So the tube is now short of one more gentleman who allows others to sit before himself (although only out of self-interest) and the roads have gained one very careful cyclist. Each morning I pull on my shorts and t-shirt, (no skin-tight lycra as I am taking an amateur approach), fasten the helmet and drag my old bike down two flights of stairs. The commute in is all downhill through Primrose Hill, Regents Park and Mayfair, the sun shines, the breeze cools, I stop at traffic lights, enjoy the scenery, anticipate hazards, whiz down hills and pause at crossings, I signal and position correctly, I watch other cyclists break rules, I gulp as taxis almost clip my handlebars, I wince as vans turn left in front of me, as pedestrians step out in front of me, as the lights change just as I’m getting there, as motorists ignore my intentions to change lanes, as electric cars pull out without looking, as… So hang on, this is proving to be just as stressful as the Tube. Multiply the impatience by ten for the uphill journey home and instead of risking accidentally jostling a Tube passenger in haste, I’m tempting fate at the back of a bus and prophesying my own broken legs in head-on collisions. I do cycle safely, but there is no accounting for what others get up to; whether they have seen you, whether they are anticipating your moves or whether they are on the phone to Barry back at the office saying they can’t find the address but some Johnny-pedaller is getting on their wick. But the journey itself is the easy part.
Remembering to take all the right work clothes to the office is where real care and attention must be paid. I am supposed to wear business formal, with a tie for all external meetings, but I just keep to shirt and smart trousers and don’t really go to meetings. My office is filled with Jermyn Street’s finest tailored shirts; my back is clothed by Oxford Street’s cheapest polyester numbers. Nevertheless, it is still my ‘uniform’ and my cycle wear is my ‘vest and pants’. So if you are going to wear vest and pants to work, it’s best not to forget the uniform. This I did on only my second day of cycling. Pulling a wrinkly shirt from my rucksack while standing there clad only in boxers in the disabled toilet, it dawns on me all of a sudden that the trousers I meant to extract from the wardrobe are still hanging serenely among off-the-rack suits, conspicuously absent from my bag at work. I am inert and stunned for a few minutes while all sinks in.
I am luckily forty-five minutes early so I do have time to play with. I cannot wear my shorts with my shirt, even if I hide under my desk, because I never stay at my desk for long. There are always teas to be made, snacks to fetch and mobile phone games to play in the cubicles. I cannot cycle back because the homerun is sufficiently uphill to guarantee sweat on sweat and then I will be all the later for showering. I cannot afford to buy new trousers as there is not enough cash in my account and I cannot borrow from colleagues who keep a wardrobe at work because they are predominantly giant in stature. And mostly hate me. I put back on my vest and pants and traipse back to the tube to blow £4 at the beginning of my money-saving scheme on a heated and pointless commute without even a book to read.
An hour later, and fifteen to twenty minutes after my contracted start time, I am at my desk, fully dressed in regulation dronewear and hoping I have escaped the partners’ keen eyes. “Problems with the train this morning?” innocently asks a colleague and deskfellow, evidently not spotting the bicycle helmet I am carrying.
“Not exactly,” I sigh.
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