People who’ve been cycling long before Bradley bloody Wiggins and the Olympics came along have been loudly pointing it out to those who’ve had a sudden urge get down to Evans.
The velo veterans, who – lest you forget – have been cycling in all weathers and all conditions before anyone had even heard of Chris fucking Hoy feel the need to remind everyone who was here first.
“I didn’t need some pouting pixie in a boob tube or blonde shrink-wrapped tree trunk to get me onto my Bianchi Oltre with Mavic Ksyrium hubs and Shimano Dura Ace chainset,” 41 year old Derek Folds spluttered.
“Chris Boardman practically didn’t exist when I started cycling: I figured out its inherent utility long before these dicks worked out there was something between skateboarding and a bus that could get you to work.”
Led by roughage-guzzling medal amasser Sir Chris Hoy, Team GB cyclists galvanized millions of sit-at-home Britons into driving the 3 and a half miles to their nearest Halfords to purchase cycling equipment sure to gain pride of place at the back of the garage next to that rowing machine wedged on top of the mouldy yoga mat.
But the sudden influx of fat-arsed fair-weather cyclists wobbling slowly in and out of traffic in a mixture of distended lycra and blind panic has made veteran self-propelled practitioners absolutely livid at the appropriation of their pastime.
“I don’t care how much they’re inspired by Laura Trott’s girly enthusiasm: I’d like to see them do the Blackheath to Kings Cross commute in under 20 minutes without falling under a bus or getting up Ditchling Beacon without having a coronary,” Folds continued.
“I’ve been doing this for 20 years: where were they when I got my first pair of SPD’s?!?” he shouted from under the 171 to New Cross Gate.