CSI Worcestershire!

CSI being an acronym for Common Sense Initiative, not something else you may have heard of…

They’re out to get me.

The drongos.

The thick, the stupid, the terminally unintelligent.

Pauses, breathes deeply, closes eyes, rubs hand over face, opens eyes and continues…

Vin and I went out competing today (more on that in a separate post) and on the way to the competition centre – in the lorry, natch – we had to use a three-lane stretch of road.

That’s three lanes moving in the same direction; just thought I should add that for the sake of clarity.

That piece of road isn’t a motorway, it’s actually a massively large roundabout.

Each lane is very clearly marked by white lines – and my lorry fills the width marked out for any one lane.

I entered this section of roadway and stayed in the near-side lane – I wanted to take the second exit – and the markings on the road clearly indicate that if one wants the second exit, one should use the near-side lane.

What I’m trying to establish here is that I was in the correct lane, moving in the correct direction and was geared up to leave the roundabout at the correct exit.

Except…

A hundred yards before my exit there was a cyclist in my lane.

He was clad in all the gear, the blue Tour De France-type sponsored, logo’d, lycra top, the black lycra leggings, the hat, the silly sunglasses.

Can you guess how fast he was going?

I bet you can’t – so I’ll tell you.

He wasn’t moving.

He was stationary with his foot on the kerb, but his bike (and therefore his body – as he was sitting on the saddle) in my lane.

My fucking lane dude!

I tried to drive around him but in the lane next to me – keeping perfect station as if they were my wingmen – were an Audi and behind that a Ford.

I edged as close to the Audi as I could and managed to squeeze the lorry through the gap that the inconsiderately-stupid-yet-sportily-clad-cyclist had left.

And, surprisingly, we did squeeze through without either damaging the Audi or damaging the cyclist.

But in my mirror I saw the cyclist throw his hands up in anger at how close I’d come to him; he gesticulated angrily at me because he’d (presumably) perceived my driving to be a threat to his physical proximity.

I’m tempted to say that if he didn’t want his physical proximity threatened then he shouldn’t have stopped in a busy road.

I’m tempted to say that perhaps the next time he wants to stop and admire the view he might consider getting off the bicycle and moving it – and himself – to the more than adequate pavement three inches on the other side of the kerbstone on which he was resting his foot.

I’m tempted to say that given the stopping distance of the average 10-ton HGV (it’s what I drive) in normal conditions and then multiplying that by the stopping distance of a 10-ton HGV when there’s over half a ton of horse standing behind the partition, it would perhaps have been wiser not to stop in that lane – especially given that vehicles of all shapes, sizes and stopping distances are going to use it.

But I’m not going to say any of these things.

So…

I’m just going to say this.

To the cyclist who was so angry that my horsebox got so close to him on the roundabout between Worcester and Pershore on Sunday morning, a message:

If you do that again mate I’m not even going to try to avoid you. You’re roadkill waiting to happen and I feel sorry that I might damage your bike but look on the bright side; I’d be thinning out the gene pool and doing the rest of mankind a favour. Your rank stupidity and immeasurable inconsideration puts you at the low-end of humanity. You really don’t own the road. Perhaps you should consider taking an IQ test? And while you’re thinking of things to do… Go and get some fucking insurance!

There.

I feel better now.

B.