Thought I'd start this, given the current interest in cycling in PFM, for self and others to record the daily incidents that make cycling both interesting - and dangerous.
Quick summary of this week:
Monday
Pulled out 20 cms to avoid the raised manhole that causes my bike to jump 6 coms in the air. Had checked that no-one was behind me, but the sudden blare of horns and roar of a Maserati driven by someone to whom speed limits did not apply - Monaco plates, inevitably - told me I'd miscalculated the speed. Wobbled slightly as the car passed, possibly more because I was shaking my fist at the driver than the wind tunnel effect.
Felt quite sheepish when had to pass him at the next lights, but the compulsory blonde had his undivided attention.
Sunday
Peloton day. By 9 the road was crowded with cyclists from the many clubs round here. Average age is about seventy, and they hit a cracking pace on the flat.
A largish peloton of 15 or so OAPs swept past me on their superlite Time, Trek and Scott machines as I laboured into the headwind on the trusty Bianchi. They disappeared into the distance, leaving only the authentic cyclist, whom I had come across several times before, ahead. He's the classic cyclist, grizzled since birth, unfussed by cadence, old blue jacket and jeans, knees pointing resolutely outwards to the sea on one side and railway line on the other. I passed him, of course, but couldn't help noticing his slow and steady style was still good for 18 kph.
Caught up with the peloton on the hill. It's actually not a hill, but where the road dips down to go under the railway line, giving a sharpish rise of 200 metres or so. That was enough for the peloton. Age and last night's wine will out.
On the way back chickened out at the roundabout, dismounted and used the pedestrian crossing. Still mindful of the near fatal collision the week before, when I had to throw the bike into a violent swerve, dropping the bike to avoid contact with the Citroen in too much of a hurry to give way.
Quick summary of this week:
Monday
Pulled out 20 cms to avoid the raised manhole that causes my bike to jump 6 coms in the air. Had checked that no-one was behind me, but the sudden blare of horns and roar of a Maserati driven by someone to whom speed limits did not apply - Monaco plates, inevitably - told me I'd miscalculated the speed. Wobbled slightly as the car passed, possibly more because I was shaking my fist at the driver than the wind tunnel effect.
Felt quite sheepish when had to pass him at the next lights, but the compulsory blonde had his undivided attention.
Sunday
Peloton day. By 9 the road was crowded with cyclists from the many clubs round here. Average age is about seventy, and they hit a cracking pace on the flat.
A largish peloton of 15 or so OAPs swept past me on their superlite Time, Trek and Scott machines as I laboured into the headwind on the trusty Bianchi. They disappeared into the distance, leaving only the authentic cyclist, whom I had come across several times before, ahead. He's the classic cyclist, grizzled since birth, unfussed by cadence, old blue jacket and jeans, knees pointing resolutely outwards to the sea on one side and railway line on the other. I passed him, of course, but couldn't help noticing his slow and steady style was still good for 18 kph.
Caught up with the peloton on the hill. It's actually not a hill, but where the road dips down to go under the railway line, giving a sharpish rise of 200 metres or so. That was enough for the peloton. Age and last night's wine will out.
On the way back chickened out at the roundabout, dismounted and used the pedestrian crossing. Still mindful of the near fatal collision the week before, when I had to throw the bike into a violent swerve, dropping the bike to avoid contact with the Citroen in too much of a hurry to give way.