Two wheels good, four wheels bad

Spectator, The, Aug 16, 2003 by Johnson, Boris

Boris Johnson offers cyclists an A to Z of how to survive in the capital

I know what,' I told my publisher the other day, as a light went ping in my head. 'I've got just the book for you.' And I outlined my wheeze for a blockbusting international superseller called I Don't Know How He Does It or possibly Men Who Do Too Much. It's gonna be huge, I told her: aimed straight at the growing market of stressed-out career-juggling husbands. Someone needs to speak for the kind of guy who stands up to make a speech in the boardroom, or in the House of Commons, reaches for the notes in his breast pocket, and pulls out the eight-year-old's homework.

Surely, I told her, there were zillions of have-it-all-males desperately trying to cope with the multiple roles demanded by the 21st century: husband, father, cook, cleaner, go-getting executive, and so on? To be honest, a slightly glazed look came over my publisher's face. I had the impression that she thought sales would be limited; and so I have put the project on the back burner.

In this article, I have a more modest ambition, which is to satisfy the vague curiosity of those who have worked out that I am not only a hard-pressed MP, but also editor of The Spectator. 'I Don't Know How You Do It,' they say. To all of them I reply, I will tell you how I do it. I do it with a bicycle.

For the careerist nappy-changing MP-cum-journalist-cum-house-husband, a bicycle is the indispensable tool of survival. I can get from Holborn to the Division Lobbies within 11 minutes. No single piece of technology - not even the mobile - is so vital.

In four years of pretty solid cycling around London, I have fallen off only once, and that was admittedly while negotiating the Palio of Trafalgar Square while talking on a mobile phone. I therefore feel able to offer a few small pieces of advice to my fellow jugglers. Here are some of the Dos and Don'ts of cycling in London, arranged alphabetically.

A is for ABUSE, which you must, frankly, learn to accept. You will get it from people driving lorries, cars, rubbish vans or, indeed, any other type of four-wheeled vehicle. Motorists will scream at you if you so much as twang their wing mirror or leave the teensiest scuff in their paintwork, the kind of thing that would easily vanish with a good rub or, failing that, a dab of Humbrol model paint. If you are a Tory MP, you will also be told, repeatedly, by people you have never clapped eyes on before, that you are a 'Tory tosser'.

B is for BOLLOCKS, which is the most vigorous rejoinder you arc permitted, preferably under your breath. No matter how grave the provocation, you should never scream back, since it jars everyone's nerves and adds to the general air of incivility in our streets. You may, at a pinch, mutter BALLS or BELT UP.

C is for CRASH HELMET. I urge you to wear one, though in disobedience to Kant's Categorical Imperative I don't myself. My explanation (and I admit that it is feeble) is that I don't like to be lured into any false sense of security. They made helmets mandatory in Australia, and so many people stopped cycling that doctors reported a surge in CORPULENCE, one of the problems a bike can help you fight.

D is for DEATH. Every successful bicycle journey should be counted a triumph over this.

E is for EXERTION and ENDORPHINS and ECSTASY, the first producing the next, which produces the next, as you whizz through London's lovely streets, and you look at the play of light through the plane trees, and you inhale the open air, and you think of the suckers stuck in the taxis, the cars, the buses and, God help them, the Tube.

F is for FREEDOM. With no other means of transport, except possibly skiing, can you determine so exactly the path you intend to follow, and arrive there so quickly. The beauty of cycling is that you can decide, from a distance of ten yards, that your front tyre is going to trace a course six inches to the right of that manhole cover and a foot to the left of that broken beer bottle. And you do it! It's about autonomy, man. G is for GEARS. At the risk of heresy, I have never seen the point of the very high gears. Why sit and pump like a maniac when it is so much easier to stand up and grunt? Once my bike was nicked, but because my children had been fiddling with the gears I was easily able to overtake the thief on foot.

H is for HANDLEBARS. The key thing about handlebars is not to shoot over them. No matter how spongy your grip is, a lot of cycling will produce a HORNINESS in your HANDS.

I is for INDICATE, which I suggest you do with all the extravagance, beaming, waving and eyebrow-waggling of Simon Rattle bringing in the wind section.

J is for JELLY. This is what you become, psychologically and perhaps also physically, if you forget to indicate, shoot over the handlebars, and bite the asphalt of Trafalgar Square.

K is for KLAXON. Mine fell off, and I don't really recommend them. Time spent parping a horn or ringing a bell would be much better employed braking, weaving or just screaming.