A killer within
I don’t care what the stats say, killing is killing. Intent is optional.
Behind the wheel a hasty mist descends and their brains dissolve.
Beautiful day, ugly stuff
Outside Rosyth there’s a back road narrow and undulating enough to make a milkshake if a driver were so inclined.
Anyone who knows me tells me I carry it well … my weight that is. I wrap up in bright yellow to ensure I’m seen. So there I am 50 yards from the top of a steep slope. My knees transmitting thigh-power to the pedals—muscles questioning the need for pace. A car slows behind me. The crunching of gravel tells me the deceleration is fierce.
A couple of stones rattle past me. The blipping throttle can’t make me accelerate—I’m going fast as I can—uphill.
The crown of the hill draws near. A red van is coming. Behind, the revving increases and, with a chirping spray of gravel, my follower jumps the gun, unable to see. Beside me he/she realises his/her mistake—too late—he/she brakes hard and swerves much too near and into my space. Lungs bursting, I slam on the anchors—even though I’m climbing.
‘f***** …’ One word croaks out, I’m too breathless to get the profanities out. Imagine, not even the satisfaction of bellowing a mouthful after the *******.
The unknown driver charges past my biking buddy. Forty yards later we’re on our quiet cycle route.
Again? But of course
Twenty minutes later it happens again on a series of tight bends and over double white lines. A little red Fiat doesn’t bother to brake. He/she charges past me, gets close to a head-on with a car coming the other way. My bike-buddy wobbles as the idiot swerves past him.
I think I’ll get a helmet cam. I hear you can get tough ones that’ll survive an owners transition to road-kill. Apart from the two morons, I had a great cycle.
Not to mention the café and carry on at half time.