By Katja Hofmann

Independent on Sunday, September 9, 2001
 

It is a hot summer evening, a Friday, and more than 100 Lycra-clad, pierced and tattooed cycle couriers are gathered outside the Duke of York pub on Clerkenwell Road in London. One particularly committed specimen has had the wings of Hermes, themessenger of the Greek gods, tattooed on his ankles. They are all here for one reason: to participate in or witness one of the most dangerous and illegal competitions being played out on London's street: the Alley Cats.
 

This is Mad Max meets the Tour de France. The Alley Cats are urban cycle races that take place four or five times during the summer. They started in the US and have now spread to most major cities with thriving courier communities.
 

In London the races usually start at the Duke of York, although the route changes every time. Beer flows freely while the organiser of the race takes down the names of the people who want to participate, usually 30 or more.
 

Today the race is being adjudicated by Nixon, 32, so nicknamed because of the "crafty way he handles his job". Couriers need to be crafty; they also need to be a little foolhardy. Serious injuries and even fatal accidents are a fact of life and everyparticipant of the Alley Cats knows that this race could easily be their last. The prize might only be a courier bag or T-shirt, but nevertheless everybody takes it seriously. Before Nixon gives the start signal he explains the one rule: during the raceparticipants have to stop at several patrol stops where they are given their next destination.
 

There is nothing official, or legal, about the Alley Cats. Race dates are spread by word of mouth; there are no spectators and everybody tries to keep a fairly low profile in order not to attract the police. After all, they jump red lights, go up one-waystreets and drive through pedestrian underpasses.
 

At some patrol stops the couriers have to perform tasks such as evacuating their tyres and pumping them up again. When they make it to the finishing line in a small courtyard in Clerkenwell, they are exhausted.
 

I ask Sam, a courier with the scarred knees to prove it, why he would rather stay behind in the pub. He is unequivocal: "It's completely insane. First you drink as much as you can and then you race as many red lights as you can." John, a 27-year-old whohas taken part in the Alley Cats several times, is keen that participants are not viewed as dangerous speed freaks. "I'm in total control of my bike. I know exactly what I'm doing."
 

Everybody agrees on one thing: Lance Armstrong, current Tour de France champion, would not stand a chance. "He wouldn't be able to compete with us," John boasts. "No way."