In 1998, I was living at the top of Brixton Hill, very close to the prison. I was working for the technical trade press at the time, in an office that overlooked the Tower of London.
I used to commute to work on a beautiful silver Jetstream bicycle. This is just one Urban Cycling Story from that time.
Commuting by bicycle in London at that time was an extreme sport. I was ‘doored’ and knocked off my bicycle so many times I joked about writing a stage play around all the incidents, each skit starting with a spectacular stunt recreation of the crash, followed by a breakdown of the people involved, their lives and what the incident taught me. But I was rarely hurt; I was fit, and muscular, and bounced when I hit the ground.
I cycled to work everyday, no matter the weather, and, given this was London, I was a wet weather specialist. That particular evening I’d filed my copy for the day as usual, donned my waterproofs, pulled the waterproof covers over my boots and went outside to unlock my bike.
To my left, Tower Bridge was being dusted with rain. Just to my right, however, the Minories was being absolutely lashed: a dark spring thunderstorm was rolling in and the noise of the city was suddenly overwhelmed by the percussion of the deluge and the roaring of drains.
Beyond Tower Bridge, the sun shone silver over South London. I realised that, if I set off then, I could race the vanguard of the storm front all the way home. I mounted my bike and powered off towards Tower Bridge.
I couldn’t keep up with the front, and the storm soon rolled over me as I cycled. I was soon being strafed by hard lines of water and had to peer over my glasses as I couldn’t see through the condensation on the lens.
The roads were quite empty. The rain was so hard it seemed to have washed away the traffic. Everything apart from me.
The storm had cleared by the time I’d reached the bottom of Brixton Hill. Bright sunlight pierced down from a suddenly blue sky and lay in mirrors that hovered above the road. It was so bright I had to squint. I felt I was cycling across a pool of mercury.
I was in the home straight now but still utterly alone – no people, no cars. I signalled right and my bike rippled across the camber to my usual shortcut through the grounds of Brixton prison.
A huge triple rainbow arched over the grey roof of the prison – and shimmered like an oily serpent in the watery reflections of the road below. And, suddenly, I could hear the roar of a thousand unseen men.
I stopped. It was coming from the high windows of the prison, a MASSIVE sound that took to the sky on great, hysterical wings of mirth.
I stood there, looking at the vast blank walls of the prison. It sounded like I was outside a football stadium. I was utterly alone.
And then I realised what was happening. The whole prison was singing.
And they were singing ‘Delilah’ by Tom Jones.
They must have repeated the chorus four times before the song broke down into a thunderous melee of shouting and laughing and frenzied drumming.
And then it receded like a wave, an occasional barked order sounding tiny in its wash, and the rainbow faded too.
It was only when I noticed I was shivering that I pushed off for home.
Comments