My First Mass

The phone rang.

“Delaina?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s Briony. We have to leave now.”

“I’m there.”

I grabbed the rest of the belongings I thought I night need for the evening and hurried out the house. When I reached the street I saw that my neighbours were already crossing Lordship Lane with their bikes. This was bad: our street is a busy one and it would take me a while to wait for another green light to cross. I decided on taking the pavement route downhill on the opposite side of the road and catching the light further down.

The rest of our journey to Waterloo in an attempt to meet the Critical Mass group on time was equally strategic, dashing and hairy. My god, I thought, if I were not as used to cycling as I am (which is quite used), I wouldn’t stand a hope in hell of keeping up with these guys. I quite enjoyed the pace; it was exhilarating. I enjoyed the change of tactics at manic Elephant and Castle most: we got off and walked.

We met the Mass just as it was setting off in a chorus of bells and whistling. We crossed Waterloo Bridge and continued up Kingsway onto Holborn. People on the pavements were cheering. In our midst were carts with sound systems, costumed unicyclists and tandemists.

It was as we turned down Shaftsbury Avenue we heard the call from one of our party to stop, a cyclist had been hit. We stopped but knew that Briony had already gone. As we waited, negotiated, watching and assessing the situation, a drunk man passed me shouting: “And I hope you’re next.”

“Thank you,” I called back.

“And you, silly,” he added to the elevated unicyclist.

Our team stratagem was to press on. Negative tension spread amongst the pack. Drivers shouted, we shouted back. I no longer wanted to be there. Our mini-mass agreed: to Parliament Square then we call it an evening.

We made it, alongside angry cars. Too dispersed. Where was our protective mass?

At Waterloo we ducked into the safety of food and wine. Al wasn’t comfortable: “We used to end Critical Mass at a squat party,” he grumbled.