A few months back I had a bad ride.

I wasn’t injured or abused. I didn’t crash, fall off, or get an ill-timed puncture. It just felt…bad. It was one of those rides where it felt like every single car was trying to intimidate me as they passed. As if that was their one moment to make their feelings known — “you don’t belong,” they were saying “get out of my space.” Every close pass felt like a punishment for some wrongdoing I had committed just by existing.

I had a bad ride, but that’s not what this entry is about (though if you want to read about it, you can do so here). …

Before I finally worked up the courage to start cycling, I spent a lot of time thinking about what parts of my life might have already prepared me for getting on the road.

Driving was the obvious one. I’d never enjoyed it. An anxious daughter of anxious parents, learning to drive was a hellish experience for all of us — leaving countless tears shed and an inherent belief that I was a dangerous driver. Despite it all, I finally got my license at 18 not by choice but by necessity. My boyfriend at the time had his license suspended after being caught speeding, so it was up to me to take on the role of chauffeur. …

This weekend, Keir Starmer made a decision that million of other British people make every day. He probably didn’t even think twice about it. But that decision had consequences — for his neighbourhood, for the air, for the climate and for one stranger who, because of this decision, would end their weekend in the hospital.

On a temperamental Autumn afternoon, Starmer made the decision to drive his SUV the 0.8 miles to the local dry cleaners. It’s a journey he could have walked in 15 minutes, or cycled under five. But it had been raining on and off all day and no one wants to risk getting their dry cleaning wet. …

Hey, it’s me.

Do you remember?

Maybe you don’t.

I’m the girl you overtook so closely in Wimbledon that I could have tapped on your window if I was brave enough to let go of my handlebars.

I’m the girl you veered into the kerb as you rushed to overtake me on that roundabout in Balham.

And the one you sped up to overtake in Earlsfield, only to slam on the brakes at the red light a moment later.

I was coming home with my boyfriend, you see. We’d been out in Cannizaro Park with his sister, niece and baby nephew — celebrating my birthday under autumnal foliage. We should feel elated right now, buoyed by spending time in nature with children still young enough to openly delight in its magic. But instead I’m shaken and he’s forlorn — imaginging what might have happened if I’d been just a little bit less prepared for your carelessness. …

For the first 18 years of my life, my predominant means of moving around the world was in a car. I lived in the outer suburbs of Sydney, a place I now recognise as the kind of car-dominated neighbourhood I never want to live in again. It was a 20 minute walk to the nearest petrol station — where most locals got essentials like bread and milk. To walk to the nearest place where you could buy proper groceries would take you over an hour, though no one ever did it because you weren’t allowed to. The roads weren’t built to carry people on foot. There was a bus — it came once an hour, but it didn’t go to the supermarket. And don’t get me wrong — this was a city, not remote outback Australia. It was just a place built around owning a car. So I used one every single day. …

Long before I’d started riding my bike around the backstreets of London, long before I’d even bought a bike, I was steeling myself for the criticisms that I was sure I’d get from experienced cyclists. “Ride faster!” I imagined them hollering at me as they overtook my glacial crawl up a slight slope. “That’s not how you ride a bike,” they’d chide as I picked myself up off the floor following my third crash of the hour. Delightfully, I’ve found the experienced cycling community to be one of the most welcoming and supportive groups I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting. …

For the five years that I’ve been commuting in London, I’ve been missing out — and I didn’t realise until today.

Catching the bus from Elephant and Castle, the tube from Manor House, the overground from Hammersmith, the Thameslink from Herne Hill. Every commuting choice I’ve made up until today has been the wrong one.

In case you hadn’t guessed already, today was the day I cycled my commute to Farringdon solo for the very first time. Taking the backstreets around Kennington and Elephant and Castle, and then riding the gorgeous segregated cycleway all the way north across Blackfriars Bridge and into the centre of the city. …

I can’t remember when I learnt that, as a woman, taking up space was seen as a bad thing. I just know that by the time I was an adult and making my way around in the world, I was actively trying to be as small as possible — ducking out of peoples’ way on the pavement, pressing up against the walls of the tube, apologising when distracted commuters collided with me as they got off the bus. As a bigger woman, I feel this even more keenly, exceedingly aware that just by existing I’m taking up more room than a woman is supposed to. …