Tom Hodgkinson asks: when did this haven of slowed-down life turn into a race track?

ONE OF the great pleasures of London life is a visit to Richmond Park. Established by Charles I, who put an eight mile wall around a bit of common land so he could hunt deer, thereby enraging the locals, it offers city-dwellers a chance to step outside the rat race and slow down.

Herds of deer sit around doing nothing, families picnic on giant upended trees, and the speed limit for cars is twenty miles an hour. I grew up in Richmond and spent days on end rambling through its two and half thousand acres of wood and parkland. Having recently returned from Devon to live in London with my family, the park has provided a much needed chance to get into nature, escape the competition and hurry of the city, and just slow down. We climb the old oaks and collect chestnuts. We even drift off to sleep.

At least, this all used to be true. Something terrible has happened to Richmond Park while I have been away. This haven of peace has been invaded by a gang of crazed speed-freaks. They ignore the twenty mile an hour limit, and shout abuse at cars or people who might get in their way. They race each other and block the road to bumbling families on a day out. The shake their fists. They wear strange coloured body armour and frighten tweed-wearing ramblers.

I’m talking about the cyclists.

When did this plague of teeth-gritting, all-male maniacs conquer my beloved Richmond Park and turn it into some kind of race-track for Tour de France wannabes? Are these saddoes so unfulfilled in their everyday lives that they need to spend the weekends dressing up in day-glo and terrifying toddlers?

Their ambition seems to be to cycle at thirty miles an hour, which is surely simply illegal since the speed limit is twenty. Shouldn’t the police be telling them to slow down? I wouldn’t be surprised if the leader of this peculiar army stands at the front gate with a stop watch, timing the two-wheelers. The winner will throw his arms in the air and give high fives to his mates. It’s all a bit Pepsi Max. Completely uncivilised and completely contrary to the park’s spirit.

Last Sunday I saw one of these hyped-up freaks shouting through the driver window at some hapless motorist who had transgressed some unwritten cyclists’ law, something like Don’t Get in my Way or Else. This sort of behaviour is just not on.

I mean, I’m a libertarian. I have nothing against competitive cycling. These guys enjoy it and that’s nice. It’s just that it belongs in the sports ground.

There is a wider issue here. When you go to a civilized city like Copenhagen, everyone cycles everywhere. But they cycle slowly. They do not compete. They do not race. They enjoy themselves, they get into the moment. They wear normal clothes and no helmet.

When I get my Boris bike and cycle round town, I make a point of going slowly, because I enjoy it. I look around, I stop at lights, I take in the joyful sights and sounds of old London town.

I don’t race through the city, jump lights and shake my fist. Who are these men? Where do they work? Are they junior clerks with unsatisfying work lives? Why do they wear those stupid clothes? Why do they want to grind the rest of us into the ground? When did commuting become an extreme sport?

I wonder what an academic studying this outbreak of feverish competitiveness would make of it. Maybe the cyclists are merely reflecting the hyper-competitive ethos encouraged by government, the idea that life is a “global race”. Maybe, as I suggest above, these men are inadequate in some way, and are trying to make up for it by kicking the other guy to the side. Maybe London simply is a frantic place, and I should either shut up or join the race.

It is tempting to start a campaign: Ban the Cyclists from Richmond Park. But that would be absurd: cyclists can enjoy it to.

I think it is probably a police matter. Reduce the speed limit to 15 and make sure the cyclists stick to it, too. Slow down, you madmen.

ENDS