GROUPS of middle-aged cyclists in Lycra are unhappy that motorised two-wheeled travellers in denim and leather are far more feared.
Cyclists met today in a Peak District cafe – which they reached with nothing but the power of their own two legs – to discuss why pubs fail to fall silent when they walk in.
Martin Bishop, who took up the sport immediately his wife had twins, said: “We are a biker gang. It’s just we’re on cross-country bikes or hybrids.
“We have a initiation ritual, which involves making a bulgur salad to pretty bloody exacting standards, and we all have intimidating nicknames. Mine’s ‘Marty’.
“When we hit the open road and there’s nothing but lycra and nipple shields between you and the elements, we get positively primal. Whooping, hollering, deliberately obstructing Teslas, all of it. But do we inspire fear? No.
“I blame Sons of Anarchy. No, we’re not running guns, but I’ve ridden up the Rosedale Chimney so I am a proper hard man. Legs like bloody teak over here.
“But still, as I cruise through the mean streets of Walthamstow to drop off Oscar and Felix at baby yoga, I know we’re radical non-conformists. Justin gave up his City job to open an organic bakery. It takes tremendous courage to live outside society like that.”
Biker gang leader Jimmy ‘Four Fingers’ Bates said: “We’ll give them respect when they stop shaving their legs.”
