Shocking dad joke aside, there’s something utterly thrilling about cycling after dark. First off, there’s the whole the-monsters-can’t-get-me thing. No matter how shady the underpass, how badly lit the side street, two wheels are faster than feet. It just feels…safe. That same kind of warm, comfortable safeness I used to get when I was 10, in the back of the car with my brother and sister, on our way to some godawful camp site at 3 in the morning (the Saxelby family are renowned for never getting anywhere on time).
Then there’s the way the city looks – and feels – at night. All long shadows and street lamps. It’s so just romantic. On the way home tonight I rode past a couple walking down the middle of an empty road hand in hand, three kids in hoodies giving it all catcalls while whizzing past on their own bikes and two cops strolling into MacDonalds. Each and every one of them conforming to some night-time stereotype, yet strangely comfortingly so. It all makes me fall in love with London all over again.