With our wild kinetic dreams

The correct number of bicycles one should own is determined through a mathematical formula well known to internet-savvy cyclists. Stephen Hawking resolved not to include any formulae in A Brief History of Time because he felt each instance might halve his sales, although he did eventually relent and quote one from Einstein. I however am not out for sales, and anyway, it's only a very little formula:

C = n + 1   [1]

where C is the correct number and n the current number of bikes.

So there is supposedly always another bicycle required to fill that little functional gap. It's about the need to transport a couple of bags of peat from the garden centre when you don't have a car and are too cheap for taxis; it's the need to travel with a bike on a train and take it into a hotel, and not worry about bookings or raised eyebrows; it's the need for something stable and unfalloffable for snow and black ice; it's the need for a really lightweight lowracer for smoking those roadies; it's the need for something with an all-enclosed multi-speed drivetrain and weatherproof brakes for hills and salt-encrusted winter weather; it's the need for a decent mountain bike with disc brakes and nicer front end geometry because you're tired of wearing out rims and getting a crick in your neck after 15 miles of trails. Own only one bicycle? That's crazy talk, man.

On the Team Estrogen forum there are various suggestions in the thread Do I need two bikes or one?: 'You need at least two bikes; three or four is even better.', or simply that one needs three or four. One contributor even owns the seemingly ideal 3.5 bikes (the 0.5 apparently being crash-assisted).

In the discussion Is the perfect number of bikes REALLY always N+1? on Singletrack's forum, one contributor stated that 'Four bikes is all I need, and I think that's indulgence. Couldn't go below three though.' Clearly, owning only two bikes would simply make life impossible.

During 2008-09 the Cyclechat forum hosted the discussion How many bikes should a cyclist own?. The first suggestion was the beautifully disarming 'as many as necessary'. Another view was that 'five bikes are quite sufficient, unless you like off road biking in which case you need a couple of MTBs too.' Despite six pages and 80 posts, there was little agreement reached over what the correct number of bikes was, except that the formula itself was correct, more or less. For some a more appropriate version was (n+2) or perhaps (n+3). Indeed, a contributor on the London Fixed-gear & Single-speed forum noted that multiple bicycle ownership, whether realised or aspirational, was 'worse than crack'.

The Blasphemous Biker, writing in December 2010, explained his rationale for needing three bikes. These would, in his opinion, comprise a road/touring/Audax bike, a mountain or mountain-type bike, and a bike to use in cities and in bad weather.

In fact, Peter Walker of The Guardian picked up on the (n+1) movement and the Cyclechat thread in July 2010, in his article Confessions of a serial bicycle buyer. Walker himself said 'I now own four bikes ... it makes perfect sense.' The 69 comments on that article quickly demonstrate the relatively few people who own only one bike, though one commenter (commentator?) came tantalisingly close to a magic single machine with his Rohloff-hubbed multiple-tyre optioned Thorn Enduro. At least one person picked up on the dichotomy of need vs. want, and considering the environmental impact of owning many bikes, but until it's proven that four, five, six bicycles has a greater environmental cost than one car -- especially a modern 5-seater petrol hybrid -- I remain on the side of the human power movement even with its ongoing materialism.

Fortunately there are already rules in place to help govern such desperate soul-searching and financial husbandry. Within The Rules: the simple truths of bicycle etiquette, and under Rule 12: Fundamental Principle of Bicycle Ownership, it is stated clearly that three is the minimum acceptable number, with the correct number calculated using the (n+1) equation. The three are explained in greater detail in the Badass By Association: Winter Riding discussion and may be summarised as i) a rain bike; ii) an inclement weather bike; and iii) a nice weather bike. However, one contributor helpfully pointed out that road surfaces, frame materials and frame types should be additional considerations, and '117 bikes per person' was therefore justified.

But as we saw from The Guardian, if we start to distinguish between want and need, our happy 'correctness' goes out of the window; that is to say, correctness tends towards optimality. We might, therefore, look for an empirical solution, N, to the equation

N = n + (F_d * F_e)   [2]

in which the absolute desirability factor, F_d, would include subjective things like price of a bicycle (or multiple bicycles) divided by expected mileage, peer group rarity, size, total inertia, and total rolling resistance; and the enabling factor, F_e, ranges from -1 to +1 and includes measures of household or relationship stability, price divided by expected salary, security of rarity, and available space.

This is all fine and good, but such empiricism requires hard numbers, not just statements and good ideas. While the correct or ideal number of bicycles is clearly 'one more', we can look at reported ownership to determine a real-world optimum. Obviously it will be at least one, and presuming it to be fewer than infinity, and on the available data being post-limited to personally owned bikes rather than including those in the garage/hall/shed but belonging to other people, we must consider not just the bog-standard average but all three statistical averages, that is, is there a normal or offset-normal distribution of the results, and where are the peaks? Also to be borne in mind is the possibility that all reported results are skewed by all the I'm-not-a-cyclist, I-only-ride-to-the-park single-bikists steering clear of internet discussion forums and little surveys, and indeed, pottering around completely oblivious to the value of their collective bike usage. In fact, the oblivious might make up a statistically significant proportion of bicycle owners, if not in the absolute numbers of bicycles.

Davis, in California, reputedly has 2.1 bikes per person. A census on the DavisWiki website, with returns from December 2005 through to November 2009. suggested that across 132 wikizens there were on average 1.9 bikes per person, which is a pretty good result. Ownership was perhaps slightly adrift of statistical rigour, because the numbers ranged from one bike to as many as 18 (though perhaps understandably, not all 18 were high quality mileage machines, and not every contributor gave a precise breakdown of bikes per household member.

Closer to home, the Cyclechat discussion referred to above saw returns from 39 people and counted a total of approximately 133.5 personally owned bikes (the 0.5 referred to a tandem, whose other rider seemingly didn't participate). The average number of bikes owned was 3.4 per person, with both a median number and modal number of 3 bikes per person.

A more detailed survey, How many bikes are there in your shed/garage/house?, conducted on yACF in 2008 covered 91 forum members (accounting for repeats and updates) and a total of 511 personally owned bikes. In this survey, the average number of bicycles owned was substantially higher, at 5.6 per person, with a median number of 4 bikes, but the modal values occurred at both 3 and 5.

And on .citycyclingedinburgh, the small but succinctly named question How many bikes do you have in your possession currently?, asked in late 2009, has had at the time of writing returns from 29 people, who together own 79 bikes. Including one forum member who reported being particularly well-wheeled, the average number of bikes owned was 3.9 per person, and again both the median and modal number was 3.

So perhaps there is some truth in the Velominati definition. And in fact, the eternal question isn't limited to only pedal bikes. A Kawasaki KLR owner goes with three motorbikes as the optimum: 'One to do this, one to do that, and one you are trying to sell so you can get another one you crave to do the other.' A member of the Suzuki SV650 forum said that his significant other 'failed to comprehend why on earth I might want more than one bike at a time. The optimum number of bikes to have is four, no less.' Honda VFR owners, on the other hand, are clearly the most financially comfortable of the group (or are the most adept at finding examples that are roadworthy but ancient, and therefore cheap), suggesting that the optimum number of motorbikes must be at least six, according to one owner, to as many as nine according to another.

While a small proportion of riders manage perfectly well with only one bicycle or motorbike, the evidence for multiplicity is compelling. It may all be summarised neatly using the definition of resilience.

"N+1 Redundancy ensures maximum uptime and continuous availability."

