52 | Cycling World
RIDING THROUGH THE DARK
Iain Marshall commutes through London ’ s Richmond Park after midnight as part of his winter regime
Nothing beats cycling round south west London ’ s Richmond Park . I commute through it twice a day at all hours . We take our nephew and niece there for two-wheeled adventures . And we spin round its perimeter with hundreds of other Lycra wannabes whenever we can spare the time . Anyone with two wheels in west London knows about the park . It ' s a splash of cool green in the middle of suburban concrete .
Nothing compensates more , for dragging your carcass out of bed at four am for work , than the sight of the park , deserted in the pre-dawn , shrouded in a low-lying mist , through which the antlers of recumbent deer can be seen , poking upwards like fronds of petrified coral , sprouting still from their prehistoric seabed .
If it ’ s been raining at this early hour , flocks of startled parakeets who ’ ve been drinking at roadside puddles , erupt in front of my approaching wheel , flapping and squawking off , a swirling cloud of dazzling green plumage . One crisp winter morning an owl perched on a felled tree trunk , calmly tracking me as I cycled past on the empty path .
To be able to ride through this pristine , ethereal – and somehow , primeval – environment repeatedly , is both pleasure and privilege . There ’ s nothing frantic about pedalling serenely through this landscape . Being alone in the park , with only its creatures for company , provides a rare opportunity for idle meditation .
Nevertheless , when I mention in an offhand manner that I cycle through Richmond Park late at night , often in close to pitch darkness , people gawp in disbelief and concern . As a shift worker , I am regularly churning the pedals there at one am , en route from central London to Kingston upon Thames – a commuting journey of just under thirteen miles .
It ’ s assumed that the park is locked up every night . But apart from the months of November and February , when the deer cull is being carried out as a means of managing the population of some 600 red and fallow deer , it ’ s open around the clock to pedestrians and cyclists - but not cars .
Pushing open the heavy iron gates and creaking your way inside them in the forbidding darkness can be a daunting prospect . As tentative pedal strokes carry you into the eerie interior , twin dots of piercing light can be picked out floating in the blackness as the puny beam from your bike lamp reflects off the eyes of unseen deer and other animals . Thanks to the tapetum lucidum – the reflective coating many animals have behind their retinas – these creatures ’ eyes glow with luminous intensity , suspended in the air - a disturbingly alien presence .
It ’ s easy to forget you are still just metres away from the buzz of urban London ; Roehampton high rises sit right next to the northern edge of the grounds . Hairs bristle on the back of your neck as you up the pedal strokes , driven by irrational fear . It brings to mind Tam O ’ Shanter ’ s ill-fated journey , in Rabbie Burns ’ s eponymous narrative poem . While Tam was on a horse - his “ stout mare ” Meg , rather than a bike - , it ’ s still easy to imagine that warlocks , bogles and Auld Nick himself may be holding an unholy ceilidh in a nearby clearing . Such spooky fantasies help spur me on – boosting my average speed on Strava into the bargain .
Encountering other human beings at such an hour is guaranteed to give you pause . When three blackclad teenagers materialised from the gloom just as I came upon them , I experienced a genuine frisson of horror . They were sitting cross-legged in the middle of the small roundabout at Sheen Cross . As I sprinted up the incline towards White Lodge I could sense their appreciative laughter nipping at my spinning wheels – like the devilish sprites snapping at Meg ’ s