Critical Mass

All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.

I don’t make a habit of quoting the father of modern conservatism.  But, being a lazy toad, I occasionally remind myself of the wisdom attributed to Edmund Burke.  Otherwise I’ll spend all my time on my lily pondering, too seldom taking the plunge.

When we choose between bikes and cars, there’s little doubt it’s two wheels good.  Make all the excuses you like, but there's no neutral:  either you drive a car, and say “despite all the bad things about cars I choose to drive one anyway”.  Or you get on your bike (or bus or train or whatever) and say “I choose to do the right thing”.

Ok, so I’m a smug cyclist, Ghandi-like being the change I want to see in the world.  Sickening eh? 

But don’t worry, I’ll give myself a hard time even if you can’t. 

For a start, my choice is based largely on self interest – cycling isn’t just greener, it’s also cheaper, healthier and bunches more fun than fuming in traffic.

More challengingly, whilst giving up the car and getting on the bike is a necessary first step, what’s the point of taking the steep and thorny bikelane yourself, just to idly wave selfish motorists up the primrose path?  Like any good evangelist (or zealot), it’s not enough to do the right thing myself - I have to help save others from the triumph of dirty, dangerous cars!

But how?  Well, here’s a start:  on the last Friday of every month, in over 300 cities worldwide, people are joining together to ride their streets.  They bring whistles, music, banners; they slow the motorists, they show how wonderful it can be when people reclaim the streets as their own.  It’s called Critical Mass. 

As a student in Edinburgh in the late 1990s I took part in the city’s first such event, one of around 20 shivering ideologists who circled the city centre in horizontal sleet until an unreconstructed police car screeched up and ordered us all home.  I was irritated, but saw how challenging it was for plod:  they do protests, but this ‘organised coincidence’ caused much helmet-scratching.  A decade later I saw the London version, and was delighted that it had not only grown in size, but was also so normalised that by now even the police came along – on bikes!

And so to Oxford in 2012 – surely huge potential in this city of students and greenies?  In truth our numbers were small, just a dozen or so enthusiasts (does that even count as a critical mass?).  But what we lacked in size we made up for with enthusiasm - persistent grins, vigorous waves and thumb-numbing tinging; a super selection of bike-related tracks from the wheeled sound-sytem helped make it a celebration as much as a protest.

The best bit was cycling round and round the notorious Plain roundabout.  I loved feeling safety in numbers, just for once the streets were ours and we couldn’t be bullied by the cars.

Reactions varied – the odd angry taxi and four-by-four, but also plenty of smiles and waves - most people seemed gently amused.  Most importantly, they noticed.

But it couldn’t last for ever, and after a couple of good runs up and down the Cowley Road we made a tactical retreat to the Magdalen Arms.

“Whenever I see an adult on a bicycle, I have hope for the human race” – it’s ironic that it took the father of science fiction, H G Wells, to recognise this.  But I hope that even in the here and now, in our own small way, we gave the people of Oxford something to think about, and some hope. 

And for me, at least I won’t feel quite so much like one of those good men who does nothing. 

So what will you be doing on the last Friday in July?