Friday’s ride was good. Wouldn’t have minded a bit more sun, I guess, but I spent ten hours in the saddle and felt better than expected, which is a good day out by any standards.
One thing did spoil it a bit, though.
Now, there were lots of good drivers. A few really great ones: a particular shout out to the Humphrey Feeds HGV driver as well as a number of car drivers, who were patient and passed with as much space as was available to them.
But then there were a few others.
It’s rare that I start to reconsider my love of riding on the road, but there were so many close passes—properly close; one of them “jolt-your-hips-left-as-the-wing-mirror-passes” close—at anything up to 60mph that the thought started to circle my mind. After 25 years on the road I’m fairly philosophical about these things, but by the final few miles my nerves were left somewhat shredded.
I really don’t want a ride to end with my wife and kids trying to dig through insurance papers because they need the money for a box to put daddy in and set fire to, all for someone’s reluctance to move their right foot.
If you can (or already do) understand that, and sympathise with that, and change, and allow just a few seconds to pass safely—a few seconds that will almost always be neutralised at the next junction anyway—then thankyou.
If you can’t, or won’t, then—sincerely—fuck you, fuck you up the arse, fuck you in your empty, thoughtless head, and fuck you again.