Name:
lulu
Profile:
Lulu Le Vay started out as deputy editor of mouthy fanzine Sleazenation in the mid-90s which propelled to her to become a freelance feature writer for publications such as The Face, i-D, Jockey Slut and Xray through to the Guardian Guide, The Independent on Sunday, The Evening Standard and the Observer. More about Lulu at www.lululevay.com
On Your Bike
Now the London marathon is over (phew) I have chucked my smelly running shoes into the corner of my bedroom and am basking in joy watching them gather dust. I have now rediscovered my bike, my beautiful expensive bike (trust me, I could've bought a new Missoni dress or a small car) which has been plonked on the stairwell getting cloaked in cobwebs since early summer.
Cycling is a truly awesome way of travelling around London. Not only does it save those meagre pennies - which are better off spent down the pub, right? - but hopping on two wheels gets you to your destination quick, whilst staying trim.
But it's one's ability to remain intact and not get splattered across the high street which is the challenge. This city is bustling with nutter drivers, who've the power to send you hurtling into that dark hole of oblivion at any moment.
Just this morning I escaped death by a whisker on the Old Kent Road. A speeding motor licked my clothes like tiger would its prey, sending me wobbling off course and into the roadside. My life flashed before my eyes (it's all true).
But, laughably, the worse accident in my cycling history was when I got knocked over by an Ambulance car. The git sped off with not even saying sorry. Fucker. But, despite the dangers, there's no better feeling than arriving at work after a 45 minute ride: sweaty, puffing, and feeling completley alive. And I intend to keep it that way.
Cycling is a truly awesome way of travelling around London. Not only does it save those meagre pennies - which are better off spent down the pub, right? - but hopping on two wheels gets you to your destination quick, whilst staying trim.
But it's one's ability to remain intact and not get splattered across the high street which is the challenge. This city is bustling with nutter drivers, who've the power to send you hurtling into that dark hole of oblivion at any moment.
Just this morning I escaped death by a whisker on the Old Kent Road. A speeding motor licked my clothes like tiger would its prey, sending me wobbling off course and into the roadside. My life flashed before my eyes (it's all true).
But, laughably, the worse accident in my cycling history was when I got knocked over by an Ambulance car. The git sped off with not even saying sorry. Fucker. But, despite the dangers, there's no better feeling than arriving at work after a 45 minute ride: sweaty, puffing, and feeling completley alive. And I intend to keep it that way.
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