We'd just grown to love cyclists - and then Andrew Mitchell had to come along I live right in the middle of the Olympic cycling route. At the weekend, our cafés are packed with lean (very) mean cycling machines, sprawled over the tables and sweating into their bacon baguettes. They have absolutely no spatial awareness of anything that isn't passing them on two wheels. They never look up, or enjoy the passing scene. They only talk to other cyclists. The rest of us, they verbally abuse. Heads down, teeth clenched, buttocks unappetisingly upended and cased in white neoprene, they hurtle past, buzzing loudly, like a plague of Technicolor locusts. Why are they always in such a hurry anyway? Try to amble across the road here, perhaps with an elderly dog in tow, and you're likely to be knocked down by these neon Lycra louts, riding two abreast, desperate to "do a Bradley" on the roads of Surrey - and swearing at us locals for daring to traverse our own roads at anything less than a sprint. Walk along the Thames Path, contemplating the tranquil beauty of the riverbank, and your reverie will be interrupted by persistent bell-ringing (if you're lucky), or you'll simply be overtaken by a hurricane of metal and luminous leggings careering past within inches of your elbows. I make it a rule always to say "Good morning" to these belting bikers. With any luck, it will take them by surprise so much that they'll slow down, or better still, fall off. I also shout, "That's all right!" after them, in the vain hope that they might be shamed into saying "Thank you" the next time they force a walker to slide down the riverbank to get out of their way. It's childish, I know. Everyone ought to keep fit, and it's lovely that the Olympics has encouraged so many to get on their bikes. But too many cyclists think that being disguised as a lumpy glowworm means they can behave like spoilt brats, whose route to glory is being obstructed by the rest of us. All that fresh air and freewheeling should make you a nicer person and, of course, many cyclists are perfectly charming. I've seen the Mayor of London, Boris Johnson, cycling around London. He seems to manage a cheery smile, take in his surroundings, stop for a chat. But then he's not a Lycra lout. You see, I think it's the sheer embarrassment of the outfits they have to wear that makes many of these cyclists so bad-tempered. I'm sure they can hear the mocking laughter of onlookers whenever they whizz past, flashing their glistening, logo-strewn limbs. But Mr Mitchell has no such excuse. He can't plead the "I Was Wearing Embarrassing Lycra And They Laughed At Me" get-out clause, because he was wearing a suit when he verbally abused the Downing Street security guards, who wouldn't let him out of the big gate and directed him instead towards the small one. I can only conclude that size means a lot to him. And why wasn't he wearing a helmet? Presumably, he didn't want to meet the PM with "helmet hair." But his formal attire and annoying Miss Marple basket (what's in it anyway? Not humble pie, that's for sure) don't fool us at all. I'm convinced that beneath his façade lurks a Lycra lout, squirming in a bodysuit of wasp yellow. Remember The Incredible Hulk? Apparently normal guy, gets ratty, bursts out of clothes and gets nasty? No wonder Mitchell was in such a hurry to pedal off - it was before he turned green and split his trousers. Now, of course, Mitchell, the Incredible Sulk, wants us all to "move on" (which is roughly what the police asked him to do in the first place) and is fuming because we're still talking about Gategate. Not only did he offend the officers who were trying to protect his boss, and damage further the reputation of his party, but - sorry, Wiggo and Victoria - the Chief Whip punctured all the post-Olympian goodwill we felt towards cyclists, in one foul swoop.