NED BOULTING ON A MISSION

NED CONSIDERS STEALTHY WAYS TO CONVINCE MORE PEOPLE TO RIDE

Ihave a friend who used to be a spy. At first no one in my family knew that she had been a spy, a piece of subterfuge that was entirely in keeping with her former profession. Although we had known her for a couple of years, we had never found out what she did for a living. Then, one day, after she’d cooked us lunch, it just kind of slipped out.

We’d been talking about assuming different names. Her boyfriend, one of my oldest friends, and the reason that we had been introduced to Agent X in the first place, had always worked under an assumed name. As a professional actor, he’d had to choose something slightly more exotic than the commonplace name he’d been brought up with, in order to distinguish himself from a raft of other thespians with the same name. And so, as the discussion wore on, it gradually emerged that X, at various points in her career, had also gone under a variety of identities, all of which had been handed to her by ‘the Service’. ‘So,’ I began hesitantly, ‘were you a…’ ‘Spy?’ she completed my question with her own. Then she sat back enigmatically. So, we guessed she was.

Turns out that her various missions had been to a certain country in the Far East (whose identity I couldn’t possibly reveal for risk of being shot in a crowded marketplace by a man with a gabardine coat and a pistol with a silencer), where she had been charged with recruitment. It was her mission to enter certain institutions, embed herself, keep her eyes open, work out which people were of influence, and might be open to persuasion, and then ‘turn’ them.

At some point in each courtship, there must have come a moment when she would have had to make an offer of conversion, and reveal her true identity. I suspect that work must have been laborious, but effective. I was rather impressed, as you can imagine.

Now, I would no more try and equate the Secret Services with the world of cycling advocacy than I would compare Chris Froome with James Bond, but I took lessons from X’s work and have recently tried to apply them to my support for cycling. You see, in this shrill and polarised world made up of those Londoners who don’t (about 98 per cent), and those of us who do (2 per cent) use the bike as a regular means of transport, I see a great need for subterfuge.

Pro cycling messages fall resolutely on deaf ears when being a) propagated by cyclists and b) targeted at non-cyclists. So the trick is, when spreading the word about cycling in the hope of converting another soul, or ‘turning’ someone, to pretend that you are not a cyclist, so as to gain their trust.

In order to do this you must start any dialogue by expressing irritation for all cyclists for shooting red lights, obviously, for not paying road tax, equally obviously, and generally behaving as if they were in the bloody Tour de France. Once you have gained the trust of the target, you should shift the debate, incrementally, but subtly, back in favour of the cyclist. First of all condemn the state of traffic jams, the cost of motoring, the overcrowding of the Tube and so on. After that, grab a handful of your waistline and bemoan your lack of fitness, and the fact that you are constantly broke. Then you should casually appeal to their sense of nostalgia by asking them if they preferred Choppers or Grifters. Ask them if they could ever do a wheelie or a skid.

At this point, you’re basically there. All that is required is to state, without any elaboration, that Chris Hoy seems like a nice bloke, mumble about the Cycle to Work scheme being like getting a free bike, sort of, and point out the location of a Halfords or Decathlon on your smartphone. You will have recruited them to the cause.

The trick is never, ever, to define yourself as a cyclist. Keep that dark secret locked away. It may not be quite the high risk stratagem required to neutralise the nation’s geopolitical enemies, but each small victory should be celebrated. And if it all goes to plan, I haven’t ruled out abseiling, in the dead of night, into the headquarters of the London Taxi Drivers’ Association and starting work the very next day, armed with a copy of the Daily Mail and a knowing wink.

You must start any dialogue by expressing irritation for all cyclists