I love cycling in london. I hate dog shit.
I swear there’s some SUV driving Pit Bull owner in Grays Inn Road taking revenge on us red-light-running-tin-heads by getting their studded rex to drop his meaty load right in the middle of Ken’s (sorry Boris’) green lanes.
And so it was, on a mad dash from one side of London to the other – there it was. A steaming pile of dog poo or a busted shoulder at best. Splat was the only option, but what a stinking one. Shit everywhere. The bike and my trousers were so splattered that even at top speed I couldn’t out-cycle the stench.
Arriving at the office, I abandoned the bike at the door, rushed two floors, emptied a litter bin and refilled it with warm soapy water. Took four stairs at a time, whipped the bike back onto the street and was cleaning the evidence off my frame in no time.
Two window cleaners from the office below sussed it and laughed. That was bearable. But when a dispatch cyclist pulled up and asked me if I could clean his bike next, that’s when I lost it.
So here’s the deal. If you own that meaty Pit Bull. Do the squishy warm plastic bag thing and I promise, I’ll sit patiently at every red light between Baker Street and Hackney.