I head for a group of fifteen or more Day-Glo yellow cycle police standing together in the shade and looking happy in anticipation of their day out with the nudes. They laugh at my bike and as I hop off, one of them walks over for a closer look. I stroll off toward the gathering event, looked for a few friends, don’t find any, and walk back. They’re feigning disinterest, but yes, it has reflectors and a bell, two brakes and gears—it’s road legal.
The group of riders grows and grows pinker from the top down as the surrounding crowd of tourists, photographers and passers-by also grows. The tourists are just funny, holding up their cell phones to take hopeless shots of a few pallid bums and people with bicycles. The passers-by are laughing, trying to steer their kids away or talking to their friends about it on their phones. The photographers are mostly a nuisance; few ask if they can take a photo, some have brought stepladders and long lenses, while some try hard to pretend that they’re not taking photos — particularly near women. Hidden in a monkey suit, I am immune to this: a lot of people want photos — but it’s not in any way intrusive for me. It’s an odd mix, the highly middle-class greens with a liberal agenda, the international gay set, and our laughing proletarian police as chaperones.