The taxi is hurtling into town – but I’m not complaining. I’ve only got two nights and a day in São Paulo, so I need to squeeze the juice out of it. The road is absolutely rammed even though it’s late, dark, and drivetime is presumably over. Except it never is in South America’s megalopolis, famous for 100-mile traffic jams and the world’s busiest chopper lanes; helicopters are used by the rich when time is money. Suddenly, in the white beam of my cab, dozens of colourful lycra-clad bodies materialise. It’s a peloton, whizzing along what would be a bike-banning motorway anywhere else. They’re speeding home, helmets dipped, feet blurred in motion. I laugh. I can’t help but admire the night-riders.
“They go in big groups to avoid having their bicycles stolen,” says my guide, Edison, as if that’s obvious.