However, UPS units and RAID arrays and duplex cabling are not normally associated with familial harmony. An additional criterion is the number of bicycles, s, at which your significant other will announce an intention to leave you if you bring home another bike. This threshold limit is normally defined as:

C = s - 1   [3]

which of course is the simplistic form of equation [2], and appears as a qualifer in Rule 12. The threshold limit appears in a reworked form in another suggested modification of the original equation, again on the Singletrack forum. Known as the CHB Bike Theory of Everything we account not only for the number, n, of bikes owned currently but the number, a, of bikes made redundant by the additional two, and the number, b, representing the difference between n and the number of bikes one's significant other thinks you have. Thus:

C = n + 2 - a - b   [4]

If a is found to be greater than 2, there is generally an error in the types of bicycle which one might aspire to own. Clearly C must be greater than n for all n, otherwise one might reasonably assume that there is a significant risk of a rupture forming in the bicycle-time continuum.

Jill Homer, a cyclist in Montana, owns five bicycles and, worryingly, says she doesn't actually enjoy it despite each having 'a particular function that I Can Not Live Without.' But she redeems her alarming thought of selling one, in order to make space for another, by modifying it instead. She sounds a lot like me, actually.

Perhaps at the root of 'one more bike' is our desire to try new things and competitive spirit encourages us to go faster, further, longer using less energy. You can ride bumpy, wet offroad trails using skinny road tyres on a frame with no mud clearance, but you might slide and fall off. You can ride on tarmac using tractor tyres and full suspension, but it'll be hard work. You can carry planks of wood and tow bicycles on almost any upright two wheeler, but a load bike or a trailer lets you carry more, more safely. You might be able to take your long wheelbase recumbent bike with four panniers into a hotel room, but a folding bike could make it a lot easier. Indeed, three was the Magic Number which De La Soul referred to in the 1990 single, and it looks good for cyclists and motorbikers too.

Finally we come to Bob Gannon, a photographer in Pennsylvania, who in a comment to Jill, elegantly summed up the growing awareness of Bicycle Acquisition Syndrome: 'I think you should resolve the issue by getting a larger apartment.'

Guidance systems break down

Well here we are in the depths of almost-winter. It's still only December, and in my mind, winter should start on January 1st. Three months per season please; and none of this 18 inches of snow before the end of November, thank you.

The big 6V 4400mAh battery I assembled lovingly for my Vistalites several months ago has been powering the 5W and 10W pods very happily, until today. First the centre terminal in the socket wouldn't contact properly, requiring much wiggling of plugs and mild swearing. This evening I've had half a dozen false peaks in succession on my Pro Peak digital charger, and cranking the charge current to 3A, in the hope of shoehorning more electrons in before it noticed, didn't help either. This is a slight problem.

My original (and hitherto backup) 2200mAh battery is now being recharged for tomorrow's snowbound adventures. I'm going to have to pull apart the big battery and test the cell voltages, because it sure as heck isn't playing today. How fortunate, you might say, that I designed the battery to be taken apart with greater ease than its predecessor.

As I'm patently failing in my duties as a blogger, and even a rare one at that, perhaps another précis of events is warranted:

• Henrietta Brompton, who lives in the corner, joined the august ranks of Becky's Garage back in July. We've been on the train to and from Glasgow many times, she's been stowed in car boots, and in October we spent four days pounding the roads of London. Henrietta is perhaps the single most useful bicycle I have ever owned.
• The Stealthmachine, that big black beast that was party to so many bizarre encounters with the motorists of Great Britain, went to live with a new owner. It's still in Edinburgh, though, and so I shall smile broadly if I happen to see it on the road with Keith at the controls.
• Speedy remains with me, and we've been out on the road three times in as many months. While the ride is as bone-jarringly rigid as ever, the sheer chuckability and guaranteed stability is, in these icy days, quite the treat. The SKS/Moulton mudguards I adapted have not fared so well, with every one of the pop rivets having corroded into powder. Even the aluminium layer between the plastic had corroded and split.
• Tabitha, the P-38, isn't very well with a distorted front boom resulting from over-tightened pinch bolts, which themselves resulted from the boom being too short. Tim Brummer will have a little explaining to do.
• Victoria, the monstrous American recumbent, is even more monstrous with her Terracycle tailsok in place. I've drawn the line at a front fairing, for now. Using some spare carbon fibre plate and four Cateye multi-fit mounts, I also knocked up a pair of Terracycle-esque accessory mounts to run my headlights on the fork blades. That would be the headlights for which my big battery isn't working, then. Sometimes a bunch of AAs and another Cateye EL135 seems the way to go.
• And Annie the Blue Bike, ah, dearest Annie, is into her 20th winter and still going strong, mostly. For a few days we dabbled with a stripped-back, mountain biking guise, but full length mudguards and a pannier rack were just too useful to do away with. Riding in -10ºC didn't exactly work wonders for my Scottoiler, as the lubricant froze in the reservoir, the delivery tube fractured, and the valve inside the squid dispenser broke. And of all the unusual things to happen, the chain broke! Well, nearly, as one side of a link had peeled open while I was riding along Edinburgh's foremost highway: the bus-filled, thronging, yet slightly shabby, Princes Street. Of course, I'd already detected a regular-irregular ticking through the pedal feedback and mentally traced it to the chain and immediately reduced my pedalling effort, so I was spared any traffic light hyperacceleration plunging-to-the-tarmac accidents. I've never broken a chain before.

And what about me? The first day of snow, and I nearly broke my ankle as I slid, lost my footing, found the ground, lost my footing, and fell into a snowdrift. Three weeks (or is it four weeks?) later, I'm still hobbling, still lacing up my hiking boots as tight as possible, and still cycling. Another eight days and I can put my feet up for a while.

Tender timing

"Wanker!"

Of course, riding an odd looking bike through a conservative city's inner suburb is always going to elicit a range of wild and imaginative comments from the public. The perceptiveness of different age groups is quite interesting to note, given that my usual attire in the lessening sunshine of a late afternoon in September is frequently a nonspecific black. Black socks; grey and black shoes; black shorts; black fleece, perhaps enlivened with a hint of a shocking pink or muted blue t-shirt lurking underneath; black even is my headwear which may equally involve polystyrene or a microfibre cotton-poly mix. Eyes formerly hidden behind reflective sunglasses now plainly observe the world through UV-A and UV-B rated polycarbonate with 85% light transmission. Small children on their way to school, accompanied by their mother or father keenly restraining any bemusement, express mild wonder in their unabashed enthusiasm for the lady on the funny bike. The need to keep one's side up, however, in the cut-throat internet- and Big Brother-educated worldly socialism of both pre-teen and teenage cliques and social circles rides roughshod over any such earlier innocence and, it appears therefore, the ability to tell boy from girl. The w-word, my foot.

If such playful misidentification wasn't enough, so many times while commuting and in hot pursuit of no-one in particular, I find my onlooker to be posted on the other side of the road. I find that most annoying, in fact. In the hustle and bustle of traffic and with me moving at anything from 10mph to 30mph, it is rarely a simple matter to jam on my brakes, mirror-signal-manoeuvre, and swing around in a glorious U-turn of canted-over control of tyre versus road. And even if I could, my retort of instant, withering wit would surely and inconveniently desert me in my moment of triumph. In today's otherwise ordinary ride through an ordinary city street, a street perhaps a little worse for wear in its grubby stonework, its tracksuited, shopping bag carrying denizens and its cut-up tarmac displaying a once-proud red painted cycle lane, on a low brick wall there lay in wait a threesome of grey-clad twentysomethings. I wondered, as my head flicked around upon that single shouted word to be met by three toothy, vacant, beer lubricated grins, if they were new to the area, for Victoria and I were certainly no stranger to those parts. But, my great inertia carried me onwards without a moment's hesitation even as I held their gaze for a second longer.

