I raced across London to see conclusively if cycling is faster than public transport

On an average day in London, 30 million journeys are made. With more cyclists than motorists now on the road within the ‘square mile’ but public transport still dominating – 1.2bn trips were made on the Underground last year alone – it’s clear that the capital moves in many different ways, with countless different cost, safety and convenience implications. When it comes to getting from A to B, which is the smartest choice? Could cycling actually be a faster, less stressful way to navigate the Big Smoke than squeezing onto a packed Tube?

The question came up just recently over a post-work beer with CW’s lensman Richard ‘Butch’ Butcher. As we debated the city’s best mode of transport, Butch casually threw down a challenge: a race across London – me on two wheels, him relying on trains and buses. It was the perfect chance to put theory to the test.

A few weeks later, the date was set and the route mapped out. The challenge: a race from Heathrow Terminal 3 in the west to Lee Valley VeloPark in the east. Once we’d arrived at Heathrow, Butch had the simpler task – head downstairs to the Elizabeth Line, hop on a train, and ride it to Stratford before making the short walk to the VeloPark. On paper, his journey was straightforward: a 48-minute station-to-station ride. But London’s transport network isn’t always predictable, and he’d have to navigate crowds of commuters, tourists and students making the most of February half-term.

My journey was somewhat more complicated. Covering 22 miles by bike, I could theoretically make it in 60 to 70 minutes – helped by mostly flat terrain, just 300 feet of elevation and a prevailing tailwind. But London is, to state the bleeding obvious, a frantically busy place. Beating Butch would take speed, luck, and – let’s not dress it up – a touch of madness.

Placing total faith in my Garmin, I ripped so fast away from the airport that I claimed a Strava KOM on the neighbouring road tunnel. Heading into the suburbs of Hounslow and Osterley, with the Great Western Road now under my wheels, I could truly fire up my Canyon Endurace, which buzzed beautifully along a mostly well maintained cycle path. Cars next to me restricted to 20mph could only watch on with envy as I pushed hard on the pedals – no ULEZ, no diesel, no petrol. Proceeding free of charge and fast, I wondered how Butch’s journey was treating him. By now he was surely aboard a Stratford-bound tube, a thought that instinctively led me to click up a gear and drop down into a more aerodynamic position.

As I passed through Brentford then Chiswick, my speed started to suffer. It was half-term after all, the car traffic was humming with day-tripping families. Here I was, a minnow snared amid people carriers and 4x4s the size of basking sharks. Fortunately, London now boasts more than 400 kilometres’ worth of cyclepaths – generally not segregated from traffic, but on this part of the journey, they were well maintained and well marked. It’s easy to get lost in the noise of the big city, it becomes overwhelming. But if you take a mental step back and assess the situation with a clear head, it becomes less daunting. There’s a 20mph speed limit, there’s a network of paths for the exclusive use of bicycle riders – meaning it might even be safer than riding my local roads in Berkshire and Hampshire. It’s hard to compare the risks, but bear in mind that, between 2019 and 2023, 58% of cycle fatalities occurred on rural roads despite those roads accounting for only 31% of traffic. Last year, 10 cyclists were killed on London’s roads – two more than in 2023 (of a total 87 fatalities nationwide), but still significantly down on the 2010-2014 baseline of 13 per year.

The closer you get to the centre of London – by now I had bisected Hammersmith and was forging a fast path towards Kensington – the day-tripping vehicles were thinning out. Although now a new set of obstacles began to emerge: double decker buses became the bain of my existence. They stop, they go, they stop, they go, and then they just stop. A mile later, Kensington and Hyde Park were delightfully bus-free, and I made time amid the chatter of parakeets and the multi-lingual patter of backpackers enjoying an uncharacteristically warm February day. The sun washed a long winter from my face – I began to feel free, optimistic, and almost forgetful of the task at hand. No, cycling across London isn’t likely to feature on any bucket lists, but beholding famous monuments – the Royal Albert Hall to my right, Kensington Gardens to my left – it was hard not to be dazzled. The upbeat moment soon passed, however, as I was now entering Trafalgar Square – and immediately started hating everything again.

This was the busiest section so far: I literally had to stop cycling. Every direction I turned, a wall of people stood barring the way. I should’ve spent more time planning the route. Never mind that this was the shortest route, as the crow flies, I’d forgotten to factor in the 21 million tourists that visit London each year – most of them flocking to Trafalgar Square, evidently.

Once again, a bike path came to my rescue. This one, adjacent to the river, is a fast-rolling gem. I formed an aero tuck as best as my ample midriff would allow and dropped a wattbomb towards the East End. After quickly checking his location on Whatsapp, I was amazed to see that Butch and I were level pegging. He was in Farringdon with just two stops left until Stratford. I made a mockery of the Moorgate traffic, shot through Shoreditch and rode like a bat out of Bethnal Green towards Victoria Park – the last expanse of the capital’s greenery I’d traverse today.

