A Woman needs a Bicycle like a Man needs a Guinness

Yeh, I was going for some clever play on words but instead I ended up reminiscing about old Guinness adverts. But for those who understand the association, to you I give chocolates and champagne (if I had either one of those things they would have been devoured simultaneously and I would be feeling fat and sassy) Before I continue and explain my post title, I must declare something randomly… MY SPOON IS TOO BIG! This declaration is mainly for George. But anyone who has at some point watched the REJECTED animations will suddenly burst into fits of laughter then accidentally get blown off their page, desperately clutching the stick leg of one of their cloud-shaped mateys. ‘My Spoon is too big” is both poignant and hysterical, I only wish REJECTED were my own creation, I would love myself more and more everyday and my head would grow large. But, the simple fact remains that my genius remains hidden, submerged in the deep emerald waters that slosh about my Gall Bladder. You get the low-down at www.bitterfilms.com. I really, really want that dvd, buy it and post it to me and I will love you forever.

Anyway, back to what I was supposed to discuss: women need bikes like men need Guinness.
For well over a year now I have cycled to and from work so I have become a genuine oxford cyclist. I am worried that with the new job comes a new mode of transport, transport with more than two wheels sporting some foreign object called an engine apparently. Yes, I shall be getting a lift to work in a real live car. For me it is the equivalent of going on a rollercoaster, cars had become a distant (though not distant enough when I'm on my bike) memory. As strange as it sounds I am really going to miss the daily cycling caffuffles, the occasional female on bike versus male chav in a car, god how I love it when I get to whizz past them and they sit frustrated and stripped of their male pride stuck in a queue, ha! I will miss the middle class mums on their basketed ladies bicycles, swearing and encouraging bicycle rage against the MACHINES! I won't have wacky races with random fellow cyclists (To make the journey more entertaining I chose the wackiest looking person on a bike and attempt to beat them to the next set of lights, dangerous but satisfying; I swear to Ganesh that a three foot guy sporting a pony tail provided a decent enough challenge.

There are of course things that I shall most definately NOT miss:

1. I will avoid long periods of time spent with my face deep in bus exhaust fumes (thus getting rid of the extra ear that had grown recently)
2. People that walk in the BLOODY CYCLE LANE. The near deaths are countless due to absent minded/visually impaired/ males under 25 pedestrians
3. I will no longer suffer from 'mushroom' hair caused by the lethal combination of sweaty helmet , wind, and hair prone to looking like, well a mushroom.
4. The Horror of Headington Hill. I have seen grown men struggle to get half way up that hill so I'm pretty chuffed that I've managed it on a frequent basis.
5. This cycling lark has also allowed me to gain a six pack and buns of steel(I am exaggerating only slightly)- to some, this is a positive but I think george is jealous. I have told him not to worry, a few months going to work by car and my butt shall return to it's former less-toned self. I am however, determined to stay fit now that I feel so energised and I really get a buzz from it.

In conclusion, I think every woman can benefit from the odd cycling session, the wind blowing your hair into dissarry, students shouting 'fall' out of their car windows at the top of their lungs , insisting that they are blessed with the gift of telekenesis. Actually thay are all idiots with large mouths and not enough lectures. it gives you a real power trip when you weave through the cars and trundle along at your own leisure down a cyclist only road. You emerge just as the lights turn green, step up a gear, and race the white escort parading a halfords exhaust, the one flaunting an array of fibreglass rubbish being driven by a midget clad in burberry! There is no bigger rush than beating him, and don't forget to look over your shoulder and enjoy a couple of seconds worth of chav humilation (before racing home just in case he wants revenge-I'm lucky because I live by a Macdonalds so any chav's chasing me would get distracted by Ronald's big shiny carpark)