Yep. It was only a matter of time. Die hard anti paraphernalia dons high viz vest, and, some weeks later, walks into Bike Trax and purchases the first helmet that fits. Is this based on evidence? No. Is this based on peer pressure? Absolutely not. An age thing? Naw. The nudge factor? Possibly. Read the transcript of a coroner's inquest into a cycle death. Cyclist was wearing all the kit. Tragically it didn't help her. But the vest gives me a bit of confidence. Especially on country roads.
Country roads. Far worse than the city. The drivers. Not the roads. Not all the drivers of course. But enough of them. Is there nowt to do but hurtle up and down frightening the living daylights out of the innocents on two self propelled wheels?
A gentle run out to the Big Tent in Falkland should have been charming. And some of it was. But a lot of it wasn't. Women screaming abuse out of back windows. Overtaking manoeuvres at exactly the wrong moment leaving me with inches to spare and aching palms from the ridiculously tight grip. OK. I'm more anxious than most people. I confess to a little terror. But country roads don't usually have pavements to hop onto. There's nothing to do but hang on and curse. And shed an angry tear when composure is regained a few moments later.
Is it getting easier? Sometimes. But then again, not really. Stronger legs mean further distances. More independence. Can even cycle to the hospital now (yes, the physio continues) although there is no safe off road route that doesn't involve getting off and wheeling the bike down a series of steps. This exacerbates my fury. Which in turn jabs at my fear. The trip to work remains a sequence of minor horrors - interspersed with mad moments of victory (oh my god I'm still alive!). Despite this I have discovered there are people even more afraid than me. Which is why I now find myself in the absurd position of buddying novice cyclists into work (on the pavement of course). It doesn't get much more ironic than that.
Country roads. Far worse than the city. The drivers. Not the roads. Not all the drivers of course. But enough of them. Is there nowt to do but hurtle up and down frightening the living daylights out of the innocents on two self propelled wheels?
A gentle run out to the Big Tent in Falkland should have been charming. And some of it was. But a lot of it wasn't. Women screaming abuse out of back windows. Overtaking manoeuvres at exactly the wrong moment leaving me with inches to spare and aching palms from the ridiculously tight grip. OK. I'm more anxious than most people. I confess to a little terror. But country roads don't usually have pavements to hop onto. There's nothing to do but hang on and curse. And shed an angry tear when composure is regained a few moments later.
Is it getting easier? Sometimes. But then again, not really. Stronger legs mean further distances. More independence. Can even cycle to the hospital now (yes, the physio continues) although there is no safe off road route that doesn't involve getting off and wheeling the bike down a series of steps. This exacerbates my fury. Which in turn jabs at my fear. The trip to work remains a sequence of minor horrors - interspersed with mad moments of victory (oh my god I'm still alive!). Despite this I have discovered there are people even more afraid than me. Which is why I now find myself in the absurd position of buddying novice cyclists into work (on the pavement of course). It doesn't get much more ironic than that.
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