The Accidental Cyclist (13 page)

Icarus thought for a moment,
wondering if this might be a trick question. The Grey Man raised
his grey eyebrows, questioning, waiting. “Erm,” said Icarus, “umm.
Obey the Highway Code?” he ventured.

“No, no no,” said the Grey Man.
“The Golden Rule, the most important thing when cycling in the
city, is: Be slightly paranoid.” He paused to allow this revelation
to sink into Icarus’s brain. “That is it: Be slightly
paranoid.”

Icarus was wearing a confused
look, so the Grey Man explained: “Think that everyone is out to get
you, think that they are all trying to knock you off your
bike.”

“Are they?” asked Icarus,
alarmed now. Suddenly he was listening intently.

“No. Well, yes, occasionally
they are, but very seldom. But no, generally they aren’t out to get
you. What I’m trying to tell you is that you are most likely to be
harmed by people who don’t think, people who don’t look, who don’t
anticipate what is going to happen. There are people who will open
car doors without looking, or taxi drivers who do sudden U-turns to
pick up a fare. Or delivery van drivers who are looking for a
street name or house number, so they’re too busy to look out for
you. All these people aren’t out to get you, it’s just that they
aren’t paying attention in general, and that’s what causes
accidents. For you to stay safe, you have to anticipate all of this
– you must expect the unexpected.”

The Grey Man paused to let that
knowledge sink in. Icarus was beginning to feel less sure about
cycling along the roadway. Maybe he should stick to pedalling
around the park. The Grey Man saw a hint of fear in his eyes, and
went on: “There’s nothing to be afraid of. Just do what I’ve told
you, and you’ll be fine.”

Icarus had been about to rise
from the step, but the Grey Man straightened up and looked back
into the crowd of Icaruses. Pondering on the multitude for a
moment, the Grey Man continued: “I know that it’s a cliché, but
remember, it’s a jungle out there. It’s a jungle, and there are all
sorts of animals that you have to watch out for. Think of yourself
as a gazelle – quick, supple, graceful. This is your natural
environment, it is where you live and thrive, but it is not without
danger.

“The most common danger that you
will come across in the city is the pedestrian. They are like
sheep, or lemmings. They walk into the road without looking, and
cross over wherever they like, ignoring signs and traffic lights.
And when they step into your path and suddenly see you, they freeze
like a rabbit caught in a car’s headlights. It’s surprising that
there are so many pedestrians, because I’m sure they have a
communal death wish. But you don’t have to fear them – they are
more of a danger to themselves than they are to you. They are more
a nuisance than a serious danger, because in a collision they are
likely to come off worse than you.

“Then there is the cab driver
and the white van driver. They are a bit like warthogs, dodging
this way and that without warning. They don’t mean to do you any
harm, they just want to get about their business as quickly as
possible and don’t like it when anyone gets in their way. But they
are not very pleasant to tangle with, so you should do your best to
avoid them. It’s not easy, though, because whatever you expect them
to do next, they will do the opposite, so you should never be
surprised by whatever they do. As I said earlier, always expect
them to do the unexpected.”

The Grey Man was building to his
finale: “But finally, there is one beast of the road that you
ignore at your peril – lorries, and all similar high-sided
vehicles. Never ever tangle with them. They are like rhinos. They
have thick skins, their vision is limited, they move too fast for
their own good but are always slow to react. If you get on the
wrong side of them, they will trample you into the dust and then
trundle off without even knowing what they have done. You should
steer clear of them until you are more confident in your riding and
fully conversant with your surroundings. And even then, make sure
you never, ever pass them on the blind side.”

The Grey Man stopped and
thought, and then said: “Well, I think that’s it. Just remember: be
sensible, stay alert, and always be slightly paranoid – that’s the
Golden Rule. Oh, and always wear a helmet, that’s the other Golden
Rule. Now, let us ride.”

“Amen,” said Icarus solemnly,
and stood up.

