(Image by Marky Marco)

So, all Eco-worriers/terrorists/fascists have to go everywhere by bike. There really isn’t any other choice in this country. At least not in my wholesome city of Bristol, where the public transport is... hmmm... if it was a pupil at school it might be described in it’s report as ‘lack-ing in focus’ ‘prone to unauthorised absence’ or ‘having trouble with punctuality’. Driving a car to work is just not an option, it can take as long to drive as it would to walk and then it costs about £1million a day to park. A bike gives you a wonderfully high moral perch for your buttocks each morning, as you cruise past the bumper to bumper fat people. I do wear a mask so I don’t choke on the fumes, and a headband to keep my ears warm and pair of clear glasses to stop my mascara running and a helmet, of course. In fact some kids shouted, “Whoa! A ninja cyclist.” Hardly, but I took it as a compliment. This is all lovely and super, but riding a bike every day in all weathers is psychologically not that attractive to most ordinary people. I know, because I was like that but then I made a discovery...

I bought an electric bicycle. It has a battery that you plug in each night, and when you pedal, it drives a motor on the back wheel. It is genius. It is not a cheat. Well, a bit of a cheat then. You don’t have to pedal, it has a throttle and will potter along, but if you do pedal you go a little bit faster. I have to admit that I pedal so that I don’t look lazy. When all the lycra clad (you guessed it, hubby is one of them) come hurtling past on a death wish, it is kind of embarrasing to be sitting on your upright city bike going about as fast as a mobil-ity scooter (especially when you look like a ‘ninja’). When you pedal, you still put in effort, so I am fitter as well. In fact there is no bad side, except for carrying all your stuff in pan-niers, getting sweaty then changing at work, forgetting your work shoes, your work clothes, having your saddle stolen, riding in hail and being knocked off by a taxi. Other than that it is just fine. In fact, my day is made at nine in the morning, when I jump the lights to get Park Street to myself. The challenge is to not touch the brakes until the bottom. Being knocked off wasn’t funny, but it was Karma. A taxi driver did to me exactly what I did to someone else about five years ago. Turning left without looking. Bike, taxi, tarmac. As the busy junction screeched to a halt and I picked myself up, trying not to look at the hole in my Ron Hills that definitely had bits of skin attached to it, I had two thoughts: (English) - How embarrasing! (Female) - My bag! (which had fallen off my bike and skittered across the road). I had some cool bruises and a bit of a cut knee to show for it. So, other than be-ing shot at by a pellet gun out of a bus window, being nearly squashed by a bus twice and almost being knocked off by other cyclists (who probably think I am too slow), I quite like it. It certainly kicks my day off with an adrenaline boost.

The trouble is, once you get into this cycling thing it takes over your life. I go into bike shops to look at shiny bits and bobs (I don’t know their real names yet), or worse, a NEW bike. Maybe this pink one over here - is it any good? £1500? How reasonable. But then... haven’t I fallen into the consumerist trap, am I about to fall off my ethical perch? I give up. It probably takes a million kilobobs of energy to turn carbon into front forks, instead of a pencil. I might as well drive a diesel into the city for a week, or more. Short of knitting my own bike out of hand spun carrot shavings, as a family of four we already have six and half bikes so I must wait until at least one of them is irreparably damaged. (No, I don’t know how the chainsaw switched itself on and fell on my bike. No, I don’t know where the chain-saw came from either.) There must be somebody out there furiously knitting as I type