Christabel and Sylvia Pankhurst were Clarionettes, and they rode around distributing newsletters and holding rallies. One outraged woman wrote to the Daily Telegraph to denounce those who “in addition to the degradation of riding a bicycle, have further unsexed themselves by doing so in man’s attire”.Ĭlarion cycling clubs, linked to the socialist weekly newspaper of the same name, admitted women from the start. During the 1850s, Amelia Jenks Bloomer took to wearing billowy Turkish-style trousers known as “freedom dress”. The Rational Dress Society cited the dangers of skirts being set on fire or pulling their wearers under carts. The campaign for acceptance was vocal on the right to wear trousers.
Puck magazine depicted a stern-looking woman riding with a man half her size perched on her handlebars the heading: “New Woman takes her husband for a ride”. The sit up and beg position – hardly aerodynamic – was designed to avoid women developing a “bicycle hump”. Opponents claimed cycling led to infertility, a manly gait, or promiscuity: Robert Dickinson, an American gynaecologist, suggested women positioned their saddles so as to “bring about constant friction over the clitoris and labia”. Pioneers were pelted with bricks, eggs and rotten vegetables as they rode. In this likable, informative and barnstorming book, Hannah Ross tells the story of how such meanings – sometimes eagerly adopted, sometimes patriarchally imposed – have become attached to what is often just the most efficient way of getting from A to B.Ĭyclists in the early 1900s. A male cyclist is just a bloke on a bike, but a woman appears political, independent, a bluestocking, egregiously sporty, or suspiciously saucy. And many journeys have been spent furiously pondering esprit de l’escalier retorts following altercations with taxi drivers.Ĭycling for me has never been boring or neutral. I’ve balanced a week’s shopping on handlebars, and kneed myself in the bump when pregnant. I’ve carried a boxed trumpet and a large houseplant in my basket, and flashing bike lights in my mouth.
I’ve cycled into a lamppost at the side of the road while admiring spring trees in bloom.
I’ve fallen over at the lights, slowly and to the side, because my skirt has been hooked over the back of the seat. I’ve cycled with one hand holding closed my wrap dress, and with skirt tucked into tights, or tied in a knot. I’ve sallied forth in strappy heels and dorky helmet: returning home late, I’ve dodged foxes while flying drunk and euphoric down deserted streets. I ’ve been cycling for decades – as a student, commuter and partygoer.
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