Dave and his mates had perched themselves (somewhat ambiguously) half on, half off the road; legs astride their pricey Canondales and Treks (trusty time trial hacks and steeds of steel…or carbon fibre composite). They each had dreams of being the pinnacle of the peloton, the yellow jersey from Bermondsey, the spoke coaches from Stoke Poges.
Lycra, lubricant and levers, the chain gang of middle managers (and blokes that got bullied at school) joined together in a frenzy of frenetic fraternisation every Sunday, causing havoc with every driver from Reigate to Rudgwick (naively attempting to visit a demented parent, or ‘popping down to Notcutts’).
They were geared up in tight, hostile garb, emblazoned with advertisements that exuded a luminous vibrancy and that made a statement…‘We’re over forty’. But being over forty didn’t necessarily mean that they had achieved a level of sageness that precluded them from trawling through a cycling shop and acquiring a set of dubiously, and unacceptably figure hugging threads.
Anyway, regardless of what they looked like, they sat roadside (sort of), drinking from plastic-topped ‘designed-in-a-wind-tunnel’ water bottles and discussing Strava sprint times…quite freely. When in flight, they would converse with their riding partners in raised voices in order to overcome the rush of the oncoming wind.
This gave an audible yet indecipherable warning of their presence (from some distance) to innocent bystanders quietly enjoying their front gardens…with only a snippet of conversation about their upcoming promotion being understandable as they passed before trailing off again.
They rode in a large group, occupying a section of the road that stretched from the kerb, right across to the centre lines. The effect of this was threefold: it made them feel like they were participating in the Tour De France, it gave them strength in numbers, and finally (but easily as importantly), it made almost every other road user want to commit a crime.
But of course, the real crimes were those perpetrated by Dave and his companions; riding in a peloton and deciding that it is okay to obstruct other road users under the guise of ‘the Highway Code allows us to ride two abreast’ even though it doesn’t when vehicles approach from behind, riding in groups so large that when drivers innocently drive round a blind corner they are confronted with straggling cyclists riding in the wrong lane, causing a near accident (and then when chastised by the motorist, suddenly think they are street smart and start answering back blissfully unaware that their bike may get thrown in the hedge), and wearing clothing that belongs in the velodrome and is unacceptable in any other environment.
To be clear, Dave and his accomplices were specifically racing-bike enthusiasts and not mountain bikers. Mountain bikers get a pass based on the fact that they seem to be cut from (and wear) a different cloth.
