They are a strange breed, I like to think of them as somewhat mysterious. Those people that fly past in the shadows before the sun has even begun to fill the sky with colour. The only real sign of their presence being the sound of thousands of synchronised parts meshing, tyres hissing on the road and a small head and tail light acting as beacons to unsuspecting
travellers.
Getting up at 4:55am to go for a long ride before work or on the weekend is probably one of the most masochistic things I do. I don’t love the act of getting up but I love the result, a long, fast and generally social ride through the city streets at dawn before all of the cages begin to take over the roads like a plague, auto-commuting like robotic rats.
The virtues of such a ritual cannot be explained to those ignorant to the joys of cycling, even some cyclists wouldn’t understand the freedom that can be found on the city streets before the heads of those uninitiated have risen.
Akin to outlaw biker gangs we travel in packs; our leathers made from synthetic moisture wicking materials; our weapons made from carbon fibre, metal and rubber; and our ideals simple and somewhat selfish: to speed through life with the wind in our hair and the world behind us.
It’s kind of Fight Club-esque, when later in the day, dressed in suits, behind desks, behind counters, in laboratories, office buildings or cafeterias, we can only be recognised by our bulging quads, funny tan lines and distant glances; our bikes hidden in corners of homes and offices, poised for another dawn raid on the city.