‘Look Mum, No Hands!’ is the boast of tykes on trikes everywhere. It’s also the handle for a new bar-cum-cafe aimed at cyclists. Decked out like a student union circa the time Belgian legend, Eddy Merckx, was dominating the Tour de France - clue, The Pushbike Song by pop footnotes, The Mixtures, was riding high in the charts - the community-based project allows you to get a fix of caffeine, or something stronger, while in-house spanner monkeys fix your derailleurs. Sipping chardonnay in a cute courtyard, away from a main room currently in thrall to live coverage of a peloton of meaty Lycra-clad thighs pedaling furiously through the streets of Roubaix, Tourcoing or some similarly pedestrian vile French ville, I recount the incident that ended any chance of me ever wearing a yellow jersey that wasn’t designed by Paul Smith in finest four ply cashmere. Alcohol and bikes just don’t mix. After a couple of shandies, playing cat and mouse with white van man, I landed ar**-up on the asphalt. Trust me, there is no greater disincentive to cycling London’s lethal streets than having metal removed from an eyeball popped out of its socket and placed on your cheek, while you remain fully conscious in A&E. So if you arrive here on two wheels, stick to fruit smoothies!
49 Old Street EC1 7253 1025