The morning was already hot and
breathless. Icarus and the Grey Man donned their helmets and set
off at a sedate pace towards the High Street, the younger man in
front. “Keep to the cycle lanes where possible,” the older man
instructed, “and obey all the road signs.” Then, as an
afterthought, he added a rider that puzzled Icarus: “You’ll quickly
learn when not to obey them.”

They hadn’t progressed fifty
yards when Icarus braked suddenly and came to a halt.

“What’s the matter?” the Grey
Man asked.

“What do I do here?” asked
Icarus. He pointed ahead to where a marked cycle lane ended quite
abruptly, and a bus stop was marked on the roadway.

“You just ride through it, or
around it, if a bus has stopped there,” said the Grey Man, a little
exasperated. “Don’t take everything quite so literally.”

They set off again. About two
hundred yards further was a set of traffic lights and a pedestrian
crossing. Just before the lights Icarus again ground to a halt, and
climbed off his bike. The Grey Man looked up at the sign above the
boy’s head. It read: “Cycle lane ends. Cyclists dismount.” The Grey
Man sighed.

“How do I not take that sign
literally?” said Icarus. “It only has one meaning.”

“That sign is the most stupid
sign ever produced,” said the Grey Man. “If you dismounted every
time you saw one of those signs, you would be off your bike more
than on it. What you have to realise is that these roads and cycle
paths are designed by people who don’t cycle, who probably have
never ridden a bike in their lives, and who don’t know what it is
like to cycle. They are idiots who have only studied cycling in a
manual, and they probably hate cycling and cyclists, so they really
want to discourage people from cycling.

“The people who design them see
us as a different tribe. And we are. They don’t like it that we are
different, they don’t like our sense of freedom, so they’ve hatched
a plot to get rid of all cyclists. I think they want to make us
dismount so often that we’ll be so frustrated that we never get
back on our bikes again.”

“So what should I do?” asked
Icarus.

“Just ignore them. Ignore them
unless your common sense tells you otherwise. Stop if you feel in
danger, stop and get out of the way. And stop if you feel someone
else is in danger, even if it’s their own fault.” The pair set off
again, they reached the High Street, and rode uninterrupted from
one end to the other, past the library where they had used the
computers in the dark, past the International Cycle Courier Company
(Hackney Branch).

One block further along was a
set of traffic lights. The lights were green when Icarus reached
them, but he braked and came to a standstill.

“What’s up now?” the Grey Man
asked. “The lights are green, so you can go.”

“This is as far as I’m allowed
to go,” said Icarus.

“You won’t be any good as a
cycle courier if you can’t go beyond this borough into the
next.”

“Well, I don’t mean I can’t,
it’s just that I’ve never been further than this road. My mother
has always said that everything we need is right here – the shops,
the school, the park and the doctor’s surgery. I’ve never needed to
go any further than here.”

“You’ve never left the borough
before?” asked the Grey Man, slightly incredulous. “Never been into
the City, down to the river?”

“No,” said Icarus.

“You’ve never been on
holiday?”

“No, never.”

The Grey Man could hear a note
of sadness in those two simple words.

“Well,” he said, “let’s make
this into an adventure. Open your eyes and welcome to the big wide
world.”

Icarus and the Grey Man made
their way into the next borough, which was Islington. The streets
were filled with Sunday morning shoppers who were taking full
advantage of the warm weather. They crowded the pavements and
bustled in and out of the chic little stores and delicatessens,
restaurants and coffee bars and bookshops that lined the street.
Beyond that they reached a series of gleaming glass canyons, broken
by monolithic slabs of ancient stone institutions, all of them the
bedrock of the nation’s economy. This was the City of London,
populated by skyscrapers that Icarus had seen slowly developing on
the horizon of his childhood. “From the park this all looks so far
away,” he said, “but really, it’s so close. I thought that it would
have taken all day to ride here.”

The streets were all but
deserted, and Icarus wondered where all the people had gone. “They
come only during the week, to work here,” the Grey Man told
him.

They followed a mazy course
through the City until they came to the biggest church that Icarus
had ever seen, a dazzling white affair, intricately pillared and
topped by an enormous dome.

“That’s St Paul’s cathedral,”
said the Grey Man. “Wren’s masterpiece, many say. But I think there
are other finer examples of his work elsewhere in London.”

