Quoted message said:Anybody else see the article on cycling by James Moy in the motoring section of the Saturday
Telegraph? tinyurl.com3a3uaOpen ↗ (registration required I'm afraid)
Full Text:
As seen on TV: On yer bike? Give us a wave! (Filed: 24/01/2004)
Cycling is a great leveller, and must not be hijacked by miserablists, says James May
Last week, having been laid up for several days by a pox of such virulent and ancient strain that it
probably appears in medical text books with "ye'' in front of it, I resolved to do more exercise.
So I bought a new bicycle. I should admit that I already have several bicycles. There is the
ancient, dark green Raleigh Superbe, a bike made of pig-iron and Bakelite and of a style that means
old people sometimes flag me down and attempt to place an order with the local butcher. Then there
is the peerless Brompton folder, the bicycle that makes life with a Bentley garaged eight miles away
vaguely feasible. There is also the Pashley roadster and even an old tandem awaiting restoration.
Unlike some of my professional colleagues, I've always been a big fan of the bicycle. I believe it
might be the world's greatest invention. A bicycle seems to offer the rare commodity of something
for nothing; a machine that improves the efficiency of the human engine without consuming anything
extra, although you might want a Mars bar before a big ride.
And it's amazing how much the bicycle has come on in recent years. My new mount is something called
a Dawes Chilliwack - stupid name, but a great piece of kit, and car makers often get that the other
way round. It has 24 ``indexed'' gears, a sprung saddle post, brilliant brakes, sponge bar grips and
lights with LED bulbs. It cost less than £250, which is pretty remarkable.
Gone are the days when my bikes were made out of bits scrounged from neighbours and mates, and when
cotter pins hand-crafted in Taiwan out of the finest cheddar cheese sheared on uphill sections to
bring my chin into character-building contact with the steering-head nut. Pedal cranks are
``cotterless'' now and the multi-adjustable handlebars are secured with a smooth and complexion-
friendly allen bolt. The bicycle has never been in better shape.
So it is my sad duty to have to report on the ruin of cycling itself. Just a week of regular city
riding has revealed how much the spirit of cycling has been repressed.
We'll start with my local network of cycle lanes, which have been made so incomprehensible and
fatuously pedantic that no one takes any notice of them. And rightly so, because attempts to
regulate bicycle riding run contrary to the urge for total independence that made us crave the
things as children. A mate of mine reports on a new cycle lane near his house that ends suddenly and
abruptly at the edge of a disused canal. At best this explains why disused canals are always full of
rusty bicycles.
And what's with these so-called "advanced stop lines" that allow cyclists to wait ahead of cars at
traffic lights? I fail to see how placing a cyclist, inevitably stuck in 22nd gear, in front of my
2·25-ton motor just as the lights change helps the cause of bicycling in any way. Never mind that
all this stuff costs hundreds of thousands of pounds that could have been spent on hospitals or
housing for the residentially challenged.
What bothers me most, however, is the demeanour of my fellow riders. Every morning I cycle along the
nearby riverside for six miles, in rain, wind, the lot. So do many other people. And so I wave, I
shout ``Good morning'' and other encouragements, or at least deliver the traditional English
acknowledgement of a faint nod.
What do I get in return? Nothing. They hunker into their waterproof-but-breathable gaily coloured,
cycling clothing, stare hard at lightweight front wheels extruded from 100 per cent unobtanium, or
tilt their heads so their eyes are shielded by their stupid polystyrene hats. In a week of riding
not one of dozens and dozens of riders - men, women, young and old - has returned my greeting.
I suspect that, because I ride in my normal clothes and a pair of proper shoes, they think I'm not a
``real'' cyclist. And this is exactly where we're going wrong. There is not, and shouldn't be, any
such thing as a ``real'' cyclist.
Cycling, as I see it, is a celebration of elemental freedom; like the local pub, it is a great
social leveller that admits anyone and asks for nothing in return. There are no qualifications, no
exclusions and no burdens attendant on its pursuit. That's as it should be. That way, the machine
that revealed the marvel of personal mobility to the masses will continue to make sense a century
and a half after its creation.
But I can't help a nagging suspicion that it is now being hijacked, by mealy-mouthed local
government activists, people with a point to make and, worst of all, downright miserablists.
So if you happen to be one of those riders who uses my local route, do us a favour. Do something
positive for cycling. Give us a wave.
. James May co-presents Top Gear, which returns to BBC2 in April