Robbin' Hood

What fun I have on my little fold-up bicycle: scurrying about like an unrestrained hamster.  Six months of pedalling around London and I’m still alive.  It’s remarkable.  Admittedly, I’ve had a lorry pass so close that it smeared my sleeve with grime but I lived to tell the tale.  And wash my arm.

Still, in some small way, my clown’s bike is actually keeping me out of mischief.  For as dangerous as the traffic and pot-holes and wayward pedestrians are, I sometimes feel that the most risk lies in navigating the gangs of youths that litter my journey home.  But I have learnt to worry less.

Waiting on the platform at a minor London station this evening, I found myself the focal point of the local Crew.  Now normally, I am, by nature of my innate street-cred and camouflage training, indistinguishable from the average Hoodie.  And, I like to think, impossible to tell apart even from those of this dark ‘Hood.  Of course I may be wrong.  Because something drew this mob’s attention to the sweaty balding white man riding a circus toy. 

‘Yo, motherfucker, what’s this shit?’ demanded one boy dressed in a black hooded top, jeans and Nike trainers.

‘That’s some crazy shit.’ Offered another, a boy dressed in a black hooded top, jeans and Nike trainers.

‘I ain’t seen nothing like it: it’s fucking loose, man.’ Piped up a third, a boy dressed in a black hooded top, jeans and Nike trainers, almost certainly oblivious to the use of a colon in his sentence structure.

“I’m sorry.  What?” I asked before realising that it might not be the optimal course of action.

They stared at me.  I wasn’t entirely sure if it was the look of hyenas about to enjoy a KFC Bargain Bucket or lawyers meeting an accident victim.  Either way it wasn’t pleasant.  I’ve not received a look like that since that unfortunate incident at the Jewellers with the wheel brace.

Thankfully, my experience as a Hostage Negotiator kicked in. 

“Yo. Yo. Yo.” I said, blending in.

Their silence spoke volumes – I knew I was being accepted.

“It’s a fold up bicycle, homeys.”

I collapsed it in front of them.  They took a step towards me, clearly impressed.  I realised I had reduced my means of escape to what appeared to be the output of a car crusher.  The mental image of me pedalling away to safety dissolved into a vision of being stuffed into a dustbin.

‘I wants one of those, fold-up motherfuckers.  They is well cool.’

“Eh?”  I queried.

‘Yeh, man.  They is well cool.  I could do with one of those babies.’

“Evans” I said.  “You can buy one from Evans.”

‘Yeh, man, right.’

And with that he playfully punched my arm and they wandered off to smash the few remaining windows in the station.

Although it was a cool night, I realised I was sweating.  Still, only another thirty minutes to wait for my train.  I rebuilt my Brompton.  And sat on it.

Comments

[Robbie]

Yikes. God to see that your a master of disguise and were able to get ot of that sticky situation with all your belongings.
I'm sure you got a lot of street cred for your yoyoyoyo

[Carlton]

I never leave home without my Yoyoyo, Robbie!

c