I held my tongue, too, not entirely out of politeness but out of the immediate failure to conjure up that deadly verbal barrage, contrived precisely to penetrate the slow thinking mind with a short, sharp expression, while simultanously retaining a suitably supercilious delivery aimed squarely at the bows of said physically unlikely suggestion, and designed to confuse and embarrass in equal measure.

Once home of course, and with all the time in the world for such fancies, my mind started constructing the proverbial arrows.

"Feck off!"

That most endearingly sanitised insult still sits somewhat uncomfortably as a rather unbecoming turn of phrase, and would do little to further the benign reputation of a majority of road users. However, such concerns might be moot in the present company, and one must certainly admire its minimally syllabic pointedness and the effectiveness of an almost unrivalled speed of articulation.

"Tosser!"

Right back atcha! One would however still be plumbing the depths of good taste, and with articulative speed no better than before the receipient would be equally far back along the road. However, the extended û sound of the last syllable provides for a splendid lingering delivery as one speeds away.

"Takes one to know one!"

Too commonplace I think; impossibly clichéd, and even in jest would be intimating fault where in my surely holier-than-thou manner none existed. Through its everyday manner any desired insult is diluted beyond reasonable effect, and it borders on a delivery time that may be measured as 10 metres or more of tarmac, by which time the guilty party is already long gone, hidden by later vehicles and falling off one's immediate attentions.

My mind started working on effusion instead, incorporating half-remembered snatches of comedy sketches involving a man coming to repair a harpsichord, and an adaptation of litarary greatness that would have Jane Austen herself blushing furiously.

"Fair Sir, I fear not. I do find however that a strap-on is quite unable to deliver the same wonderful sensations with which I'm sure you yourself are so intimately acquainted."

Traffic lights notwithstanding, I would be quite tested to carry my voice 160 metres for the final words to my most expressive acquaintance. In the heat of the moment, I decided that in order to minimise further reaction time I should merely direct at him a look combining amusement and superiority, and thus the half-smirk, half-glare was created. The effectiveness of this approach is highly debatable, yet as I continued on my happy journey I detected no subsequent laughter.

Except mine.

An ill wind comes arising

On a rather ratty looking piece of paper, already adorned with some vaguely technical-drawing sketches of rear light mountings and a scribbled-upon photo of a rack, and printed on the reverse side with some stuff from the Illinois Department of Public Health concerning lyme disease, I've been doing some little sketches of pedals and booms. Frankly, I'm not really sitting comfortably, and I was jolly well going to find out why.

For about five years now I've had problems on and off with my left knee. When I did all my riding on my old Specialized Rockhopper mountain bike and Flite saddle, I noticed the peculiarly assymetric way my thighs scuffed the leather top and how my knees sometimes clonked the top tube as I pedalled. I spent many a minute looking in the mirror and observing the odd alignment of my knee joints, from my femurs to my tibias. For a long time I thought it was just me, for this was in the days before The Internet, but indeed the third paragraph on Wikipedia's page about the tibia agrees with the comment from a friend that in women, the tibias tend not to be parallel, to compensate for more angled femurs. Of course no-one told my pelvis, which stayed narrow. The upshot of this was that my knees like to be close together when I pedal, but slightly to the left. Indeed, my Flite is more polished on the right-hand side but it's been so long since I rode an upright bike every day that I can't actually remember which knee would hit the top tube.

It didn't become obvious until 2005 when my Speedmachine arrived on the scene. I'd tested one in 2003 and around the same time that I bought my Windcheetah, and only rejected it because I was finding it so difficult to balance. By 2005 my thighs had put on weight, except I hadn't really realised, and all of a sudden the frame around the headset -- a meaty two and a half inches across of metal tube and cables -- seemed very wide. The bike is fast, comfortable and well reclined, but also relatively heavy, and hard acceleration to which I am no shrinking violet allows a lot of force to be put through my legs. By mid-2007 I was riding my P-38 most of the time, a bike which instantly felt "right" ergonomically. But the suspension of the Speedmachine is so beautifully, wonderfully capable, which was why I could never part with it. Bouts of riding the P-38 felt great, while bouts of riding the Speedmachine sometimes left me with sore knees and particularly my left; a situation normally rectified by some rest and riding my little lightweight Dahon. But not altogether an ideal set of circumstances: was I too strong, somehow?

Well, in the summer of 2009 I acquired Victoria, my monstrous American RANS V-Squared, complete with remarkably wide-feeling pedals. That was down to a pair of pedal extenders, a good 5/8" of extra Q-factor to each side, as fitted by the previous owner. I figured I'd give them a go, as my friend and I set out for the Erie Canal, but after the first day something in my left knee didn't feel right. By the end of the second day I was feeling serious pain in my left knee; halfway through the third day I bought an adjustable spanner and threw the pedal extenders away, and iced my knee that evening. After that, the pedals felt remarkably narrow, but not at all uncomfortable. The only gripe was the Truvativ cranks, whose fairly straight profile allowed less inwards heel movement than the FSAs on the P-38, the cheap Campag cranks on the Speedmachine and the Middleburns on Speedy. It didn't stop me notching up over 500 miles over the two weeks, and in fact only two or three days after junking the pedal extenders, the bike as a whole elicited my comment, 'You know, right now I feel absolutely comfortable.' My knee, which had been rapidly swelling up to the inside and becoming intensely sore to the touch, calmed down within days.

This year however, something went wrong. An earlier suggestion of a collapsing arch in my foot, an opinion seconded this year by my local running shop, combined with various part-diagnoses of pelvic misalignment caused by my feet, and my widely reported shoulder pains perhaps caused by my lower back and by extension, my pelvis, led me to a chiropractor initially. The motorbike crash, while not related, put me off chiropracting and shoulder pain put me off riding upright bikes. All of this led to me trying some special insoles. Rather than go clever and expensive with custom-fitted ones, at least initially, I was recommended an off the shelf pair of Superfeet. Superfeet come in various colours designed for different activities, foot shapes and so on and I came out with the orange ones, designed for big-footed people who spend a lot of time on their feet: running, walking, standing. And you know, with those inside my shoes and me clumping around, my feet had never felt more comfortable!

For about two months I happily swapped the insoles from cycling shoe to cycling shoe, to hiking boot, to trainer. They did feel strange for cycling, at first, but the arch support and heel location felt great. Then during another bout of enthusiastic riding of my Speedmachine, my left knee began to really, really hurt. In fact, it was so bad that I had to spend a week and a half not cycling at all, while grimacing every time I had to push the clutch pedal in my car, while vigorously burying my finger into the side of my knee to relieve the pain and massage the tendons. I also spent most of that time with an elastic bandage on my knee and several evenings with a bag of frozen peas in place. When my knee started to feel a bit better, I took the pedals off my Speedmachine and buried the bike behind Victoria in the garage. I put the Superfeet back in their box and put my original insoles back into my cycling shoes (how wise of me to keep them all!), and vowed to ride only the bikes I knew wouldn't hurt me again: my P-38, the V-Squared and, though it was still sitting clean and tuned up but unloved next to its American stablemates, Speedy.

