Ever since I stored my bike, Magnolia, away for the season, I’ve been itching to go cycling. I gaze at girls on their retro roadsters, weaving through traffic with skirts billowing, and I curse my chronic bipedalism. Oh legs, you have been good and strong and taken me on a fearsome tour of London over the last six months, but you lack the smooth traction of rubber tire on asphalt. You cannot possibly provide that elegant wheel spin, controlled by the laws of pure math. Frankly, you are often clumsy and cause me to stumble over myself at inopportune times. I need to ride.

And so, yesterday afternoon, Alisa and I went to rent bikes at Gabriel’s Wharf on the South Bank. After an energy-boosting meal of falafel and pita, we paid for our hybrids (at a mere £3.50 an hour) and zoomed away. Things took an ominous turn when Alisa’s chain kept falling off, but she eventually fixed it all by herself, in a very “I am woman! Hear me roar!” moment. The rest of the four-hour ride went smoothly, except for two notable moments: 1) When I accidentally swerved in front of a double-decker bus and was nearly made into fresh American road kill and 2) When I attempted to squeeze between a row of cars and the curb, at which point I slammed into someone’s side-view mirror. It was nothing short of a miracle that kept that mirror intact. I pedaled on with great shame before the driver could berate me.

Biking in London traffic is probably one of the most exhilarating and terrifying things I’ve ever done. You have to be quick-witted and alert at all times, while still enjoying the scenery and the feeling of wind ruffling your hair like a gentle hand. In between moments of total fear, I got a glimpse of areas of London I hadn’t seen on foot before. These were the in-between spots, the gaps in the teeth of Bloomsbury streets, of Notting Hill alleyways and Westminster lanes. I can’t think of a better way to have spent one of my final days in my city: outlining it like a sculpted face, memorizing the small curve of the nose, the full lips and pointed chin.

At one point in the afternoon, we took a pause from our adventurous cycling to have a snack. We found the Cocomaya bakery on a quiet, blocked-off street in Marylebone and, locking up our bikes, ventured inside. It’s hard to pick favorites in a dynamic city like London, but I think Cocomaya is a strong contender for my all-time favorite cake shop (along with the London Review Cake Shop that I wrote about long ago). I selected a chocolate and pistachio croissant to go with my latte and took a seat at one of the two tables outside. At the other table was a well-dressed man, mid-50s and pleasantly salt-and-peppered. He struck up a conversation with Alisa and me, and that’s how we met the founder of the popular Sherlock Holmes museum. He was once, he told us, an impoverished boy living in South London. He now lives in one of the most beautiful, coveted areas of Central London and has made a fortune with his humble idea of a tribute to Holmes. I’d say he leads a pretty good life: regularly taking tea at Cocomaya, across from which lives former Prime Minister Tony Blair, down an attractive alley guarded by two or more bobbies (policemen).

After saying goodbye to our new friend John, we cycled onward to Camden. Oh legs, you served me well that day, pumping the pedals with steady mechanics, keeping me in line with the taxis and lorries and red monster buses. I survived the scary moments and am now left with only the feeling of wind in my hair, the thumping sound of rubber wheels, and the solid outline of London’s fine features emblazoned in my mind.