In a time of death and isolation, a new tradition was born. As the UK struggled with Covid and a renewed fight for racial justice, I turned to two wheels to get by
That was the summer we cycled out of celebration. That was the summer we cycled out of resistance. Can you picture it? More than 1,000 of us moving through an empty central London like a flock of birds. There was no hierarchy or dress code. There were racing bikes and there were mountain bikes and there were rented Santander bikes. Men and women. Middle-aged adults, teenagers and children. Almost all of us were Black. We had come from all over the country. We had come by ourselves, or in pairs, or in larger groups, until out of many, came a larger whole. A hybrid family, glittering in multicoloured clothing as if we had passed through a rainbow.
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