It’s probably the politest peloton ever. On Saturday, the annual Tweed Run set off from Trafalgar Square (leaving behind them a number of confused tourists) and made their way through London on a 12-mile scenic jaunt stopping off for spots of tea (gin) and luncheon japes en route.
It’s a far cry from the unforgivably tight Lycra that the streets of London has got used to of late.
Over 700 cyclists chose tweed over speed by donning plus fours, breeches, argyle socks, brogues, pocket watches, braces and an enviable selection of headwear.
Weather featured prominently in many a conversation as the climate, in true British April fashion, ranged from ‘hold on to your hats’ windy to ‘I may have to roll up my sleeves’ sunny.
There was of course musical accompaniment thanks to some suitably pimped rides.
Tweed wearers believe firmly that one must make gloves not war.
Making time for a quick hello to our reining monarch.
Time to whip out the selfie stick. Just like the good old days.
Taking in the sights while promenading over Waterloo Bridge.
All this cycling is thirsty work. I beg your pardon? Milk in first of course.
A father and his tweedlings.
A fine pair of dapper chaps.
A spiffing time was had by all. Tweed riders, consider our caps well and truly doffed.
And lets all hope this handsome devil wasn’t charged a small fortune for surpassing the 30 minute docking fee on his tweeded up hired cycle.
Toodle pip. See you next year, chaps.
By Jude Brosnan