The cycling life for me
Nothing gives as much freedom as cycling.
I have thought it every single time I have ridden a bike.
The million stolen bikes that my friends and I had, and then the best one that got stolen from us.
The potential risk of being mown down in London traffic, and the small wins of slowly waving at the angry van man as I glide by.
Bikes are freedom for my boys too. Our family hobby, of sorts.
The adrenaline of Plough Hill, making the lights and launching through to Battersea Helipad, watching the chauffeur-driven cars waiting to collect the people plucked from the sky.
I still marvel at the helicopters falling down like big insects, arriving from somewhere above.
My bike takes me to that place of freedom: saying hello to the Thames and all the houseboats I have known for many years, understanding every cobblestone, preparing for the swans and squeezing over Battersea Bridge - possibly the most dangerous bridge in London?
The excitement won’t ever leave me.
No fear. They should be fearful of me, because these roads belong to me: this middle-aged, slightly overweight she-cyclist in her unorthodox cycling gear and with her sweaty brow.