How long do you need to be a cyclist before you can claim the high moral ground? I'm at about four weeks, and can feel a distinct superiority complex creeping into my road use.
Last night, after many hours in the library, my route home was temporarily blocked by a london cabbie who wanted to turn across my path. He saw me late, braked appropriately, but still his bonnet blocked my way. Though I was in no danger, I found myself waving a fist at him. In body language I was trying to convey "you buffoon, can't you see a three-pronged flashing halogen - not only do you endanger my precious life with your blindness, you insult my people, the global carbon neutralising corp - we are the future and you are a relic." I think he got the message. He stopped, rolled down his window and in an unexpectedly feminine voice said "orite ma'e, don't get carried away now."
Then this morning, I was holding my own in the Bloomsbury bustle. A delivery van changed lanes and ate up the thin sliver of bitumen with my name on it. Once forgiven, but when he repeated the act at the next lights, I theatrically removed my bike from the road, looking around to see who had witnessed this travesty. The bus driver behind, gave me a world weary shrug. Direct action required. So I rolled through the gridlock to Mr deliveryman, and knocked on his passenger window (no fist this time). I gesticulated feverishly toward my precious sliver of road with a "wherethehelldidyouthinkIwasgoingtogoyouninkunpoop" expression on my face. He saw a man waving angrily. He honked his horn to say "you cycling vermin, you have no place on this road - I got a two wives and six kids to feed and if I don't deliver this truckload of potata crisps by 9 my boss'll have my balls for breakfast." I heard only honk. I rode onward to school, leaving him traffic-bound in my wake.
Somehow, the exchange was good for us both. I was exhilarated by my act of davidian defiance in the face of his goliathan road manners and started dreaming up grandiose schemes for public expenditure on inviolable cycleways (perhaps elevated like monorails). He, satisfied to have clearly made his rebuttal, and gagging for a bacon sandwich.
Last night, after many hours in the library, my route home was temporarily blocked by a london cabbie who wanted to turn across my path. He saw me late, braked appropriately, but still his bonnet blocked my way. Though I was in no danger, I found myself waving a fist at him. In body language I was trying to convey "you buffoon, can't you see a three-pronged flashing halogen - not only do you endanger my precious life with your blindness, you insult my people, the global carbon neutralising corp - we are the future and you are a relic." I think he got the message. He stopped, rolled down his window and in an unexpectedly feminine voice said "orite ma'e, don't get carried away now."
Then this morning, I was holding my own in the Bloomsbury bustle. A delivery van changed lanes and ate up the thin sliver of bitumen with my name on it. Once forgiven, but when he repeated the act at the next lights, I theatrically removed my bike from the road, looking around to see who had witnessed this travesty. The bus driver behind, gave me a world weary shrug. Direct action required. So I rolled through the gridlock to Mr deliveryman, and knocked on his passenger window (no fist this time). I gesticulated feverishly toward my precious sliver of road with a "wherethehelldidyouthinkIwasgoingtogoyouninkunpoop" expression on my face. He saw a man waving angrily. He honked his horn to say "you cycling vermin, you have no place on this road - I got a two wives and six kids to feed and if I don't deliver this truckload of potata crisps by 9 my boss'll have my balls for breakfast." I heard only honk. I rode onward to school, leaving him traffic-bound in my wake.
Somehow, the exchange was good for us both. I was exhilarated by my act of davidian defiance in the face of his goliathan road manners and started dreaming up grandiose schemes for public expenditure on inviolable cycleways (perhaps elevated like monorails). He, satisfied to have clearly made his rebuttal, and gagging for a bacon sandwich.
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