I am not one of those who believe that God made the highways solely in order for motorists to inherit the earth. But any milk of human kindness flowing through my veins curdles when I am driving on the Embankment during the early morning rush hour. I have to make the big sacrifice of not listening to Nick Ferrari’s breakfast show, since it requires total concentration and nerves of steel to avoid the hordes of cyclists coming at me from all angles.
Top-gear city cyclists are a law unto themselves. They’re a hardcore bunch — the very antithesis of a benevolent Boris or those daffy Mrs Tiggy-Winkle handwoven folk who choose to cycle only when the sun is shining and they’ve bought something pretty to put in their baskets. City types are not bumbling about on their bikes merely for fun. They’re going hell for leather and, like most people on the road, possess a deeply competitive streak. Obviously they have every right to cycle to work, just as we motorists (still) have the right to drive, yet road-sharing on this particular stretch is rife with danger. I know many of we car-owners are guilty of driving with the poop-poop arrogance of a Mr Toad, but two-wheeled tyrants can be every bit as bad. I’ve witnessed some of these louche Lords of the Lycra behaving like schizophrenic eco-warriors. One minute they’re compliant, staying faithful to the Highway Code; the next they’re acting as though they have the personal protection of an armour-plated Hummer. They are inconsistent, which is worryingly confusing. I may appear to be protected sitting in the driving seat, but I can assure you my position doesn’t make me feel remotely confident. I’m acutely aware of their fragile vulnerability.
However, many cyclists seem to execute manoeuvres with a wanton disregard for their personal safety. They appear oblivious to the danger, the rules and the etiquette of the road. They take risks secure in the knowledge that, unlike the motorist, they’re seldom going to be held accountable for their actions. Because their vehicles have no number plates or tracking systems, they’re given far greater licence to behave like swashbuckling pirates on the highways — dodging and weaving, jumping red lights, leaning up against cars and cutting across lanes.
Only last week I had to slam on my brakes in order to avoid hitting a cyclist who silently, speedily and without any warning came at me from a sidestreet. He had one hand on the handlebars, his helmeted head was down and he was talking on his mobile. He was completely unrepentant and rode off without a backward glance. A second cyclist slammed my mirror with his fist in what I can only assume was an act of solidarity. It was scary.
I know it’s deeply unpopular to voice an opinion against any form of green transport that cuts carbon emissions, and the burden of responsibility must ultimately lie with the motorist, but I live in fear that one day I’ll be charged with and convicted of taking part in an assisted mobile suicide.