Commuting’s racier side
It only takes a matter of minutes to ride to work, but every day what should be a mellow roll down the street, absorbing the sights and mentally preparing for a day in the office turns in to a flat out, no holds barred street race.
Commuter Bob always zooms by my flat as I’m closing the gate in the morning, and he always eye balls me with a knowing dislike. He has, after all only got a 100metre lead on me on me until I’m on him and his pannier bag laden hybrid. Again.
My legs get the burn as I wake them up to sprinting pace and I loosen up by ducking and diving in and out of traffic. Up on the curb for a split second to avoid broken glass in the gutter then back in to the road and around the Dawdling David as he wonders which lane he should be in whilst busy selling insurance on his mobile phone.
Every morning Commuter Bob does the dirty on me and skips through the red light, giving us cyclists a bad name, so every morning I power off at the green light, sitting right in behind him, piling on the pressure. He fights back the deep breathing- not wanting me to know he’s suffering but his gear choices give it away. When enough’s enough I pull around him and leave him for dead.
Back in to the rhythm it’s off down dirty alley ways, rumbling down flights of steps and taking lines you can only get away with on a mountain bike- it’s the perfect buzz to get my day started, made only better by pulling up outside the coffee shop to absorb a macchiato and wait for Commuter Bob to come past, frustratingly trying to work out how I got here so fast. I always give him a nod and a smile, but to him it’s just a red rag fuelling the fire for tomorrow’s race.
Same time, same place my friend- you’d better hope I’m running late…
