As tight-skinned as a python that’s swallowed a village boy, and as gaudy as a Mardi Gras float, the peloton leans one-legged on its bikes waiting for the last members to arrive. When the tardiest has joined them, cursing his wife for having shrunk his bib-shorts in the tumble dryer, the peloton sets off, standing on its pedals, bikes sashaying from side to side, its members shouting at one another, leaving a contrail of vacuities in its wake. Nothing is too private to be bawled on Main Street by one bike rider to another.
They will discuss prostate and probate, tax rorts and Thai massage, they will bellow of infidelities and foghorn their misfortunes. But eavesdropping on pelotons is a thankless task. All you hear as they flash past, are the shouted morsels that leave you wondering.
Fascinating jewels set in larger unseen narratives. Some of the things they shout seem to me to be designed specifically to infuriate and confuse pedestrians. Credit: Robin Cowcher Yesterday I was walking the dog when a peloton went past honking small talk.
One shouted, “He’s done it three times now. I don’t know whether to sack him or promote him.” What am I to make of this? What had he done three times that was either laudable or punishable? I have a catalogue of similarly inexplicable snippets bawled by passing pelotons.
On Wednesday: “She wants to live on the coast, but she hates lasagne.” What? Why should Italian cuisine postpone a woman’s sea change? A peloton is, like China.
