I Say Old Chap, What's All This About Then?
By Sarah-Clare Conlon
Claude and Camille were the democratically elected leaders of Tweed Ride – no one else had the time to organise the route what with all their brogue-polishing and floral frock-ironing. The brother and sister duo would spend sunny Sundays studying satellite shots of the city, devising suitable point-to-points for their sartorially savvy cycling pals, then disseminating the details via thoroughly modern means. The stylish steeds and their masterly tweeds would then gather at a pre-determined destination for a pre-dérive drink, before pushing off for a potter around culturally significant venues.
Often, they met at the arthouse cinema; Claude and Camille snagging their Pashleys together while they enjoyed eggs Benedict and Croque Monsieur, and waited for the others. There was Jonathan with his tandem, Ella with her apple-green step-through, Rob with his Harris flatcap, the plus-fours guy; the girl with the I Heart My Bike bell. Trundling around town, the mass attracted attention, and that was the point: promoting cycling for the chic and cheerful. Folk waved from pavement cafés, the people's paparazzi snapped the passing posse on smart phones. The Urbis youth looked on, not computing this weird alternative tribe. You've all got moustaches, they shrieked at the men mosying along. The women smiled at the men. The men smiled secretly, and kept on pedalling.