

Temptation and the phenomenon of birting

I've been looking at other bikes.

There, I've said it. Roger may not fulfil my needs in the future and I've been looking around. The new Ride to Work scheme has started and you can't just buy accessories with the voucher so I've decided to get another bike.

They warned me when I bought Roger that he wasn't built for the kinds of distances I now do so I've decided to get another one for if and when the time comes and so I'm not taken off road every time Roger's unwell or in the shop.

I haven't told him yet and I'm worried that he'll be upset. I am, of course, projecting my own feelings onto my bike. I've never been able to drive and couldn't afford a car anyway so Roger is my equivalent. That bike has helped me take control of my arthritis and has been instrumental in me losing about a stone in flab. I just love him to bits and am dreading replacing him. Sigh.

Anyhoo, on the subject of love, when did 'birting'* become socially acceptable?

We've all been there, trapped at the lights with a counterpart of the opposite gender eyeing up your framework. "So, how far do you go?" or "What kind of bike is that?" opens the conversation and suddenly you're being birted with. Having said which, I find it quite comforting that anyone finds me attractive when sweaty and in flourescent yellow and lycra. I'm obviously a fox.

*Flirting on a bike with a fellow cyclist.

The battle of the sexes - alive and well on the Uxbridge Road

This morning a woman overtook me on the Uxbridge Road, it was a fairly unusual occurrence as the people who generally overtake me, and there are many of them, are boys.

In fact, many of the men who overtake me are clearly audible as they squeak up behind me at the lights and plant themselves in front of me. They've only caught up with me because I've stopped at a junction and many of them take forever to get going when the green light appears. Then they weave around for the next mile at a snail's pace, blocking me and leaving me unable to overtake, but perfectly able, and willing, to swear.

There are many lycra-clad men who overtake me but I'm happy to let those significantly faster than me whiz past. What bothers me is that many of the squeaky wheelers seem to feel honour bound to overtake me because there's a ponytail sticking out of my helmet. And despite the fact I ride a man's bike with large wheels and they're on a foldable with a wheel diameter equivalent to a yo-yo they still think they'll go faster than I do.*

Perhaps it's because I'm not the typical cyclists' build. I don't see many other people on the road who are of 'traditional build', nor do I see many who continue to jiggle for a fair distance after hitting a pot hole, but it's still unfair.

I almost hope one of them does it again soon, I may be a girl but my language shows I'm no lady.

* Obviously not experienced foldable riders with nice ones, just squeaky-wheeled weirdy ones.....