Lycra-clad assassins on wheels

Just the idea of the Copenhagen summit is enough to fill me with dread. Not because I’m frightened of global warming or enforced vegetarianism, or because I’m worried that environmental evangelists are leading us up the garden path. But, truthfully, in case all the eco-awareness encourages more cyclists.

London is under siege. They can’t be seen until they’re on top of you, can’t be heard, and can kill you instantly: bicycles are taking over and it’s got to the point where just the squeal of a bike break can induce in me a moment of sudden, heart-stopping panic.

It’s difficult to trace the origins of my cyclophobia. My father insists he spent years trying to teach me, but that the narrow, winding, grass-covered lanes surrounding our house in Devon simply weren’t suitable terrain. I crashed in and out of the hedgerow, never managing to stay upright.

My relationship with bicycles didn’t improve, and I still cannot ride one, which never used to be a problem, but as London’s cycling revolution continues I am finding myself increasingly marginalised.

At some point over the last few years, cycling became not just a form of transport but a worldview, a religion — even a fashion statement. City girls began to assume that turning up sweaty and rosy-cheeked for cocktails with a helmet under one arm, foldaway bike under the other, in a fluorescent vest with a flashing red light strapped to your ankle was a form of eco-warrior chic. It’s not. It’s an eyesore. It’s also a terrific bore.

Being subjected to ‘bicycle chat’ is even worse than hearing people talk about their toddlers or their newfound faith. I don’t care that it takes you five minutes to cycle to work from Battersea when it used to take two hours on the tube.