1) The cycle path is for the comfort of the cyclist, not to create room for the motorist.
2) The quality of cycle infrastructure should at all times be equal to the quality of infrastructure for motorized traffic.
3) Priorities, junctions and rights of way must be designed such that cyclists rarely need to use their brakes or get off their bikes.
4) Other cycle path users are, under no circumstances whatsoever, allowed to endanger the health and/or safety of the cyclist.
5) Cycle facilties and infrastructure must be suitable for use for all types of bikes and cyclists.
6) Cycle paths must be safe to use at all times of the day, or night.
7) Public transport, buildings, and all facilities of that nature, must have adequate facilities to account for the cyclist’s needs.
Neil grits his teeth, calves already aching in anticipation of the long climb ahead, out of the corner of his eye, he sees the elderly woman standing half on the pavement,half on the road, he has to swerve slightly to avoid her and thinks about shouting back at her,but she looks so frail,standing there, that for once he holds back, bites down on his anger,pushes the frustration down into his legs, ups his speed to avoid a gear change on the hill.
And,anyway, he expects little from pedestrians, he is used to their random actions, suddenly stepping out on front of him, stopping completely when he is simply cycling along the pavement. There are days when he lets rip, shouting, swearing, making it clear to them exactly what they have done wrong and the physical risk they have put him in, but today, his anger is in check, he has yet to really get started on his regular route, has not yet been cut up by a yummy mummy on her spotless 4×4, had his leg squashed by a bus or been shunted into the wrong lane by some boy racer who pretends that he hasn’t seen him or his very clear hand signals.
Neil hates other road users, in fact hate is almost too mild a word,he loathes and despises them all.
Sitting smug, metal encased, cut off from the sun,the wind,the rain. He hates watching their in-car antics, their nose picking, spot squeezing, Radio 4 listening, phone texting, junk food eating, lard arsed existences. he wants to bang on their windscreens, shock them out of their little lives, shout at them, tell them what they’re doing to the planet, make them feel bad and make him feel much much better.
Neil , aka CycleWarrior – his username on the many eco web forums he belongs to – has a dream, a dream of world domination, a benign totalitarian state, where Neilism is the dominant ideology and Neil himself is a superhero, Pappa to his adoring populace, a scourge to the few remaining beleaguered petrol heads and a red-hot lover who always gets the girl.
Neil has learnt to dream with his eyes wide open, flitting effortlessly between this reality and the so much more attractive alter – reality of Cyclopolis. On days when he sits in the small and tastefully, carefully decorated cubicle that he calls an office, listening to Saara or Jake or Evelyn talk about their conflict with work colleagues, the inability to manage their time, eat well or take exercise, well, on those days he can spend hours, blissful hours striving to make Cyclopis a better,happier place for its denizens.
(Business / Professions) a person whose job is to improve the quality of his or her client’s life, by offering advice on professional and personal matters, such as career, health, personal relationships, etc.
The structures, models and methodologies of coaching are numerous, and may be designed to facilitate learning new behavior for personal growth, or professional advancement. There are also forms of coaching that help the coachee improve a physical skill, like in a sport or performing art form. Some coaches use a style in which they ask questions and offer opportunities that will challenge the coachee to find answers from within him/herself. This “socratic method” facilitates the learner to discover answers and new ways of being based on their values, preferences and unique perspective.
When coaching is aimed at facilitating psychological or emotional growth it should be differentiated from therapeutic and counseling disciplines, since a client of coaching, in most cases is considered healthy (i.e. not sick). The purpose of the coaching is to help them move forward from their present situation.
Different coaching methods may be done with individuals or with groups, in person, over the phone or online
It is morning in the city, the sun is high in the clear, pollution free sky.
Citizens are waking, donning simple but flattering clothes.
Some are already at work in the communally owned gardens and vegetable patches, hoeing, weeding, feeding the free-range chickens [kept only for the eggs of course as everyone here is a vegetarian except the renegade and banned Lardies].
Journeys to the co-operatives, collectives and worker-led small artisan businesses are beginning, the gentle whir of cycle wheels cut across the violin and cello practice in homes where children have elected to study a self directed and empowering music programme.
Captured Lardies, in the process of re-education,are encouraged onto static cycles where their pedal power will help to produce the sustainable energy that sustain the city. They are piteous, bodies wobbling, they moan, cry out,their bodies carving the high fat, high sugar foods that they illegally ingest in their snack houses.
The windmills stand tall and proud against a skyline, carefully designed to not dominate the views, produce too human centered a landscape.
