Cycling in a skirt

I see them whenever I travel to Paris. Perfectly coiffed women in flippy skirts and capes, sailing gracefully through St Germain on a vintage bike, barely bouncing on the cobbled streets, feet clad in high heeled courts, hair (untrammeled by anything as prosaic as a bicycle helmet) wafting gracefully in the breeze. How, how do they do it? I have always made sure to cycle in shorts, leggings or nasty trackie bottoms, walking boots or trainers, or a pair of Converse at a pinch. I end every bike ride with black tyre streaks on the backs of my legs and mud on my hands, sweat on my cheeks and running down my neck. Much of this is down to the fact that I live at the bottom of a hill. Want to cycle anywhere at all? It starts with a 10 minute uphill stretch to the main road. No other way around it. Today, however, I am going to a music conference, and from there to an appointment with my GP, and the only way to get from one to the other in time, since the only bus that goes that way has a frequency akin to the Groundhog, is to bike. And I do not go to conferences in shorts, leggings or trackie bottoms. So. I spend an inordinate amount of time searching out a dress of suitable length.  Too low and it catches in the pedals or spokes. Too high and my backside is public property. Too flippy and a British breeze will compromise my unmodellesque thighs. Too straight and my legs will lock, sending me straight over the handlebars at the first turn. I finally turn up a Gap beach dress, stretchy enough to manipulate, finishing an inch below the knee, tuckable under the bottom without ruining its shape, sufficiently jaunty to channel a sartorial look, and exactly the same colour of blue as my bicycle helmet, which I will be wearing, Parisian chic or no Parisian chic. I try a practice climb on to my bike while in the hall of my house, to hone a dignified mount. That mastered, I attach the basket to the front, pop in my cute yellow shoulder bag, and I cycle off, heart palpitating. As I cycle I have a dire need to check my reflection in shop windows. How high has the dress ridden up? Can I look any more nerdy with a helmet on my head? Never has it been more difficult to focus on the road. But I do, and nobody wolf whistles, which is frankly a relief, and nobody jeers either, which is also a relief (interestingly, I get quite a lot of both when I cycle in my shorts, which are large and turquoise and profoundly Unsexy). I arrive insouciantly at the conference, dismount slightly clumsily but nobody appears to notice, wheel it round to the bike rack feeling, oooh, so....Eco...throw my shoulder bag over my arm, grab my conference folder, and walk into the hall. Feeling very, very Parisan. So that is how it is done. Right. It's back to the Gap for loads more of those dresses. Well I cannot wear the same one tomorrow. It's drenched in cycle sweat.