Everytime I read about Hawaiian Hunk (which I die for) I think of my public speaking teacher who was from Hawaii and he always told us about the old drug addict who legit karate kicked him off of his bike and stole it one day. And now I see that happening to Hunk and I don't know what to do with myself
thank you for sharing this with me because now I don’t know what to do with myself either
Biking is the new smoking. Back in the mid-to-late Nineties I used to hang around on the fire escape stairs outside our office.
I’d pretend to smoke but was actually just eavesdropping on the real smokers to get the gossip on the latest deal being worked on by the bigger law firm next door.
Even if you didn’t pick up any inside info, there were always titbits. Who’s doing well, who’s doing badly, who’s moving where, who’s won what client. Everyone knew smoking was the way to get in on the action.
Now those smokers have either died or quit the cancer sticks, gone all evangelical and found a new addiction: biking to work. They’ve swapped fag smoke for exhaust fumes.
I’ve been a City bike commuter for 20 years and I’ve noticed all the best gossip now happens in the bike shed. Well, the bike changing areas most new offices have these days.
It’s not all idle talk either: I’ve won client work half-naked while changing into my lycra with fellow bikers.
Is there much kissing behind the bike sheds? Surprisingly little, given that you’re just as likely to see Mawils as Mamils these days.
One of the new tenants in our block is an extremely aggressive firm of litigators, many of them rather brilliant women. Note to self, stop wandering around in your boxers in the changing area or you’ll get yourself sued.
Unless I’m missing languorous looks, the only romance I’ve seen blossoming down there has been that of two lady lawyers who I frequently see sitting on each other’s laps.
Not that having more women around has reduced the males’ bravado much. The CEO of one of my clients insists on strutting around for ages loudly talking shop while declaring he’s in a rush to get home.
Others have swapped bragging about pints downed and women pulled with more politically correct but duller metrics: kilometres per hour, metres of ascent, kilojoules burned.
The modern urban cyclist has to ride as fast as they possibly can, and I’m no exception. Colleagues ask me how I stay safe. Simple: I don’t.
I’ve had two really nasty crashes. In one, I remember being deep in shock and phoning a client from my stretcher to tell them I was running late for our appointment.
Late indeed. I didn’t get out of hospital until the next day, collarbone, arm and ribs in bits.
Since then, I always wear body armour. Really. It may make me look (and sweat) like a medieval knight but, in my second serious prang, it saved my life.
My nose and a finger were busted this time but I survived, albeit sitting in A&E while my colleagues enjoyed the corporate hospitality I’d been riding to at West Ham United.
Anyway, must dash. I’ve got a client to meet. Time to get pedalling.