MY CAR
I have a car to call my own: it’s a 1997, 5-door hatchback Daihatsu Move. Only 46,000 miles on the clock and a 846cc engine, which is apparently equivalent to a motorbike. It’s great though, and cost only £23 to fill the tank. It’s quite dinky as it’s incredibly narrow (no hassle parking snug against the kerb) and it has very small wheels. My mate down the road was trading up to a new Beatle, so she very kindly donated this to me. Now I have to pass my test!
Thing is, though, I’m a cyclist before I’m a motorist. I’m extremely grateful to C for the car, but nothing beats the thrill of urban cycling – sawing the handlebars right down and taking huge risks in London traffic. I used to love it so much. It doesn’t have the same appeal in this town. But, beating the lights; hopping onto pavements (case-need); going into a high gear and charging along long, flat arterial stretches; breaking into a sweat through effort and exertion; tacitly ‘racing’ other cyclists; noticing the changing seasons in the air; setting off with a bunch of other commuters when the lights change; judging the exact spot on a road where you want to come to rest (often HMV on Oxford Street); cutting loose through Regent’s Park; cycling the final strait without holding the handlebars; passing glum people at bus stops; smiling at cute couriers,; getting to your destination more quickly than you ever did before; getting there more quickly than people using the tube; getting to the top of a steep hill when you didn’t on previous occasions; managing to balance at lights without putting a foot down; cycling home through the dark listening to the birds; feeling the pure fusion and simplicity and responsiveness of your muscles powering non-motorised parts; blah, blah. Also, some of the best and most interesting people ride bikes. Who would you rather have at your dinner party? Jon Snow or John Prescott? Boris Johnson or Jeremy Clarkson? Cars suck, but bikes rock!
I have a car to call my own: it’s a 1997, 5-door hatchback Daihatsu Move. Only 46,000 miles on the clock and a 846cc engine, which is apparently equivalent to a motorbike. It’s great though, and cost only £23 to fill the tank. It’s quite dinky as it’s incredibly narrow (no hassle parking snug against the kerb) and it has very small wheels. My mate down the road was trading up to a new Beatle, so she very kindly donated this to me. Now I have to pass my test!
Thing is, though, I’m a cyclist before I’m a motorist. I’m extremely grateful to C for the car, but nothing beats the thrill of urban cycling – sawing the handlebars right down and taking huge risks in London traffic. I used to love it so much. It doesn’t have the same appeal in this town. But, beating the lights; hopping onto pavements (case-need); going into a high gear and charging along long, flat arterial stretches; breaking into a sweat through effort and exertion; tacitly ‘racing’ other cyclists; noticing the changing seasons in the air; setting off with a bunch of other commuters when the lights change; judging the exact spot on a road where you want to come to rest (often HMV on Oxford Street); cutting loose through Regent’s Park; cycling the final strait without holding the handlebars; passing glum people at bus stops; smiling at cute couriers,; getting to your destination more quickly than you ever did before; getting there more quickly than people using the tube; getting to the top of a steep hill when you didn’t on previous occasions; managing to balance at lights without putting a foot down; cycling home through the dark listening to the birds; feeling the pure fusion and simplicity and responsiveness of your muscles powering non-motorised parts; blah, blah. Also, some of the best and most interesting people ride bikes. Who would you rather have at your dinner party? Jon Snow or John Prescott? Boris Johnson or Jeremy Clarkson? Cars suck, but bikes rock!
