Dedication to ‘Networking’
Lime Bike illustration by Studio Jouvay
How much does it cost to ride a Lime Bike from Willesden Green to Tower Bridge?
£17.98.
That’s how much.
I found this out one recent evening on discovering the Jubilee Line was suddenly 100% suspended, when I did NOT let it scupper my plans for NETWORKING DOMINATION at Business Junction. Such is my UTTER COMMITMENT to building my newly relaunched business. [But really, as Mauro Porcini rightly and so eloquently celebrates - us designers are the 'people who are in love with people', so part of this is the genuine love of meeting the new.]
So...not go? Taxi? No siree! Lime bike for me! 18:30 desired ETA. Also, I am meeting someone there and I HATE to be late.
Since the appearance of these overly heavy green and white wheeled gems, I have developed a dangerous love affair with Lime Bike cycling. Electric, of course. I don’t want to break a sweat on an evening out, darling. (Unless it involves dancing Argentinean Tango, but that’s another story.) Mind you, where I come from (Trinidad), to ‘lime’ is to hang out with friends/family, and chill, therefore this brand is already onto a winner with me and has more messaging in its name than it realises for a certain pocket of the Caribbean. So, with low exertion cycling, I love the feeling of the wind in my hair. Not even the best of British weather has hampered me on occasions. Nothing my trusty DryRobe can’t handle. Let’s face it, the coat hasn’t seen the banks of a cold water swim spot in this country since Lockdown. More like the sidelines of a Y4 rugby match in North London, and the veg isle in Waitrose. But I digress. Back to the balmy summer evening of opportune bicycle heaven.
Dressed for schmoozing (chic black, draped top and silk trousers) and business card swapping (printed or digital, whateverrrr), I am ON the bike. I am READY for the road. BRING IT ON London! I leave the grumbling tube-goers outside the station with their noses in their phones, looking for alternative routes, for dust.
Whizzing out of Willesden, I applaud my own skill of scaling the ubiquitous North London speed bumps.
See me FLY through West Hampstead.
Cocky with confidence, channelling my Primary 6 self – when my entire class aced the Cycling Proficiency Test with Mrs Thompson, on the sleepy, granite-lined streets of Aberdeen.
Finchley Road, and I am regretting my choice of underwear. Well, I mean who knew I would be on a knife-like saddle for what may be over an hour, when I twanged my g-string on earlier. To hell with VPL next time.
Regent’s Park. Get very cautious about any blasted bumps because the bladder situation is starting to become a concern.
Being a seasoned car driver in this metropolis for the past couple decades (I reckon I could master black cabbies’ The Knowledge), I duck down a side street towards Marylebone Road. Overtake an ambling cyclist who takes ‘hands free’ to a whole new level... With a handlebar devoid of any of his digits, he is having an animated conversation on his phone. Sans ear buds, holding the handset to his ear with one hand, gesticulating with the other. An Italian. Obviously. I bloody well bet HE’s never taken a Cycling Proficiency Test.
Down Euston Road, and as well as absorbing the aroma of diesel and dirt, I have now taken on the role of a human car bumper. The influx of airborne insects splatting against my face reminds me to shut my mouth, or run the risk of having an aphid as an amuse bouche. I expect free canapés, so, to hell with that. Regret forgetting sunglasses for their shielding function.
Angel, and start cursing my bladder. Engage clenching in preparation when spotting potholes.
Nearing Old Street roundabout, and whilst this (now dyed) brunette is enjoying the breeze in my not-so-lush locks, I have an unsettling feeling of ventilation reaching an unexpected part of my body. As I pass an overspilling pub of City wa-, sorry, I mean bankers, I peer down to see the chic black, split-fronted draped top I carefully chose for FIRST IMPRESSION SOPHISTICATION, has blown open to reveal my bra. Thankfully, I don’t suffer a Good Morning Judy BAFTA moment – at least I do have colour coordination and high standards of lingerie, albeit John Lewis on this occasion. However, no-one wants to witness the Jabba-the-Hut-like stomach aftermath of two over-4kg births, and I am not so ‘any body is beautiful’-proud. It’s enough to put the City Tarquins and Jaspers off their Sauvignons, and I nearly die swerving to tuck in fabric whilst refusing to slow my pace. I WILL get there for 18:45, at the latest.
London Wall traffic light, and I am SUDDENLY surrounded by a veritable swarm of bicycles. All push bikes. No electric nonsense here. These are the real deal. The City Commuters. And I am now (like it or not), part of THE PACK. Cooool. I feel an utterly unexpected enormous sense of togetherness and community. Of belonging to something even cult-like. If only my income matched their insurance policies. Still, I can hold up against this seasoned crew. But it’s a learning curve of a double-figured gradient, and my confidence (but not my wheel) wavers. But now, a revelation. The carefully crafted cycle lanes that us motor car drivers leer at, and the Mayor of London have spent (probably) millions on, are evidently for LOSERS. No self-respecting City Commuter actually enters them, I immediately learn. Ever. (Deliveroo cyclists are in another league all together, let’s not even go there.) Nevertheless, I am very happy to be a loser in these circumstances, I am still channelling my Primary 6 self, when cycle lanes hadn’t even been invented, but if they had – I WOULD BE IN ONE TO GET AWAY FROM THESE COMMUTING PSYCHOPATHS!
Now crossing London Bridge, I can smell the welcome cocktail. Cockiness regained after being in THE PACK, I flirt with a fire engine and bamboozle a bus driver, squeezing through stagnant traffic. I finally dart down towards Shad Thames.
Lime bike parked. £17.98.
I have ARRIVED.
18:48
Ladies’ room before niceties.
But I'm too late for a bloody cocktail (thanks Fiona and Florence for the catch-up drinks).
Decide to become a cycle courier if the business doesn’t work out.
Joking.
GREAT evening though with meaningful chats.
Met fab people.
And the canapés were excellent. Not an aphid in sight.
(FYI Sticky Mango)
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