These days, as a professional cyclist - yes, getting paid to ride my bike as glamorously as humanly possible under the sweaty or wet or freezing conditions - I explore the meatpacking district, where cobblestones and lard-slicked sidewalks abut slick and sleek boutiques.

Moustachioed men in bloodstained coveralls walk by fashion shoots where emaciated models teeter on highheels in front of clicking cameras and obsessed assistants.

There's a Banksy piece on a wall - a man in a suit, bent down to press a plunger, blowing up a rat in the distance.

Today, I hope I will be warm enough.