Taking it gradually, my legs began to feel better. Every ride home is still punctuated early on by a solitary but solid click as my kneecap moves into place, and I try not to go breaking records unless I have a tailwind or a hill. Following a physio appointment last week, my knee has been hurting again. I think this was due to the poking and prodding he did to make an initial appraisal, and believe me, he certainly found the source of the pain as I yelped. More physio beckons, with some exercises to practice meantime. But something was nagging at the back of my mind: why did my P-38 always seem to feel right, and why did my Speedmachine always seem to be behind the outbreaks of pain? The physio mentioned words like "patellofemoral" and "meniscal", unhappily followed by words like "damage". I then realised that perhaps the accident in early 2006, in which I was broadsided on my left-hand side by a car whilst navigating a roundabout, and a subsequent accident in which I slid on the bike in winter, landing on my left side, might have contributed to some twisting shock to my knee.

So to return to the point of sketching pedals and booms, I spent this afternoon vernier calipers in hand, measuring my bikes. The findings are very, very interesting. I use Shimano SPD pedals, both PD-M520 and PD-M540 models, and Speedy has a pair of PD-A515 roadie SPDs. Happily, every one of these measured 54.5mm from crank face to mechanism centre. I then measured the boom diameter at the point at which the pedal axles pass, and the distance from the boom to the outer face of each crank where the pedal abuts. From this, I can determine the Q-factor for each bike, for both the left and right-hand sides. Knowing these measurements also lets me vet any potential pedal replacements, such as Crank Bros Eggbeaters, or Time ATACs.

Bike	Q-left	Q-right	Cranks
P-38	135.0	133.0	FSA Pro Team Issue, ISIS
V-Squared	127.0	131.0	Truvativ Elita, GXP
Speedmachine	141.0	138.0	Campagnolo Veloce, ISO-JIS
Speedy	137.8	137.8	Middleburn RS7, JIS

Is it any wonder I've been having problems since 2005, when I more or less stopped riding Speedy every day and started on the Speedmachine? Is it any wonder my riding position on Victoria is off-centre and that it felt so narrow? Only the machine built in a small workshop in Manchester by one man, a machine designed by the master himself, Mike Burrows, a machine with a CNC-produced bottom bracket axle and whose cranks hail from the cream of British manufacture, Middleburn, is exactly symmetric in its Q-factor. My lovely P-38 with its full complement of FSA bling is two whole millimetres out. The V-Squared is a whopping four out. And not only is the Teutonic tour de force itself an uncomfortable three millimetres out right to left, it puts its pedals a whole six millimetres further out on the left than my P-38 and five millimetres on the right. The Campag cranks were never designed for the bike's JIS-taper FAG bottom bracket at all, and in my accelerative exuberance of pedalling and unwillingness to address the issue by disposing of the Campag cranks, my knees have probably paid the price. Fitting JIS-tapered cranks of the same profile would see the pedal centres move inboard by up to 4mm, according to the late Sheldon Brown, and this is consistent with the existing gap between crank and bottom bracket cup that is quite obvious when examining the bike, and consistent with the results I saw when I tested the Middleburn cranks on the bike instead (an experiment which, perhaps due to its dramatic effect and consequent lack of perseverance, was short-lived).

But more issues abound, too, such as why my left knee has the tendency to move inwards to brush the steering column of my P-38 at its maximum bend, despite that side being 2mm further outboard. As near as I can tell, the left and right cleats on my usual shoes (Shimano MT70) are identically aligned. There is the ergonomic difference of the riding positions of all four recumbents, where two of them enjoy 175mm cranks and two enjoy 170mm, leading originally to my theory that in a more closed riding position I preferred longer cranks for slightly greater torque, and shorter cranks on a more open, reclined riding position to allow me to spin the pedals better. Now that I have some hard numbers on (mis)alignment, there are even more variables at play, and it's making it almost impossible to draw any firm conclusions without having the wherewithal to conduct a series of tests such as varying the crank length alone; varying crank length while adjusting the gearing to the rear wheel; varying the torso-hip angle against crank length, and so on.

All I know right now is that my P-38 is fractionally out of alignment but not desperately so, to the extent that I do most of my riding on it; it's clear that my V-Squared needs a bit of work (I blame Truvativ's ridiculous GXP bottom bracket design, myself) with some washers and things; and if I'm to keep my Speedmachine and enjoy riding it again, I have to sort out those cranks.

I'm only in my 30s, and cycling is my life. If I damage my knees now, I will never forgive myself.

Into the lens

What would a bicycle ride be without photographs? Now that the world has advanced beyond the standard chunky SLR film camera and pokey little Instamatics, we have digital technology practically being given away in breakfast cereals, hiding inside phones, on top of baseball caps and bicycle helmets, or inside your computer screen frame. But you can't wield a MacBook webcam back-to-front for holiday snaps, nor can you buy huge hunks of magic glass for your mobile phone, even if it does have eleventy billion pixels behind its pinhead-sized lens. So as always, you trade off ease of portability for performance, compactness for versatility. Until last year I was making do, quite well on the whole, with my little Olympus with its whizbang 2.1 million pixel capture. It's still capable of taking perfectly good photographs and its feature set, good for its time, includes full manual control and an IR remote that does much more than simply activate the shutter. However, its slowness in focussing betrays its era and requires the user (i.e., me) to help it along when the action is quick. That was why I moved to the world of digital SLRs.

But now I have a problem: my Nikon has moving parts inside it; little fiddly, shiny, polished components that were aligned precisely by people wearing white suits and breathing masks. It's also bigger than my Olympus because it has a great big lens on the front, an angular-shaped flippy-up bit on the top, and it needs special batteries and everything. My have camera, have bicycle, will travel requirement hasn't changed though. My fun-sized D40 came with a LowePro TLZ1 bag; well, I say bag, it's more of a triangular pouch really. It's the ideal convenient size for the camera with the kit lens, and just small enough and padded enough to throw into a pannier alongside my usual paraphernalia. Underneath its zipped lid hides a small pocket for memory cards and remotes and so on, and a front pocket is available for batteries and remotes and a purse or wallet perhaps.

The slippery slope of photography, however, is not one to be ignored, and my little TLZ1 immediately lost out when I wanted to carry any accessories. For a time I was making do with my regular rucksack which is more than large enough but has no padding or other protection whatsoever, and that wasn't a good thing at all. Moreover, my telephoto lens came without a case, and the case the camera shop had thrown in for free (after my having to haggle, naturally) had turned out to be too small. In supporting local businesses rather than super purchasing power websites like Warehouse Express, I had paid full retail price, so I decided they'd had their chance. I needed a bigger camera bag.

I visited the larger but less local camera shop to see what was what. My soon-to-be sister-in-law, a freelance photographer, uses LowePro to contain some very expensive hardware and that was a good enough recommendation for me. I started by looking at small cases like the Cirrus 140, which was big enough for a camera plus either (and only either) a second lens or a flash, thus needing accessory bags; the Stealth Reporter D100 and D200 were neat and versatile, capacious, but big and square; and the Fastpack 200 was a very neat rucksack top half, and camera case bottom half. I was quite tempted by that one, actually.

