Cloche hats, deerstalkers, plus-fours, bowlers, brogues, flat caps, jodphurs, vests, deeply entertaining knee socks, and not least, the grand herringbone- and houndstooth-weave products of the very best wool mills in the Hebrides were on parade on London’s annual Tweed Run, the very buttoned down yet exuberant rite-of-spring Saturday bike ride through London’s landmark central districts on April 18. Some hundreds of cyclists turned out in their London best.

Pictured top, a gentlemanly lift of the bowler off the noggin, while rolling no less. The message is, proper manners require acknowledgment of all who approach, a rule befitting the man and the kit.

Pictured center and right above, two more impeccably turned-out London gentlemen, jodphurs and jackets resplendent, seem perfectly kitted out for just about any hurdle their journey will throw at them. The jury’s out on whether the lead cycle’s sturdy stainless bottles lashed firmly behind the wicker picnic hamper on the handlebars contain a really good decanted bottle of claret, or brandy. But either way, judging from the excellently-waxed moustache-ends under that cyclist’s deerstalker, it seems as if no lesser libation would be possible.

For the duration of this rare sunny day’s cycling tour anyway, their unapologetic cycling message is: It’s 1916, not 2026, so get with it. What with the fighting now simmering for the last months across T.E. Lawrence’s old World War I stomping grounds from the Arabian Peninsula on up through Tehran to Beirut, they have a serious point.

Male peacockery in London comes in many delightful forms, it’s a dressy ol’ town and a funny one, but when the chips are down on an invitational day such as the Tweed Run, the “breeks” or “plus fours” (so called because the pant leg is often tailored to land four inches below the knee) and the (tassled) knee socks and come out of the closet. In the shot above, the check and the stripe are left to the peacocks’ choice, as is the proper footwear, but the emphasis here is on something brown and sturdy, a solid pair of well-laced jodphur or chukka boots, or in this instance well-broken-in oxfords on the right, all exude the proper “got these from Grandfather, who got them from Mr. Lobb” air.

A cornucopia of style points goes to this lady nearing St. James’s Park for her fine tartan skirt, grey argyll-checked cardigan, her sporty white short socks, her amazing flat cap, and for her unapologetic tartan picnic blanket (?) or maybe it’s a second skirt (?) — your guess now — lashed to the back of her skirt to prevent the encroach of any sort of seasonal London chill-creep on the posterior. Hey, that’s practical! That she’s bearing a glorious basket of spring blooms only adds to the jauntiness of the profile. Her companion’s resolute goatee and his tam o’ shanter screams Scotland, and that’s as it should be.