Picture the scene. I’m in the New Forest, riding in a bicycle race. It looks like I’m on course for a personal best, perhaps even first place. I’m well-fuelled and feeling strong. Then I hit traffic.
The road is too narrow to slip alongside the line of five or six cars in front of me. I stand on the pedals and crane my neck for a view of the holdup. There it is: a bunch of my fellow competitors, riding quite slowly, two abreast.
Nobody honked, revved or attempted a dangerous overtake. But a fair few of them must have cursed into their windscreens
Now this wasn’t exactly a race. It was a sportive, which is timed, but supposed to be non-competitive. You couldn’t get any more amateur than that. But to a middle-aged man like me, with a boy’s imagination, it was a race. No longer was I a journalist who struggles to fit in three training sessions a week and derives most of his exercise from his Brompton. I was Tom bloody Pidcock.
After a few minutes of frustration, I spotted a gap and sprinted past the line of cars on the opposite side of the road. Then I overtook the bunch of plodders and was released onto the open tarmac beyond. I gripped the drop handlebars and pumped the pedals as the wheels thrummed on. This was yellow jersey stuff, I thought, my belly wobbling slightly as I bumped over a pothole.
In the end, I came first. OK, second. I thought I had won for a couple of days until the official times were published when I discovered that some bloke called Mike had completed the course 50 seconds ahead of me. But still, in spite of the traffic delays – which in my mind cost me my victory – I’d averaged 19.6mph over the 45 miles, which was a personal best. Go me.
But it was the behaviour of the bunch of plodders that rankled. They had been having a whale of a time, showing zero awareness of the inconvenience they were causing to the other road users. To be fair to the motorists, they were all extremely patient. Nobody honked, revved or attempted a dangerous overtake. But a fair few of them must have cursed into their windscreens. And why shouldn’t they? Would it have been so bad for the racers to have dropped into single file to let them pass?
Most cyclists are wonderful people, but some of them can be deeply inconsiderate. I fear the latest revamp of the Highway Code may have encouraged this by allowing riders to occupy the middle of the road, permitting them to position themselves two abreast, and giving them licence to ignore cycle lanes if they so wish.
It’s obviously a good idea to keep cyclists safe. But when they abuse those rules to hog the road and treat motorists with disdain, the result is a pressure cooker on four wheels. There’s no more dangerous driver than a furious driver. That’s what worries me.
The bit I can’t understand is that plenty of cyclists are also motorists. Most must have cars in their driveways. The ones who gratuitously hold up traffic, therefore, must exist in some state of double consciousness, suspending their values as they move from one mode of transport to another.
When they’re behind the wheel, they must be as eager to get to their destination as the next driver. When they’re in the saddle, they’re happy to contribute towards a delay for everybody else. The contradiction doesn’t seem to occur to them. Their attitude moves seamlessly into a stance of two wheels good, four wheels bad.
Jumping the lights is similar. Personally, I can’t get too worked up about cyclists ignoring the finer details of the rules of the road when there’s nothing at stake. Expecting them to wait at a red light when there’s no traffic in either direction feels a bit much. But I appreciate that it winds up motorists, and for that reason alone it is probably unwise.
Either way, one conclusion is indisputable. Cyclists rightly demand that motorists drive with care and consideration. But if the favour isn’t returned, the enmity only grows. If we want to reach a state of harmony between two wheels and four, this must be a two-way street.
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