Your leg swings over the crossbar as you guide the bicycle into its ad hoc steel nest. The ritual continues – fingers release the helmet, hands lock the frame. You spin on the ball of your feet, your pace quickens, anticipation mounts. You spot the group, all smiles and clinking glasses. Someone hands you a drink, a bespoke concoction of radiant yellow joy. Fatigue fades under the flood – a pleasant lemon Radler.