The Ride to Work

Introduction by Martina Molinari

To be completely honest, I’m probably not the best person to introduce a story penned by a passionate cyclist who makes his everyday commute to work some kind of competition with himself. For him, the bike will always be his preferred mode of transport. Meanwhile, the only time I’ve seriously considered jumping on my granny bike was during a tube strike. Note the use of ‘considered’.

Despite the fact that I’m only a weekend rider, this story (from our COO’s dad, David Lynch) made me laugh and, in fact, inspired me. After all, the spring is coming and there’s no better time to do something about this unhealthy 24/7 startup lifestyle I often fall into over the winter months. Especially if it means I get to find myself a commuter nemesis to race with.

Batman’s Nemesis

Guest post by David Lynch

My day always begins with putting on the accoutrements of the professional bike racer. That’s the thing about cycling, whether to work or otherwise: you always dress up like you’re going racing.

Crash helmet, clinging lycra, clip-on shoes, wrap-around shades; it’s hard not to feel sporty and purposeful when everything about your person anticipates the essential need for aerodynamics, crash safety and impeccable colour coordination.

Even if the only concession you are prepared to make is a helmet and a pair of sunglasses, that will still be enough to convert any odd-looking, pencil-pushing schnook into a man of style and mystery.

And once out on the road with that uniform on, it’s very hard not to act sporty and purposeful. This is probably the most focused I’ll be all day.

As one rolls out the gate, one immediately seeks to adopt the posture and style of the professional rider. The French call it “la souplesse”. In the context of cycling, it means giving the appearance of a silky, effortless, almost-casual pedalling motion but with the reality of seriously quick forward momentum. Stephen Roche was a poster boy for it. The legs spin quickly and smoothly while the upper body remains still and casual. Imagine a swan: all busy-legged below the waterline, but regal above it. That’s me too, at least for the early part of the cycle.

I may only be cycling to work but it’s still a race, and as the race progresses all of my regular morning competitors gradually join the fray.

One of them is a girl, about my daughter’s age. I always beat her. Sometimes she surprises me by flashing past, and it takes all of my effort to catch her. When I do, however, I always make a point of closing my mouth when I pass her, in order to convey the clear, but entirely false, impression that the effort required to pass her at speed is really very trifling indeed.

It doesn’t take long for my mouth to open again, though — a big, gaping, oxygen-sucking sinkhole. The truth is that there are times that I think my heart will fail, but there is simply no way that I can leave her insult to my manhood go unanswered. I wonder does she know that every time she passes me, she ends up shortening my life by at least a month.

Then of course there is the man in black. Batman, I call him. Everything is black, even his bike. His mouth is never open. I hate him. He looks at his own reflection in every reasonably-sized shop window that he passes. Since it’s the same boring reflection that he sees each time, I can only assume that he experiences a little frisson of narcissistic pleasure each time that his image flashes past.

I won’t deny that I too use the shop windows every now and then, but not every window, and only for the entirely reasonable purpose of determining if I am continuing to hold the correct form. It also reminds me to hold my belly in.

In any event, when the very rare opportunity arises, I slipstream Batman as I approach my turn and then — with mouth closed, of course, et avec une certaine souplesse — I suddenly shoot past in a multicoloured blur, only to make my turn before he has had the opportunity to reload. I often think that the sense of excitement and triumphalism which I experience after one of these events is disturbingly disproportionate to the significance of the event itself.

However, by the time I arrive at work, the swan has morphed into a truffle hunter. The once balletically-held torso is now sweatily lurching from side to side, its owner snorting and grunting, the lycra now zipped down and flapping inelegantly in the wind. Then it’s into the office showers or, if I’m running late, it’s out with the baby wipes (a priceless piece of get-out-of-jail advice from Charley Boorman).

I get to my desk, still hot and slightly sweaty. But I feel good. In fact, it’s usually the best that I’ll feel all day. Just like having a swim or a baby, you will never regret a bike ride.

It’s more than the endorphins, though. Just as golf offers to the hacker the tantalising possibility of the professional’s perfect shot or the hole-in-one, which is what accounts for its appeal I think, so cycling offers the rider the opportunity to display the sporting poise and sartorial elegance of the professional cyclist, as a thing of beauty to be admired by those passed by.

And, very occasionally, it offers me the opportunity to defeat Batman, and to do so with some style (if also a little sneakily). If I’m very lucky, I might even get to do it again on the way home.