Red means stop!? Apparently not everyone agrees.

One of the hidden pleasures of cycling in London is that you occasionally stumble across scenes so ridiculous that you wonder whether you've accidentally ridden onto the set of a sitcom.

My latest encounter occurred at a particularly busy central London junction at the end of a cycle lane. You know the type: buses, taxis, delivery vans, pedestrians, cyclists, tourists and influencers all converging in a giant huddle of noise and impatience.

I rolled up to a red light on my Brompton and settled into the familiar routine of waiting. Ahead of me were two cyclists on road bikes. Serious road bikes. The kind that cost stupid money and as though they become visibly offended if forced to travel below 25mph.

The light was red. One cyclist stopped near the head of the junction.  The other cyclist appeared deeply unhappy about this development. Exactly why remains something of a mystery. Perhaps he felt stopping at a red light represented an unacceptable surrender to authority.  Perhaps he had somewhere important to be. Perhaps he simply woke up that morning determined to disagree with someone. Whatever the cause, an argument erupted. Not a minor disagreement. Not a brief exchange of irritated words. No, this was the full-scale variety. Over a red traffic light!? The disgruntled cyclist yelled at the other to move out of the way so he could proceed. At a junction packed with people trying to get on with their day, he could not really oblige.

As the discussion intensified, the traffic signal continued its thankless duty, remaining stubbornly and indisputably red throughout. Behind them, I occupied what may have been the best seat in London. The Brompton is the perfect vehicle for witnessing these moments. Road-bike riders often seem engaged in an endless struggle against time, gravity, wind resistance and occasionally each other. Brompton riders, by contrast, are essentially mobile observers...spectators. (You will also be pleased to hear that I was wearing a rather fine tweed blazer). 

I was neither participating nor taking sides. I was simply occupying a front-row view of two grown adults investing an extraordinary amount of emotional energy into an event that could have been entirely avoided by with one waiting roughly thirty seconds and the other not responding to stupid stuff coming out of the mouth of the other. 

The argument gathered momentum far more effectively than either bicycle. Arms were deployed. Head shaking was observed. Various facial expressions suggested that civilisation itself hung in the balance. Some pushing ensued. Meanwhile everyone else simply waited for the lights to change. Eventually they did.

The signal turned green, ending the debate in the same way that a school bell can end a playground argument. Notice the use of the word ‘can.’ Both cyclists shot off into the London traffic, still appearing dissatisfied with humanity in general. They now chased each other, screaming, swearing, shouting further obscenities. I followed at Brompton pace, which is less a speed and more a state of mind.

As I pedalled, I couldn't help thinking that London remains one of the world's great entertainment venues. You never know when you'll witness two adults transform a routine red light into a situation worthy of the the best stage farce. 

Until next time, stay safe out there people!