Of bike sheds, mice, and velvet

We've got a lovely new bike shed. It's all see-thru curvy stuff, covered Sheffield stands for 40 bikes, room for 10 more if they're cosy, with staff-ID swipe access. It's also covered by the All Seeing Eye of the Maternity department's CCTV. Sweet.

So I was at the Grand Opening Photocall today (staff zine and local rag, councillor, chairman of the trust, etc) and I swear, I had to bite my metaphorical tongue so hard it drew blood. Because all that the cyclists seemed to be talking about was how they need special lanes and special this and special that... and how their son won't wear a reflective jacket... and how drivers are so mean.

Nothing about what a lovely ride it was this morning, or how ace and cheap and fun it all is. Just special-pleading "I am a deserving mouse, please give me facilities because I am scared" stuff.

I did butt in, of course, pointing out that there will never be 100% facility coverage so everyone needs to learn how to ride confidently in traffic, take the lane, be comfortable looking behind them, and all that. And, to be fair, the local cycle-training lady did say that that's what they're training the current crop of kids to do. Sweet.

But dear gods, the rest of 'em. Fluorescent-coated helmeted bloody mice, they need nothing so much as they need to grow a pair and get out there doing it.

I felt exactly the same kind of disconnection as I do around velvet pagans. 

And that makes me sad and angry.