But the more I thought about it, the more none of them seemed to fit the bill. Of paramount importance was a bag I could use while cycling, whether to put inside a pannier or to carry on me. However, I wouldn't be able to wear a rucksack while recumbent, and the height would preclude hanging it over the seat frame. A smaller shoulder case to fit inside a small 12 litre pannier wouldn't be big enough anyway, even though the camera hardware on its own would easily fit the pannier. A larger shoulder case could go inside my very biggest pannier (21 litres, plus or minus) with relative ease, but not all of my bikes are equipped with a pannier rack, and the boxy style with just a shoulder strap wouldn't work for riding. But then I found the Inverse 200 bag, which was a cross between a sideways Stealth Reporter and Specialized's ancient Power Pack 2 bumbag. That one disappeared off the shelves in about 1990, around the time bumbags went out of fashion, but featured a central square bag of decent size flanked by two waterbottle holders.


LowePro's Inverse 200, the grown up version of the 100, has a biggish single compartment that'll take a professional (read: big and heavy) DSLR with a medium zoom lens on it, plus another couple of lenses, and maybe a flash squeezed in there for good measure. The front panel of the bag has on its inside a thin expanding pocket for cables, remotes, keys, Powerbars, chocolate bars, and so on, and the panel itself can expand outwards to hold bigger stuff like notebooks, sandwiches, mini tripods or a Gorillapod perhaps. The very front (or the rear, I suppose, when you're using it) of the bag has a webbing loop on which you can hang an LED bike light. The bag also comes in a seawatery blue and a clovery green that I actually prefer to plain black.


The lid opens up with a pull on the finger loop, and to its underside are a couple of pockets for memory cards. The soft material is expertly placed to keep the screen of your DSLR happy and dust-free. As expected, the centimetre thick foam dividers of the main compartment are all adjustable for position, and are held in place with some of the strongest Velcro known to man.


By way of example, the modest collection of hardware contained within the bag includes a Nikon D40 with its standard 18-55mm lens, a Sigma 70-300mm telephoto lens, a Nikon Speedlight with a case, a second battery pack, and a couple of remote controls. The bag is actually big enough that I can put my camera inside (lens down, of course) whether it's wearing the telephoto or not. A 70-200mm f2.8 might be a bit long in that orientation, but would certainly go in if laid flat.

Turn the bag around and upside down and things get more interesting. The Inverse has an enormous waist belt with huge amounts of padding and wicking mesh material all around, and a great big quick release buckle with its own straps for adjustment. The sides of the belt have their own adjustment straps too to keep the bag tucked into the small of your back, and are perfectly placed to grab and pull. These are especially important if you add weight to the bag and bend forwards on the bike. But there's more; two D-rings at the top of the bag let you add a shoulder strap, which provides excellent three-point stability for walking, running, hiking, and even cycling. The waist belt, faced all around with two inch webbing, also includes two flattened loops for LowePro's 'Sliplock' accessory pouches which hook onto those loops and are secured with slabs of Velcro. You could alternatively hook on other accessories such as a mobile phone, a few karabiners, a torch, and so on.


To one side is a waterbottle holder made from stretchy mesh and with the usual strongly elasticated top and a firm base; to the other side is a smaller version that's not really designed for a bottle. It'll stretch to accommodate but the bottle will interfere with the lid of the main compartment. It's more of a pocket for stashing things like lens caps, chocolate bars or your glasses case.


Along the bottom edge of the front panel, where the orange label lies, is yet another pocket. Two strips of Velcro keep it snugged down, and lurking inside is a full raincover. LowePro has arguably missed a beat here by selecting a shiny grey colour instead of hi-viz yellow, but you'll find as many adherents to each colour scheme as detractors. The raincover is permanently attached to the lining of the panel which makes it a little more tricky to dry out, but does keep it handy.

Underneath the bag you find two more straps, this time with rather neat buckles combining quick release and locking adjustment, and there are Velcro tabs for orderliness. Here you can sling your monopod or tripod. A useful addition which LowePro has missed out would be a non-slip pad to help prevent a tripod sliding to and fro, though some rubbery material could perhaps be added to the tripod's legs instead. My tripod is 25" long (or wide) fully retracted, and is actually a little on the big side for manoeuvrability. Of course, it doesn't have to be a tripod; you could probably stuff a rolled up lightweight fleece there too.


So what's it like to use in the real world? I've done about equal amounts of hillwalking and cycling with the bag and it's very comfortable. I particularly like using the waist belt and shoulder strap together because it feels similar to my messenger bag and super stable. I could probably rely purely on the waist belt but I haven't tried it. To access my camera, I simply undo the belt and swing the bag around. I pull open the lid with my left hand and grab my camera with my right. The camera, the lenses and accessories slide in and out quite happily thanks to LowePro's standard interior of smooth grey polyester.

The front panel is a bit odd, I have to say. It's held in place a bit too well: by its own quick release buckles, the side straps to the waist belt, and the small sections of elastic at the base which prevent small items falling out. The zip to the inner pocket is on the inside, so it becomes a bit of a faff to access things. The waist belt with its luxuriant construction is almost impossible to stow away, although with some fiddling it can be buckled together behind the lumbar padding.

And were I designing the Inverse 200 mk2, I would line the base of the main compartment with twice as much high density foam, or with some stiffening. With the telephoto lens on my camera, the base of the bag sags and it's always the first bit to touch the ground. The Inverse isn't really designed for 1.2kg of camera and 1.3kg of lens, but it ought to be happy with my 0.5kg + 0.6kg combination.

But those are all niggles rather than outright failings. It's exceptionally well thought out and ideal for outdoorsy-type people who want faster access to their camera than a rucksack might provide, and a safer and more comfortable package than a regular shoulder bag. I'm keeping mine.

State of play

On occasions all too rare I get to leave my svelte black trousered desk jockey life in the office and, in a whirlwind of flying lycra and Coolmax, turn myself into SuperBex: the hardened cyclist, train passenger and enthusastic geographer. So when the question was asked whether one of us ought to attend a three-day exhibition in Birmingham, I volunteered. The first step was to look at the map and find out where I was headed. Strictly speaking, it wasn't really in Birmingham at all but on the periphery, squeezed in alongside an airport, a motorway, a dual carriageway and a railway. Immediately my thoughts turned to the logistics of getting there and back again. I certainly wasn't going to drive, and I wasn't going to fly because my environmental conscience wouldn't let me for so frivolous a distance. And at any rate, the closure of an ash-filled UK airspace was yet to happen. Taking a bus, even from home to Waverley, would undoubtedly leave me distinctly green and unwell, so bike + train was the happy solution. More mapping took place as I measured various routes from New Street Station out to the National Exhibition Centre, and I felt that a nice eight mile bike ride could open each day nicely. Of course, that depended on where I was to stay; I could keep it simple and look for a hostel, or a bed-and-breakfast perhaps, or I could leave it to the travel agent and end up invariably in a nondescript, functional travel inn somewhere.

Anyone can catch a train from A to B, even me. Of greater organisational prominence was taking my bike onboard unfamilar trains and, at the destination, knowing where to park it. The trains to Birmingham as I was already aware were Virgin Voyagers and Pendolinos, which have a cupboard with little hooks to hang your bike vertically, instead of a handy driving van trailer with tandem and recumbent-friendly bike racks. But for sheer convenience I decided I'd use my folding bike in case I needed to take it inside somewhere.

