From the off, let me just state that I ride a bicycle. It allows me to get to work and back: round the guys' houses for football and occasional forays with the wife into unchartered territories (a whole blog devoted to such things will surely appear in time).
Right. Now you know that I'm not just an angry car driver. Neither am I an irate pedestrian. I'm a cyclist.
The simple task of propelling a bicycle in the right direction is pretty simple. You sit on it - legs go up and down - you steer a bit - you arrive at your destination - you get off. Job done! Or at least you'd think so, wouldn't you?
There are a certain breed of cyclist out there that have a whole different approach.
Not for them a pair of jeans and a tee-shirt. Oh no. They're dressed head to foot in Lycra.
Not for them a red light on the back. Oh no. They've got half of Blackpool Illuminations twinkling away.
Neither would they stoop to a simple headlight when they can have a flashing one that for all the world makes them look like pretend policemen.
And then, to top it all, they ride like Formula 1 motor racing drivers.
Now I'm not suggesting I'm the fittest bloke in the world (in fact, I'm pretty close to having one letter changed in the statement), but I'm only going to work for God's sake. There's no rush.
Try telling that to the lunatic "bike lane tear arses". They're all flashing lights and "look at my Lycra". They won't give way to other, more sedate cyclists: they yell abuse at car drivers (who, incidentally, are also breaking the world land speed record in order to be able to say "I bloody hate being at work"): they terrify pedestrians as they fly past like some kind of fluorescent, twinkling apparition.
But the thing that really makes me chuckle about these wannabe Chris Hoy's is the crash hat (some even have yet more lights attached - they look like a plane coming in to land at Gatwick).
I'm all for safety, but I ain't wearing half a bloody melon on my head.
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