The Flight by bike from Heathrow
The story of a journey by bike across London from its westernmost to its easternmost points.
In the river which formed the westernmost boundary of London, bobbed an empty whisky bottle. On the pavement, a short way from the bridge, were a pair of discarded trainers, their toes pointing towards Berkshire. It was as if the previous owner had walked out of London and placing his toe on the heel of each shoe, forced them off his feet. Their treads were worn, their laces still tied. Perhaps, I mused, outdoor shoes must be worn in London and removed as one leaves for the west. As I was going into the city, I felt that my outdoor cycling shoes would be acceptable, so I clipped in and pedalled eastwards.
As many good things so often do, the idea of the ride had been born in a conversation. On Zoom at the beginning of the winter lockdown, members of my cycling club pondered on what the Prime Minister’s, ‘stay local’ appeal really meant. What was local? How far could one go on a bike? Whilst official clarification was pending, I thought I’d stay in London - my ‘local’ - and see how far I could ride in a straight(ish) line and still stay within its bounds. Throughout the ride, I would never be more than 30 kilometres from my home.
Under clear winter skies, with the smell of cooking onions coming from the Swissport factory at the end of Heathrow’s southern runway, I set off along the completely segregated bike lane alongside the Great West Road. Noisy shadows of planes raced me and for a few exultant moments I could ride in the moving shadow of an Airbus. Metal sheds lined the road, in various tones of grey, some masquerading as hotels, others posing as courier offices, their vans ranked outside. Casualties of these times also lined the road; closed transport cafés and a boarded up ‘gentleman’s club’.
There can be few rides on a cycle track alongside a dual carriage through an industrial corridor, which have the appeal of the Golden Mile. From its opening in 1925, it filled with the factories of American manufacturers, such as Coty cosmetics, Firestone tyres and Macleans toothpaste. British firms such as Gillette, Smith’s crisps, and Currys joined them, all building factories that were as visually beautiful as they were productive. Not all the Art Deco masterpieces have survived the post war period however, but their modernist replacements in glass and steel share their confidence and sense of place.
Beyond the Mile, concrete replaced the canopy of sky, and fine city dust lurked in corners, whilst the music of tyres, planes and accelerating engines echoed in the concrete caves beneath the M4 flyover. Strangely - disappointingly? - the walls were not galleried with the skill of London’s graffiti artists. It was a discordant and harsh place to be, but not un-beautiful for those who truly love the many faces of the city.
Along the high streets of Chiswick, Hammersmith and Kensington with their familiar chains and stores I went, and through acres of green-grassed Royal parks with their ancient trees and carpets of bulbs. I cycled passed the front doors of palaces, the imposing buildings of government, the bell towers of the Abbey and along processional routes lined wth flags, to the very centre of London. There, a plaque just behind the hooves of King Charles I’s horse, marked the spot from where all distances are still measured. Then, down to the Thames and the comfort of its familiarity with its sky-scrapers and bridges, its silent flow and brown water eddies. After the Tower, the Docklands, which are now tidied and gentrified, their pools reserved not for ships but for wildlife and water sports, their warehouses, homes for the rich.
From the tidy and pristine, the route launched back into the sweepings of the city’s edges. From the Royal Docks, the Cycleway 3, which I’d been following since Hyde Park, became the National Cycling Network’s traffic-free route 13 which ran alongside the A13. It took me out into used tyre and scrap metal country. Bruising winds from lorries in an urgent hurry rocked me, and cars drove at speed towards the city. Multi-coloured blocks of new towers rose from the drained marshes of the rivers and the fine tilth of the city’s shredded skin piled in weathered brick corners. There were parks devoid of trees, rubbish accumulated on fences and lines of unimaginative grey housing provided the visuals for this eastern section of the ride. This was a rawer and grittier London, comfortable with its own ugliness. Thrilling too, with its urgent industry and noise.
Just when my head was due to burst with the beats of the East, the route turned into the tranquility of the Ingrebourne valley. Across meadows and through woods I rode, passsing the remnants RAF Hornchurch, one of the main WWII airfields from where the few had tested their bravery. It is now a nature reserve, where migrant birds pause in large lakes. This being the depths of winter, there were no wildflowers to light the way, but rather the meadows were soaked with the winter rains and the path was very muddy.
At Upminster the cycleway, (which I had ridden on in one form or another from the start) like the District line, ended, but quiet-ish roads angled around sodden green fields. I crossed the defensive wall of London’s M25 and into a real countryside of fields and hedges, where I found ditches filled with the winter’s rain, overflowing into fields and onto roads. And then the sign to which I had spent the day cycling towards; ‘Thurrock’. This was where London ended - in deep and rural countryside. But true to London’s style, a plastic bag was snared in a thorn-tree and a beer can bobbed in a ditch. Whisky in the prosperous West I thought, whilst beer was the choice in the East. And unlike the Royal County of Berkshire, Essex, obviously did not require the removal of outdoor shoes, for none were lying on the road, facing East.