Given its location I supposed that it would have a lot of amenities for visitors, but the NEC website only told half the story, falling over itself to tell me how much car parking was available, the range of bus stops and coach rides, the ease of access from Birmingham International railway station and Birmingham International airport, the proximity of hotels ... and nothing whatsoever about cycling or walking. And yet the website for the exhibition itself asked everyone to travel by the most environmentally sound method that was practical. Not to be outdone, I e-mailed the conferencey people at the NEC to find out about cycle parking availability and, wonder of wonders, they had some! That is to say, a grand total of nine bike spaces compared with 26 thousand spaces for cars, and with the rack located in one of the car parks somewhere. Can you see where this is going wrong?

Having gone to town with paper maps, internet maps and both aerial views and bird's eye views I knew where I was going and when. I was to be staying in a hotel within walking distance of the event which wouldn't involve crossing any big roads but did involve walking through an industrial estate. I decided I'd leave my bike in my room, except for the last day when I would need to get straight onto the train afterwards; I would have to check out that morning too, so I could either look for the mythical bike rack or take my bike inside the hall with me. I needed to decide on my luggage, too. The bike doesn't have a carrier rack, which meant using my messenger bag and handlebar bag, a combination that saw me down to the York Cycle Show and the National Railway Museum two years ago. With my nice leather boots taking up most of my bag, and conference paperwork being most of the weight, I pedalled down to Waverley and jumped onto a SuperVoyager, hung up my bike (noting that all of the webbing tie-down straps were missing from the cycle bay), met my friend, went to Wolverhampton, jumped onto a different SuperVoyager and arrived at Birmingham.

Finding the hotel was the easy bit: the signs showed the route I'd already worked out on paper. After a bit of a rest, my friend and I wandered around the NEC, finding the big hall for the exhibition being still set up but not finding anywhere to buy food. In fact, the place looked unsettlingly closed for business. We walked full circle around the place and headed across to the railway station, but could only find a Subway. To be fair, the food at the branches of Subway in America when I was riding across NY was quite good. But eating at a bunch of pressed aluminium patio chairs, wood and Formica tables, in a station concourse wasn't quite what I was looking for. Surely the airport would have somewhere to eat, we thought, since there could be lots of travellers there. We boarded the little SkyRail elevated train that's now a disappointingly conventional steel rope-hauled, rubber-tyred system compared with its hi-tech predecessor that, in 1984, was the world's first mass transit Maglev train. Of course, the airport was shut too, so we took a train into the city for our meal.

Thus was born the new slogan for prospective tourists:

"Visit Birmingham NEC, there's f**k all there!"

Day One of the exhibition the next day went without a hitch although my feet were tired by the end, and it was rounded out by another trip into the city for food that evening, during which time I took in the sights of Birmingham's marvellous Town Hall, looking for all the world like Edinburgh's National Monument on Calton Hill, but actually finished, and the Selfridges Building, which is one of the most superbly unlikely and out-of-keeping places I've ever seen, like a blob covered in drawing pins.

For Day Two of the exhibition I wafted out of my hotel after breakfast, determined to find the bike parking. What I discovered first was that my lovely assymetric black skirt was a little too floaty to successfully combine cycling and wind with modesty. Fortunately the perimeter road was quiet, and after a brief inspection of the southern entrance to the NEC to make sure that every expense had been spared on cycle infrastructure, I caught up with Car Park E. It was obvious to anyone who knew where to look. I could tell by all the motorbikes parked in front of it, and the absence of any bicycles.



Surveying the scene, it all becomes perfectly obvious. The rack is a simple set of nine wheelbenders, attached to the ground or the adjacent wooden fence by methods unknown. Bicycles, as one knows, are relatively fragile to the onslaughts of hacksaws and bolt cutters and thus relatively stealable, or at the least, damageable. Unlike a motorbike whose weight is a signifcant factor to a single person with dishonest intentions, a bicycle is rarely so heavy it cannot be lifted. A bicycle's wheels are designed to carry the weight of a rider and a bit of luggage, and to be lightweight but strong in the direction of expected forces. A wheelbender rack merely encourages other forces to dominate with predictable results. A motorcyclist has equally far to walk to the NEC entrance as would a cyclist, so distance is not the main problem: I already mentioned weight and ease of theft. A bicycle must therefore live closer to oneself, or at least be secured either through a fit for purpose rack or in a place that is covered by CCTV and in reach of security. The ideal bike rack should encompass all three factors. I measured the rack as being 360 metres' walk from the nearest entrance, and over 1km from my hotel using the shortest route through the buildings. When I'm in a hurry for my train, I don't have time to run that far to get to my little insignificant toy and ride it back.

But a folding bike has by definition one advantage over a cumbersome, so I wheeled myself straight inside and handed a compact package of tubes and wheels to a very bored looking cloakroom attendant whose sole raison d'être appeared to be her mobile phone. I opted to spend the day wearing my bike shoes and several times other conference-goers remarked on my sensible footwear and my undoubted wealth of experience of conference-going. Sensible, yes, but not quite as stylin' as I'd been.

There was one moment however when my footwear choice was ideal, as I paused at one of the information stands. Their draw was one of the new Boardman bikes set up on a turbo trainer, which was in turn hooked up to a wattmeter and a computer. The objective was to cycle as far as possible up a predefined gradient profile, with the resistance (and thus pedalling effort) accordingly controlled by the computer which measured one's overall power output and distance covered in 40 seconds. In proper Top Gear tradition, there was a leaderboard too, all shiny steel with white strips of magnetic rubber listing those who'd set their times already.

 'Roll up! Roll up! Try your pedalling prowess on our patent velocipedometer!' cried the cheerful man at the stand, or at least, that's what I imagined he wanted to be calling out. 'Miss, are you going to have a go?' he asked me as I watched two people taking their turns at maximum effort.
 '255 watts!' he exclaimed as the girl slowed her pedalling to a stop and climbed off the bike.
 'That's hard!' she breathed. 'I couldn't do that for 40 miles.' Her partner in crime took the bull by the horns for a seemingly all-out sprint.
 'Woah, you're nearly taking off!' cried the cheerful man as he put his weight on the turbo to hold it down. '328 watts!' he exclaimed a minute later as the man recovered from his exertions.
 'Is that all? That's rubbish!' he replied wearily. He was obviously looking at the top score, which was over 1000 watts.
 'You're still here, are you sure you won't have a go? See the board, we've not had many women on the bike.'
I clenched my quads and calves quietly as if to warm up without being noticed. 'Yeah, I ought to have a go, really.'

I thought back to the Arthur's Seat Challenge and my 2km, 279W output, I looked at the leaderboard and hoped I'd match some of the men in the high 200s. With the seat adjusted I climbed on, cinched up the toestraps and spun the pedals a little. I'd never been on a turbo before. It felt pretty easy though and I thought I might have a chance after all, so I knocked it into a moderate gear and readied myself.

 'Are you ready? Three ... two ... one ... go!' I hauled on the pedals and took off. Get the cadence up, change up a gear, another gear, shift onto the bar ends for more power, grab another two gears, keep the cadence, grrrrr.
He started calling out the power output. '400 watts!' '500 watts!' Hey, I might just do this. '600 watts! Go for it!'

By half a minute I was going at it hammer and tongs and my thighs felt the resistance ramping up quickly. I stood up on the pedals to rock the bike but realised my mistake immediately and found myself in too high a gear, and slowing down by the 40 second mark.
 'Nearly there! Three ... two ... one ... Finished!'
Bloody hell, I thought to myself, my throat'll feel that later. 'Our survey said?' I breathed out loud.
 'Wow, 522 watts Becky! Puts you in ... fifth place!'
Hah, that'll show them. Another two women were hovering there as I passed by the stand again late in the day, and by now I was the star whose score was met with incredulity. One managed a very respectable 350-odd watts while wearing wholly inappropriate footwear (and my fleece top tied around her middle for modesty) and the other in the low 200s. 'Do you cycle a lot?' they asked me.

