I felt like a bit of a legend when I started cycling in London 18 years ago. Everyone was always congratulating me on my bravery. “Oh, you wouldn’t catch me on a bike,” people would say if they spotted my helmet or the cycling shorts peeking out beneath my dress. “Far too dangerous.”
To be fair, it was quite hairy at times. Cycle superhighways were yet to be invented; bike lanes were marked out in paint, at best, rather than protected by any kind of physical barrier; and cab drivers still seemed surprised to see me. Young and dumb enough to believe myself invincible, I rather enjoyed the sense of peril, timing my turns to avoid getting wiped out by a bendy bus and feeling like a warrior princess at the end of every commute. I was sometimes on the receiving end of catcalls – “Lucky saddle!” or “Ride me instead!” – but no one seemed to actively hate me. Those were the days.
