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City Scopes

The Limpet
Ian Cleverly

Six-time national sprint champion Stuart Brydon used to train at the Herne Hill track after moving to London from Scotland in the 90’s. As sprinters go, he was not the largest of the species, but he was darned fast, and clever with it.

Watching him training at the velodrome one afternoon, however, I began to doubt whether Brydon was altogether sane. A length of chunky metal chain attached to his seatpost connected to a car tyre dragged astern, as the seated Brydon heaved away, trying to get the whole rig moving with seemingly little success. Eventually both shire horse and plough furrowed away at painfully slow speed, every fibre of the Scot’s legs twitching for all it was worth. I am told this was a common strength training method at the time. But there was method in Brydon’s madness.

A magazine interview with this human tractor revealed another favourite and unlikely training tip: sprinting away from the lights on the daily commute. It had never occurred to me to treat the five-mile ride into the West End as anything more than a gentle spin, yet Brydon was advocating standing start, explosive efforts… on the Old Kent Road.

This was something of a revelation. With three young children and a demanding job, my training was infrequent and haphazard. The short pootle to work was enjoyable enough most of the time – torrential rain not withstanding – but now there was something to focus on when awaiting a green light, alongside perfecting the track stand. The fixed wheel was a rare beast in those days, so the curious looks from fellow commuters may have been admiration, but I suspect pity for the wobbling weirdo before them was more accurate.

I was first out of the traps and quickly up to speed, legs spinning furiously, before chaps with geared bikes invariably came hammering past. And that was perfectly fine: let them go. The whole commuter-racing thing is too crass for words. Now every junction in London is awash with cyclists – a wonderful sight to behold but not a comfortable feeling to be in the middle of – a quick getaway is a very useful thing to possess. After that, wheel sucking and jockeying for position is an unseemly inconsequence. Dignity at all times, ladies and gentlemen.

Passing a fellow astride a tired-looking yellow racer with a persistent creak emanating from the left crank used to be a regular feature of my commute home. He would be plodding along as I passed at a fair lick, yet within seconds the unmistakable squeak, now at an increased tempo, was back in earshot. Various methods were employed to shake him off – rapid acceleration, gradual deceleration, a combination of the two – but The Limpet could not be prised away. I even tried conversing with him on one occasion. No reply. Eventually, he became such a source of annoyance, I would take the first turn I came to, no matter what direction it took me in.

To allow a fellow cyclist to become such a bugbear seemed irrational, yet I hated The Limpet and his filthy, squealing, yellow rust-heap with a passion. Nothing wrong with sitting on the wheel of an acquaintance, but to attach yourself to any passing stranger and annoy the hell out of him, ruining his previously relaxed frame of mind, is asking for it.

Since the Limpet and I way went our separate ways, however, things have much improved. You would think, after 25-plus years of essentially the same commute through Dickensian south-east London, it would lose its appeal, but there is much to admire. To wait five minutes while Tower Bridge raises is to marvel at a feat of engineering. The back streets of Bermondsey provide some of the least inviting and unedifying vistas in the land, yet the sight of Millwall football club’s ground, floodlights ablaze, and its surrounding maze of narrow, cobbled streets, viewed though the railway arches, stir the soul.

And it only takes a moment to consider the alternative method of commuting – squeezed, cheek-by-jowl, on a train with sniffling, hacking humanity – to realise that this is the only way to travel. Take it easy all the way or smash away from every set of lights, the choice is yours. But either way, remember how lucky you are to be riding through the city.

Ian Cleverly is the managing editor of Rouleur magazine.