I love cycling in London. Behind and between the bits you usually see.
Riding the lines above ground that connect the underground exit points you usually descend into and emerge from.
Secret streets. Private parks and thoroughfares inaccessible to cars and cabs.
Rows of houses where real-life Londoners live, not the pretenders who commute in.
Balustrades, balconies, gargoyles.
High hedges and window bars in lieu of the privacy and security more rural homes would offer.
Through parks and along roads you see snippets of myriad lives. A man in circus trousers doing the splits on a bench; a jogger interspersing his run with front-flips. Endless suits, all engaged in some business or other. Beggars, children, photographers, cabbies.
Hundreds of Londons coexisting, mostly peacefully, but not all aware of each other’s depths or definitions or, necessarily, existence.