The man was unloading cycles from the boot of his car just as I was about to take the turning for my house. It was the last straw. In the space of a mile and a half drive from field to home, I had passed 79 cyclists.
I photographed each swarm as it approached me, pulling over to use the camera on my phone, before anyone accuses me of dangerous driving.
At the entrance to the cricket club, a group of three men and a woman in Lycra were standing shoulder to shoulder, bikes propped idle, having a good old chinwag. I pulled up next to them and snapped them through my window. The woman put her hand on her hip and pushed her lips out in a stubborn pout as if to say, ‘What are you going to do about it?’
We don’t have a lockdown in Surrey. The lanes are teeming seven days a week, dawn till dusk, with hundreds upon hundreds of cyclists and mountain bikers who are driving here every day to take their exercise.
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