The way London transitions through an architectural metamorphosis from side to side is seamless but stark. From the middle-class wealth and detached homes with double garages in the west, the tall, glass office blocks and immaculately preserved Gothic buildings of the city centre, to the worryingly well-populated cardboard cities in Blackfriars, and the council estates and tower blocks silhouetted against the East End’s skyline. The sights, the sounds, the aromas of a place become so much more tangible on a bicycle than in a bus or in a car – and are completely missed on the Tube.

But today was not about scenery – could I prove cycling was also the fastest option? I feared Butch would already be there, poised to triumphantly shove his Oyster Card in my face: “Read it and weep, Lycra Boy,” he’d say, and demand an ale at the closest pub. I couldn’t let it happen. I skirted West Ham’s home ground at speed – my heart rate now high, pushing into Zone 5 territory. I arrived at the Velodrome. Butch wasn’t there.

I checked my Garmin. It had taken me an hour and 40 minutes to ride what transpired to be 25 miles, across one of the busiest cities in the world – a plucky 15mph. According to TFL, it should’ve taken Butch 10 minutes less. Had he been and gone? Hang on, I recognised that gait, and that jacket, and those trainers. Butch was shuffling towards me from the direction of the Tube station. I won? I won! He grinned. We bumped fists. “Yes, you won, you spawny sod,” he said, before launching into excuses about his slow progress.

Would I ride in London again? Unless Butch ups the ante and starts talking cold hard cash, no, probably not. Is this because I felt unsafe? Put it this way, I wouldn’t be happy for my daughters to ride bikes in London – but then nor would I be happy if they rode bikes in rural Hampshire. I felt not greatly more at risk traversing the capital than I do riding down to the end of my road on the Hants/Berks border.

As cyclists, we sadly have to draw up a risk assessment every time we ride. Every time I think I’ve plotted a ‘safe’ route, I’m hit with an anomaly – a close-pass here, a hidden pothole there. In London, you’re not expecting a relaxing ride – you’re expecting close passes, but the cycle paths I rode on were blemish-free. If I lived in London, I would happily commute on a frequent, if not daily, basis. It’s got to be better than the Tube, right?

CW photographer Richard Butcher tells his side of the story…

Never make bets over a beer – a valuable life lesson. A convivial post-work beer initiated the debate, and the amber nectar had kicked in when Steve insisted he could beat me across London on a bike.

Brimming with confidence at the start, I tapped my Oyster card at Heathrow Terminal 3, and descended the escalator, confident of my unhindered travel ahead. Easy money, I thought, as I approached the platform and the train that would whisk me to Stratford. I wouldn’t even need to change trains. Besides, Steve was probably still faffing with his Garmin.

And then, just as I was picturing my inevitable victory, a man in a fluorescent vest burst my victorious bubble. “Problems on the westbound line, mate. You’ll have to get off at Ealing Broadway and get on the central line to Stratford.” Of course.

I stood on the platform and watched helplessly as the minutes ticked by, my lead evaporating before the race had even properly begun. The Elizabeth Line, London’s pride and joy, its futuristic answer to ‘getting nowhere fast’, had let me down at the very first hurdle.

By the time we finally moved some 20-odd minutes later, I checked my phone. Steve was already on the Chiswick High Road! I kept my composure – just about – and as soon as I reached Ealing Broadway, I leapt off like a man on a mission. That was when they arrived. Schoolchildren. Hundreds of them.

My simple commute turned into a challenge to survive as I was jostled and bumped, pushed and pulled in many different directions and I barely made it to the correct train. By the time I finally wrestled my way onto the Central Line, I was rattled, and wedged among 150 excitable children and a man with a suspiciously large suitcase.

Despite the chaos, I made good time on the Central Line, as the train whooshed along, the air thick with that signature Underground scent – a mix of warm metal, damp coats, and existential regret. I looked down at my phone again. Steve was catching me fast. Then, in a moment of true commuter incompetence, I missed Stratford. All it took was a second of distraction. So busy was I checking my phone for Steve’s GPS signal, and my pale blue dot on the map, that I forgot how many stops had preceded the very one I was at now. The doors pinged shut, I half-stood, hesitated for a fatal moment, and then watched, in horror, as Stratford disappeared behind me. I was en route to Leyton.

The train doors flung open again, and this time I bolted onto the platform, scrambling for the opposite side. I leapt onto a train heading east and stood there, fuming with no concept of how I had managed to be so inept. I had one job, I muttered to myself. Gasping, I ran through the retail park, towards the velodrome, just in time to see Steve smugly coasting towards me. “I thought you’d been and gone,” he grinned. I had – but from Leyton.

This feature originally appeared in Cycling Weekly magazine on 3rd April 2025. Subscribe now and never miss an issue.