I fell off my bike yesterday.
I didn’t hurt myself too badly. I landed on my shoulder mostly. It’s a bit bruised and sore, and I needed help getting undressed last night, but today I’m much better. Also, my helmet glanced of a piece of discarded concrete. That could have ended badly. Wear your helmets…
The most annoying thing about the whole sketch was that three cars passed me while I was sprawled in the grass verge, trying to untangle my legs from the frame, and not one of them stopped to ask if I was ok. One of them even stared at me through his open window, but not even a, “you ok, pal?”
First of all, yes, #notAllMotorists. I know. Oddly enough, in the great mythical war between cyclists and motorists, we seem to forget that a significant percentage of cyclists also own cars. I do. I drive more than I cycle. So this bizarre dichotomy constructed by z-list news outlets and soshul meeja, is mostly bollocks.
So, yeah #notAllMotorists. Most of the automotive pilots that pass me do so respectfully, at a reasonable distance, most of the time. This of course tends to lower counts when the road is fast and narrow. In the choice between applying pressure to the brake pedal and mincing a fat bloke against a wall, I often lose. Quite a lot of the time, motorists pass too close. Not dangerously so, assuming the cyclist travels in a straight line, but close. The assumption that a cyclist travels in a straight line however, is wrong. I’m dodging in and out, avoiding potholes that could throw me from my steed, broken glass, discarded fast food packaging, nappies, shredded truck tyres, lengths of fencing wire come loose, deadfall branches, etc. All the close-passing motorist is really doing is reducing the margin of error to something uncomfortable.
Then there’s the impatient bastard. He or she are incensed that they have to wait behind me for perhaps half a minute, doing ten miles an hour slower than the speed limit until they can pass. They drop a gear in their luxury twat-wagon and roar past, inches or less from belting my handlebars with their wing mirror. Does it make your little willy stand up, scaring the silly fat cyclist forced into his lycra like a condom full of dough? You great wet shit.
This happened on the way home by the way. It wouldn’t be the first time, it won’t be the last. I’ve been knocked off my bike four times over the years. Twice by luxury cockmobiles clipping my handlebars, once by a convertible Mercedes squashing me against a van, and once by one of those German fake-Minis pulling out on me as I was riding down a cycle lane. The Mini driver was the only one to stop, and that was so he could try and blame me. The other three just sped off. Fucking cowards.
Any way, this isn’t to be a demonising of motorists. Like I said, #notAllMotorists. I am one, and I don’t run people over either.
Just remember some people are just arseholes, whether they wear lycra or drive a Nissan SquashSquee