Alan Coleman

He’ll probably get off the train at Cannon Street or London Bridge. Along with his important AACCA documentation, his work clothes and sensible shoes will be tucked inside a cheap Fitness First day bag strapped to his back.

On alighting the train he will go about unpacking his Brompton folding bike, tugging and screwing at the various parts with his elbows and backside banging into other commuters struggling to get past. The whole procedure will have about it an earnest importance that comes with the lower ranks of middle management, that quiet and serious demeanour of corporate life by which the bored justify their bored existence. The concentration, blank look and scruffy sweatshirt at the weekend (Nottingham University).

Now he’s queuing to get through the gate, bobbing from side to side with impatience as he makes last minute adjustments to the Brompton folding bike, sturdy and traditional. He’ll be wearing a bright yellow rain resistant cycling top that will probably smell of stale sweat, that’ll be accompanied by a pair of lycra shorts that will be stretched to capacity by his ever expanding bottom. The legs will be unshaved and as anyone with any knowledge of the sport will tell you, that is a big NO if you’re going to wear Lycra. The side pocket of the cheap rucksack from the gym he never goes to will have a copy of the Metro stuffed in the side, it’s free after all. The full effect will be topped off by a garish helmet of metallic blue and red that he’ll drop when he gets his travelcard from the outer pocket of the backpack. You think he looks stupid now, wait until he gets on the Brompton folding bike.

Overweight blokes on bikes are all about momentum. Once they get going they can’t stop, and the city accountant on the folding bike is no exception to the rule. He’ll thunder along the streets balanced precariously over those tiny little wheels, panting heavily as his huge thighs pound and wobble a low gear. Like his company’s corporate policy, it’s definitely a case of no pain no gain, which is why he’ll be sweating like a pig by the time he gets to Ludgate Circus.

Don’t get in his way because a pair of utterly ridiculous wrap around blue mirror shades will render this 20mph unstoppable lump completely blind. Don’t bother shouting either, because he’ll be listening to Massive Attack album on his iPod (White earphones).

Utterly, ridiculous.

What is it about London cyclists? In the space of about six months they’ve morphed from a few people commuting to work into a whole army of renegade road users battling for survival. Don’t get me wrong, it’s good for air quality and general congestion, but does it really have to be quite so aggressive?

I’m sure it used to be about people getting to work, now it seems to be about fat Steve from accounts indulging in some kind of alternative lifestyle for forty minutes a day. The wrap around shades, the shouting at pedestrians as the lights are jumped. Yes Steve, you’re one insane motherfucker, you don’t work in an office at all do you? No, you’re a professional base jumper/surfer/ hitman and member of 3 Para aren’t you? I’m surprised you’ve got time to be in London at all what with your commitments to the 2008 Extreme Sport Expo. You’ll be under a bus next week, then of course it’ll all be someone else’s fault.

Cyclists have very quickly become regarded as London’s worst road users. And that’s not worst as in ‘Down with the kids’ or ‘Bad ass’, but worst in terms of road using ability and basic two wheeled skill. The misguided faux aggression and lack of substance is London personified, in fact the London cyclist is everything you need to know about this city.

But despite identifying with some kind of new radical movement against boring people like me, the urban cyclist is just another thirty something fad for people that think Radiohead is alternative music.

So the next time you see the devil glaring at you from behind the insane sunglasses, smog mask and day glow Lycra, remember it’s just another office bod, like you and me.