After the empty streets they had
just travelled through, St Paul’s seemed to be swarming with people
who, antlike, appeared to be going about some unknown business.

“Are they all going to church?”
Icarus asked.

“In a sense. They are the
modern-day pilgrims,” said the Grey Man. “They are probably all
tourists.”

They circumnavigated the marble
confection and then turned eastwards. A short while later there
came into view a squat castle, and behind it a magnificent bridge,
with two tall towers and a span of blue metal girders, which
crossed a murky expanse of water. “The Tower of London,” said the
Grey Man, feeling a bit like one of those tour guides leading the
ants that were scurrying around St Paul’s cathedral, “… and Tower
Bridge.”

“That must be the Thames then,”
said Icarus, pointing to the heaving brown expanse of water that
divided the city in two. Once again, the area was teeming with
tourists, walking, stopping, looking, photographing, and moving in
the most unpredictable antlike patterns.

They stood and watched for a
while, until the Grey Man said: “Shall we go on?”

“I just want to look and take it
all in,” said Icarus. “I shall have to tell mother all about it
when I get home.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll see it all
again, many times, once you’re working.”

They left the Tower behind them
and headed west, through a noisy underpass, emerging once again
next to the Thames. They cycled along the Embankment, past dolphin
lampposts and camel benches, and Cleopatra’s needle. Around the
bend in the river they could see the London Eye and Big Ben. “I’ve
seen that on the news,” said Icarus, “but I always thought it was
miles and miles away, not somewhere you could see it. But it’s
right here, so near to home.”

When they reached Westminster
Bridge they leant their bikes against the stone wall and peered
over the bridge to watch the ferries and river buses pass beneath
them. The Grey Man bought ice-creams, which they had to lick
quickly before they melted and ran down their sticky fingers.
Around them life swirled and eddied, just like the waters below
them, and Icarus began to feel that, after years as an observer, an
outsider, he was now becoming a member of the human race.

“You know,” he said, turning to
the Grey Man, “I think that this is absolutely the best day of my
life.”

Icarus could not stop talking
about his day out. He had to tell his mother everything. He did not
perceive her discomfort, but the Grey Man could tell that she was
on edge. Mrs Smith had invited the Grey Man to stay for dinner. He
asked politely if she was sure that it was not an inconvenience,
but Mrs Smith insisted, saying that it was amazing how far one
could stretch a roast chicken. The Grey Man accepted
graciously.

“It was incredible,” an excited
Icarus told his mother. “At all the big landmarks there are
millions of people and they all scurry around just like ants, going
this way and that, and with no apparent purpose.”

“I’m sure you’re exaggerating
just a little,” said Mrs Smith.

“No, really Mother, they are
just like ants. They come up and gather where there is food, then
they disappear underground, to emerge at the next place. Except, of
course, their underground is
the
Underground, you know, the
Tube – that Underground.” Icarus thought he had made a profound
observation, and could not understand why his mother and the Grey
Man did not share his enthusiasm. He did sense a certain tension
between his mother and the Grey Man, but could not read what it
meant, what it indicated. That was stuff for grown-ups, for older
people, so he just kept talking in his little-boy fashion as his
mother prepared their meal and the Grey Man sat quietly in an
armchair in the front room, amazed by the exotic birds that flitted
about on the magic carpet, while outside in the park the late
summer evening was swallowed by twilight.

“I can’t believe how we found
our way back home,” Icarus said, half to his mother, half to the
Grey Man, and half to himself, or anyone else who might have been
listening. “I could never have done it on my own. When we left the
Thames it was like riding through a rabbit warren, and I thought we
were going totally the wrong direction and the next thing there we
were, on our High Street. It really was quite a slice of luck,
wasn’t it?”

Without saying a word the Grey
Man stood up and took something from his back pocket. He crossed
the room to the small dining table and sat down. He opened out the
paper he’d taken from his pocket and folded it again and again, a
strange origami, then told Icarus to sit beside him. Icarus looked
at the paper. It was a map, no larger than the palm of his
hand.