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When the Cyclemas Tree began rolling, Olivia ran back to its empty site and placed a wreath made of a cycle wheel covered with plastic ivy. On cue, a laser-sharp winter sun banished the hail and set the glo-brite vests, the hard hats, and the Cyclemas Tree itself ablaze. And from this heavenly light, two angels appeared in the form of two police constables from the Thames Valley Police Cycle Unit.
The funeral procession, a dignified and quiet procession, seemed to inspire the police cyclists, who offere to escort us through the busy streets. Oxford was looking its very golden best, setting off the junky chaos of the Cyclemas Tree as it gently rolled past the austere facades of Beaumont Street’s Georgian townhouses and the brooding classical facade of the Ashmolean Museum. The pall-bearers were very much aware of the privilege that handling the tallest and heaviest human-powered vehicle in Oxford’s history bestowed, and although many motorists were inconvenienced, they showed an uncharacteristic respect for the final journey of this beloved fugitive Oxford icon.
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