WEEK 2: Lactic Agony, Lethal Litter and Bad Language
Broken glass. Damn stuff is everywhere but never in the same place two days running. I don't know who or what is responsible for moving it around (I refuse to subscribe to an acquaintance's Gremlins and Pixies living in the gutters theory) but it gets moved wholesale to a new and unexpected location every morning. It is also very carefully and thoughtfully distributed right across every square inch of pavement and for 2 or 3 feet into the road, so there's nothing for it... slalom! If you're good you can spot a path through this minefield as you approach and weave through it like some crazy drunk, but be careful or you'll get pulled over and done for being incapacited whilst in charge of a velocipede.
The worst time is when riding into the Sun. The thousands of tiny fragments turn into one shimmering mass against the grey of the tarmac and as you approach, huge shards and bottle ends materialise out of the glare like vicious, transparent icebergs looming through a North Atlantic fog.
In 2 weeks my joints have aged 2 decades. I may have creaked before, but now I groan too. These constant headwinds are a killer. I'm considering writing a stiff complaint to the Met Office. Also, my knees are considering Union action if their demands are not met. I think it'll go down to a strike because I can't find anywhere that will rent me half a dozen scantily clad harem girls with a knee fetish.
Now the juicy bit. I got a death threat today! Some meaty, bald headed bloke in one of those muscle man T shirts that are intentionally 2 sizes too small for your bulging manly physique was walking along the pavement with his wife. They were between me and a cycle lane which starts about 20 yards further on. I approached slowly from behind and enquired as to whether I might pass by. Honest, I was polite. I've seen some cyclists who aren't. This guy turns round and lets fly with a torrent of verbal abuse. In between repeats of "f**king" and "f**ker" and "f**k you" he suggests that I might use the cycle path on the opposite (left hand) side of the road. Unfortunately, this is across busy traffic and going in the wrong direction. He is unsympathetic when I point out that I'm heading for the other lane. His wife restrains him. Then, mouthy git that I am, I wish him a nice weekend. So he comes back at me, red in the face, screaming, bulging his manly muscles Hulk-like under his tiny T shirt and shouting that he'll kill me. Wife leaps in front and tries to head him off. I don't hang around to see if she's successful and take advantage of a lucky break in the traffic to leg it across the road.
Now, this was nothing to write home about, you'll agree. I hear worse for even pettier reasons, mostly from gobby youths, but as a cyclist, having someone suggest they're going to run you down next time they see you strikes a nerve. If those damn Mersey Waste container lorries don't get me, maybe this nutter will!
And tomorrow... the excitement continues!
The worst time is when riding into the Sun. The thousands of tiny fragments turn into one shimmering mass against the grey of the tarmac and as you approach, huge shards and bottle ends materialise out of the glare like vicious, transparent icebergs looming through a North Atlantic fog.
In 2 weeks my joints have aged 2 decades. I may have creaked before, but now I groan too. These constant headwinds are a killer. I'm considering writing a stiff complaint to the Met Office. Also, my knees are considering Union action if their demands are not met. I think it'll go down to a strike because I can't find anywhere that will rent me half a dozen scantily clad harem girls with a knee fetish.
Now the juicy bit. I got a death threat today! Some meaty, bald headed bloke in one of those muscle man T shirts that are intentionally 2 sizes too small for your bulging manly physique was walking along the pavement with his wife. They were between me and a cycle lane which starts about 20 yards further on. I approached slowly from behind and enquired as to whether I might pass by. Honest, I was polite. I've seen some cyclists who aren't. This guy turns round and lets fly with a torrent of verbal abuse. In between repeats of "f**king" and "f**ker" and "f**k you" he suggests that I might use the cycle path on the opposite (left hand) side of the road. Unfortunately, this is across busy traffic and going in the wrong direction. He is unsympathetic when I point out that I'm heading for the other lane. His wife restrains him. Then, mouthy git that I am, I wish him a nice weekend. So he comes back at me, red in the face, screaming, bulging his manly muscles Hulk-like under his tiny T shirt and shouting that he'll kill me. Wife leaps in front and tries to head him off. I don't hang around to see if she's successful and take advantage of a lucky break in the traffic to leg it across the road.
Now, this was nothing to write home about, you'll agree. I hear worse for even pettier reasons, mostly from gobby youths, but as a cyclist, having someone suggest they're going to run you down next time they see you strikes a nerve. If those damn Mersey Waste container lorries don't get me, maybe this nutter will!
And tomorrow... the excitement continues!
posted by Mike Ranson at 8:02 pm
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home