Every afternoon chunks of lethal metal spill out of the city, and they're all mad at each other. The evening commute can be frustrating behind the wheel, nose to nose in traffic. But here I find escapism, next to Sat Navs telling poor people to take the next left towards ludicrous APR. Here I find adrenaline, aside the rich in leather seats they love more than their ex-wives. My bicycle peddles are my window of life, away from days reserved at a desk and nights of undeserved rest. That is, unless I turn left.
If I don't, then I power ahead into the cycle lane, passing Ubers who are stuck up each other's asspipes. I feel the wind in my face as I dart by cars and buses crawling in some slow motion notion. It feels good overtaking something 10 times my size. I know where the potholes are so I can avoid them with skill. They all want to be me or I just think they do. I don't care which. Turning left avoids the traffic. It's the same distance home, but it's via empty side roads that aren't exactly captivating. I can turn left for three reasons: 1) It's raining 2) I've been drinking 3) I'm blue. At worst it's three, today it was just number three because I've nothing to get home for.