I'm sure that smugness is an unappealing trait but I was still enjoying my fifteen minutes of fame even as I changed out of my conference clothes and back into my travelling clothes, and catching my connection into Birmingham New Street. Only the train's cycle compartment, securely locked to the public, dampened my spirits for a moment as I stowed myself in the carriage vestibule. That is one manoeuvre that Victoria the V2, all eight feet of her, would never manage! Onto another SuperVoyager and I hooked up my bike again for a couple of hours, and then a small regional train took me back to Waverley.

So to anyone thinking of cycling to the NEC, my advice is to take your folding bike, take your motorbike or better still, take the train and a pair of trainers!

Undivided

'Don't get me wrong. I'm an avid cyclist but ...'

Mikael Colville-Anderson talks about 'people riding a bicycle for utility/transportation', in that 'most people who cycle are hardly avid. Do they cycle in the dark? Do they always cycle on the road? Do they cycle in any part of the city? At any time of year? The answers are an emphatic no.'

And he goes on to ask, 'Why bother making the city a better place to cycle if the only people who will do it are the ones who are already cyclists?'

Copenhagenize is a big word that's gradually becoming entrenched in cycling minds. But as far as I've seen -- not being a Guardian reader I suppose -- it's still largely being promoted to those who already cycle, perhaps in the 'baby steps' approach of drip feeding the idea to less frequent or non-cyclists. I cycle quite a lot, and I would have no hesitation describing myself as 'a cyclist', in the sense that my life is geared very much around my bicycle. I do have a car driving licence and a motorbike licence, but I wouldn't say I was 'a driver', because I don't really like driving and I don't do that much of it; I was coming around to being dual-mode and applying 'motorbiker' to myself and perhaps once my machine is repaired I will try again on that front. Until I read Mikael's article, I would also have happily described myself as an avid cyclist, or an enthusiastic cyclist; a dyed-in-the-wool cyclist, a if-you-cut-me-open-I'll-have-'cyclist'-written-through-my-middle sort of cyclist. You get the idea.

But now I'm wondering: do the residents of Copenhagen, or Amsterdam, or any of the other Holy Grail cities, refer to themselves as cyclists? And of those who do, is it to distinguish or distance themselves from those who don't? Or is it, I might suggest, with cycling so pervasive and everyday an activity there that it is literally the majority of citizens who cycle, and the minority who drive? Are the online newspaper articles followed by dozens of comments from irate cyclists who think drivers should be given the boot? The problem is, that scenario can't be easily compared with anywhere in the UK, save for perhaps parts of Milton Keynes, because in many places over there, cyclists and drivers don't share the same roadspace.

Starting in 1900, build two towns, both based around the horse and cart for 20 years. Then in true SimCity style, over the years, adjust the planning of the roads and railways and taxes and so on with one town giving the car priority and the other pedestrians and cyclists. Run the simulation through the baby boomer period, the swinging sixties, the efficient eighties, the noughties, and what do you have? Two cities with equally densely developed CBDs and arterial and peripheral transport routes. Now without bulldozing left, right and centre, or spending bucketloads of money, turn Motor City into Human City. Crank up the taxes and the population will vote against you, but will probably pay up. Bulldoze your heritage and the population will vote against you, if the Government doesn't haul you over the coals first. Haemorrage money by making roads anti-car and the car loving majority will vote against you but the car ambivalent won't.

While Copenhagen did things from the top down by becoming essentially anti-car, another historic city went the other way. Copenhagenize as both an idea and an ideal seeks to change things from the bottom up, and in encouraging more people to ride a bicycle instead of driving a car, we have to show that riding a bicycle is the normal thing to do. That needs:

• Making riding a bike ordinary, without lots of special aspects like yellow jackets and helmets and lycra.
• Making riding a bike ordinary, but tailoring it to the specific cityscape.
• Making riding a bike ordinary, and less of an urban competition.

When I think about how I descibe my own cycling habits, it's invariably about the clothing or about the bike, and while I would like to treat them completely separately, the more I consider them the more intertwined they become. The third option, floating awkwardly in the middle distance but still tenuously intertwined, is mindset. So let's think about it.

When I ride to work, traditionally I wear x, y and z.
When I ride to the supermarket, on the occasions my local shops don't have something, or are closed, I wear x and y, and probably z too, but that depends on distance.
When I ride on a cycle tour, I wear x, y and z, but also pack at least two of a, b, and c.
When I go out for a meal without any notion of cycling there, I'll almost always want to wear a, b and c, but otherwise perhaps a carefully concocted a-b-c-x-y-z hybrid.

So why, when I go to the shops or to work, don't I just wear a, b and c? Maybe it's because sometimes it's too uncomfortable. Or it's too impractical. The real reason is because too many of my clothes are actually type x-y-z.

My waterproof cycling jacket for instance, with its respectable dark blue and black hues a hundred miles from traditional hi-viz yellow, is, strictly, a cycling jacket and is designed and shaped for that purpose. It's also a hundred miles from the beautifully styled (if nauseatingly but understandably London-centrically named) offerings from Bspoke, such as their Angel jacket. There's something that really should fit the bill for cycling: it's waterproof with sealed seams and a bum flap; it has armpit zips and it's a shell, so you won't overheat in it. But dammit, look at it. It's a coat I'd wear very happily to the shops, to a concert, to a restaurant. It's also £130 in a world where the old standard, the Altura Nevis cycling jacket, still hits the shelves at £50. At perhaps £80-90, I'd really be thinking about buying it.

It ties in with the way my cycle clothing preferences have changed over the years. In the old days, I thought nothing of riding my bike whilst wearing jeans and hiking boots and a casual jacket (although I'd fallen at the first hurdle by already using toeclips on my pedals, and buying the jacket from a bike shop), and generally doing about 12 miles a day. But as the months went on I tired of regularly wearing out the backs of my jeans and so I graduated to wearing lycra shorts, lycra tights and proper cycling shoes with proper clipless pedals: stuff to make cycling more efficient. I carried on hauling everything around in a great big rucksack because panniers were akin to beards and leather shoes, tweed skirts and stockings. With dedicated clothing that flexed rather than rubbed, didn't flap and didn't let cold air down the front of my neck, I actually found myself riding even more. I stopped bothering with cotton t-shirts and went for cycling jerseys made out of fossil fuelled technical fabrics. That none of this was particularly fashionable was of no concern because I didn't do that much socialising, and I didn't care what anyone else really thought. On my bike, I was just part of the machine, and speed and efficiency was everything.

But using a bike for social transport, rather than commuter transport, places different demands on the rider. At least here in Edinburgh, a city built on seven hills, and not unlike other places such as Sheffield, you either ride slowly to avoid exertion or you wear something that won't stay soggy after you park your bike. How do you combine the two? You buy clothes that don't look out of place on the city street, but still function as effective cycling attire. Cycling tops with half zips and rear pockets and reflective panels can be eschewed for simple wicking t-shirts in plain black, grey, or whatever the prevailing colours are. Lycra tights make way for lightweight walking trousers, or if it's not too cold, ordinary tights in a nice heavy denier, coupled with a short practical skirt (or a kilt, if you're patriotic and rock hard). And in the summer months, lycra shorts can be replaced with their baggy and pocketed equivalent or simply covered with that same skirt.