The city is dynamic, full of the hustle and bustle of busy, satisfied Cyclopians, each knowing that they are contributing to the common good, whilst taking all the emotional and spirititual nurturing they require free from the hegemony of a rapacious technocratic society.
The utopia and its offshoot, the dystopia, are genres of literature that explore social and political structures. Utopian fiction is the creation of an ideal society, or utopia, as the setting for a novel. Dystopian fiction is the opposite: creation of an utterly horrible or degraded society, or dystopia. Many novels combine both, often as a metaphor for the different directions humanity can take in its choices, ending up with one of two possible futures. Both utopias and dystopias are commonly found in science fiction and other speculative fiction genres, and arguably are by definition a type of speculative fiction.
More than 400 utopian works were published prior to the year 1900 in the English language alone, with more than a thousand others during the twentieth century.
Cyclewarrior, for it is he, stands atop of a hill, surveying the morning routine of his beloved city. Busy with the affairs of state that ensure the smooth running of the community, he still finds time to stand and stare, today , he is watching the children in their self-empowerment center, enablers [the term teachers was abolished by popular vote in glorious [and peaceful] revolution] move amongst them,encouraging, suggesting, supporting the youngsters on their paths of self directed discovery. Cyclewarrior smiles and reflect on how different all this is to his own childhood, when adults strove only to criticize him, shatter his fledgling confidence, his tentative steps towards the vision that is Cyclopolis .
“Sit Up Neil” [ for that was his name in those far off technoloaden days]
“Pay attention Neil”
“Do what you are told Neil”
Cyclewarrior strides towards his humble office,no trappings of power for him. his body is lithe, powerful [ without being in anyway threatening or patriarchal], he moves with an intensity of purpose that inspires confidence,even adoration in the citizens he passes. He is agonizing about the Lardies, throwbacks, refuseniks, die-hards, their illegal obsession with saturated fats, man made fibres and in some extreme cases, it is whispered, attempts rebuild the combustion engine – he knows that there is only one possible solution, the citizens talking tree [ where anyone over the age of 9 may hold discussions, debates, suggest way to make the city better] has discussed the issue again and again, always coming back to the same dilemma, how can they as pacifist, anarcho vegan[ish] freeriders and free-er thinkers cope with the Lardies. Cyclewarrior knows that his solution will not be popular,but he believes that his people adore him enough to follow his lead, to trust him to finally rid their perfect home of this sad and dangerous cult.
He knows they are becoming braver, there is talk of children offered chicken nuggets at school gates, teenagers seduced at candy parties- their minds afire with refined sugars, their bodies unable to say no and the citizen watch have closed down 3 illegal clothes factories in the last month alone, the black market sexually degrading thongs and push up bras sold on street corners to small number of confused and easily led weaker city dwellers.
The current leader of the Citizens watch, all roles are rotated every six months to avoid a false sense of pride or the danger of cliques, is waiting for him. She is typical of the warriors of the watch, lissome, high bossomed, but with a belief in herself that transcends any superficial and of course unimportant outdated notion of female attractiveness. Cycle-warrior knows that is its simple co-incidence that all the watch warriors have waist length hair, tiny waist lines and legs that go on forever. She wears the official watch uniform, designed by Cycle-warrior himself, leather [ from cows who have lived a full and happy life and died only of old age] micro shorts, a tiny halter top and thigh length boots, an effective and practical uniform, combining the minimum of washing and ensuring that the warriors never over-heat.
She looks at him adoringly and greets him in the appropriate way, her tongue deep in his throat and formalities observed, Cycle-warrior begins to outline his daring but sensitive plan to deal with the Lardies for once and all………………..
Bugger, blast and damn….Neil doesn’t notice the new and surprisingly deep pot-hole until his front wheel has almost jack knifed into it, he manages, with a display of super human balance that would impress even Cycle-warrior himself to avoid falling off his bike , but the moment is gone and Cyclopolis is lost to him and the every day crashes down on him, the grey half light, the stink of exhausts pushing out their pollutants, the noise of vehicles, mobile phones, shouting voices. Neil is back in the February day. He cuts across two lanes of traffic, gives the hooting motorists the finger and feeling slightly better looks around and then quickly mounts the pavement and heads into the pedestrian area, he zips around the real life Lardies, ignoring the muttered complaints.
He has to brake to avoid the old man with the tartan shopping trolley, the sauntering and soft fleshed teenage girls, thongs on display and the middle aged woman pushing a huge double buggy.
In one smooth, lithe movement he leaps from the bike, recovers a tiny element of Cycle-warrior and strides, a giant amongst the pygmies through the drab 70s built shopping center towards the bank, to explain why, yet again, he needs to extend his business overdraft.