The rest of the magazine is not this disturbing, honest.
PICTURE BY GLENDA TUDOR WARD
There’s a very identifiable colour to a British cyclist in about February (or at least the white skinned ones). They’re generally a very pale white, with a hint of blue. What do you expect from a winter spent huddled up in front of the fire, or bundled up under layers of wool and Gore-Tex. Even riders who’ve been out riding every day of the winter appear to be fading out before your very eyes; hollow-eyed and translucent skinned. Any riders who’ve not fled south for the winter start to take on the porcelain skin that was so ‘in’ back in Victorian times.
Slowly, though, the sun returns to our damp isles and there is that one definitive moment where the sun is out and the day is warm. You can never predict it, but you can always tell this day has arrived as the parks are suddenly packed at lunchtime with office workers in assorted states of sun-worshipping undress.
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