As I became fed up with sweaty back syndrome, the rucksack of my younger self eventually went the way of my jeans, and a single pannier took its place. It was joined soon after by another pannier and, when I realised that heavy panniers weren't much fun to carry around off the bike, a vented rucksack designed for hard working cyclists. And followed various other bags contrived to maximise luggage carrying or symmetry or portability when on foot. I've never tried to bring my leather handbag with me on the bike, because I'd say I can't carry it reliably. What about that practical solution of a handlebar basket, so popular abroad? It's not for lack of availability, that much is true. What about laying it on my rear rack, held down with a bungie cord? And I could well ask myself, why indeed not?

My own excuses would include:

• Because the bag is a bit too nice to spoil with the harsh elastic of a bungie.
• Because it's not waterproof and I don't want to get road grime on it.

To which I would say that occasional use in this manner isn't going to harm it that much. And putting it in a plastic bag, later to be stashed underneath the saddle, could probably keep a shower at bay. I think it's leather, anyway. It's made of lots of offcuts all stitched together, so while a cow wasn't used mainly for making my bag, it still isn't a vegetarian's delight.

• Because it's not big enough on its own.
• Because I don't want to spoil it with sharp/dirty/leaky/awkward things.

For what purpose? Carrying my camera? A pot of paint from B&Q? A bottle of shampoo? It occurs to me that the times I bring my handbag are the times I prefer to look least like 'a cyclist' anyway, so logically to use my bike for transport on those occasions instead of taking the bus, we're back at a clothing problem rather than a luggage problem. Leather handbags aren't really set off by cycling clothes, to be honest. Though there are exceptions.

• Because I've got lots of special bike bags already, and I don't want to put a stupid basket on my bike.

Ah, now we're getting somewhere. I thought panniers were stupid, once upon a time. I think that means I'm too much of a bike snob, too much of the 'avid cyclist' Mikael writes about. I don't own a single pair of shoes that does me for every activity (although my current cycling shoes are coming perilously close), and I don't own just one bike. The recumbents like to stay set up for distance (and by extension, speed and efficiency) and a dose of touring practicality, but my town bike could very well have a basket on the front if I wanted. But it already has front and rear racks and all the other commuter accoutrements. Perhaps if it was a basket made of carbon fibre and sort of rounded for aerodynamics and... But bicycles with baskets aren't normally made for breaking speed limits, so it must be a fashion thing, and it's a superficial mindset that says I must not be a Serious Cyclist if I have a basket on my bike. Are we really that vain? Am I?

On the other hand, everything that Copenhagenize strives to show is that someone who regularly uses a bicycle for practical journeys *is* by definition a serious cyclist. It's no less important an activity than the rider who tears up centuries on a bike that weighs three grammes, but cycling is an activity that has for decades been about effort and energy, and this can't but build a pecking order. I can cycle faster from A to B than you, for longer than you, with more skill than you, therefore I am better than you. Pottering around town wearing a flowing coat and carrying a bunch of flowers in a basket doesn't quite compare with slamming a tough little BMX around a concrete park every day, and that doesn't really compare with strapping a tent on the bike and setting off across the glens, or chugging across the town with a load bike full of garden centre. In fact, aside from using a bicycle, none is comparable with another.

The average speed of cyclists over in Denmarkcityland isn't breakneck, but then their terrain is relatively modest. The lie of the land in the wilds of Scotland naturally places different demands on a rider, his or her clothes and the bicycle. Going up hills requires expenditure of energy - there's no getting away from that - and unless one is either extremely fit or extremely slow and relaxed, energy generation and expenditure requires working one's muscles, and that generates heat. Heat likes to be carried away at a specific rate: not too fast or muscles don't function at their best, and not too slowly or you get too hot. To make reasonable progress in a city in which the car is still king, fast is safe, as Richard Ballantine and John Franklin would over-simplistically put it. While Edinburgh has a useful selection of flat railway paths, they don't serve every part of the city, especially anywhere south of the middle, and hills are something one simply deals with. It is a bit like using a computer from 1995 in 2010: it still crunches the same numbers but it is no longer considered good enough for the prevailing needs of the user. A nice woollen three-quarter length coat might be a good piece of clothing for cycling at 10 mph in a flat land, but it isn't as suited to cycling in a hilly land at 15 mph, or 20 mph.

Vexed with continually breaking parts of his increasingly modified Ford F-250, it was his friend Jim Kramer who said to Bob Chandler, 'Why don't you just keep your big foot off the gas?' While my component breakery hasn't reached those heady heights, I have asked myself the same question from time to time. Another school of thought came from a Tour de France rider, that increased fitness didn't make cycling any easier: he just went faster. Simplistically, I cycle fast because I can and because I have big muscles from years of putting the hammer down. Although fast is often safe, Ballantine and Franklin actually meant that safety can be improved when the speed differential between rider and motorist is minimised. This holds true for most environments but particularly so in cities where cyclists and motorists share the same roads. But I often cycle fast when there isn't other traffic around, which suggests that the optimum force and speed of my leg muscles is due to a profusion of fast twitch fibres which, much like the chicken and the egg, have been developed and trained by years of trying to ride fast.

This excuse for not being able to ride at a relaxed pace is, of course, complete balderdash. There are other factors at play, including safety inasmuch as one tries to maintain motor vehicle speeds in an urban environment in order to actively influence the behaviour of other road users, and the notion that cyclists are constantly engaged in a war with motorists, resulting in one's efforts to avoid any inferiority complex by maintaining motor vehicle speeds and thus defend against claims by motorists of being held up (as they race to join the end of the next queue). I like to present my road behaviour as that of a bona fide vehicle, not as an obstacle to be passed at any cost. This marks me out as a legitimate presence, which is only necessary because of the current attitude towards 'bloody cyclists', which is due in part to the paradox of Government ambivalence coupled with the dichotomy of Government policies, and in part to the potential cycling population being discouraged through the constant reminding of the fact that cycling is somehow not ordinary and everyday. Let's hear it for a Slow Cyclists Movement, a cross between Tai Chi and a peaceable Critical Mass that promotes safety in numbers without the demonstrations and the aggressive beat of a portable PA.

Right now we have to share the road more than do the cyclists in the Enlightened World. We need speed more than they do, or at least we think we do. We have more terrain to deal with. We have to spend more time saving our own lives because the majority is allowed to act more dangerously. We don't, as yet, have the ability to collectively slow down on the road and work together. Universal promotion of flowers and dress trousers and bicycle clips and leather bags isn't going to work straight away. The idealology is perfect, but it needs fine-tuned. The 'edinburghchic' cyclists already look slightly different from 'londonchic'. It gets colder here, it snows more, and the roads are made of holes. We don't have much in the way of underground transport. We like mudguards and bigger tyres, and springy saddles. A lot like continental bikes then, but all ridden with those tensed shoulders and hair trigger eyes.

To call myself 'an avid cyclist', rather than simply 'a cyclist' is nothing more than creating a sense of smug superiority. We're all cyclists -- people who like the freedom and flexibility of a bike -- we only exist in different flavours. But even that isn't enough: 'I don't always want to look like a cyclist' she bleats, but that is one phrase I imagine is seldom heard in Copenhagen. In a city or a country where just about everyone is a cyclist at one time or another, it simply doesn't matter.