Many of the dangers of riding a bike to work could easily be defined as harder, bigger, faster, or just simply more likely to end up alive and unbroken than me on my bike. This includes cars, vans, lorries, trees, and inconveniently placed bollards. However one major obstacle falls firmly outside this generalisation: This annoyance is people who want to cross the road.
Imagine, if you will, a road. Let’s make it quiet and tree-lined for the sake of aesthetics – I don’t want to stress anyone out with images of gritty East London and roads cutting through the desert of an industrial estate. On this road is a bike, riding peacefully along, and a pedestrian. These are our main characters in the pleasant suburban play about to be acted out. Perhaps someone will put it on in a quaint town hall with amateur actors recruited via a poster in the ivy covered post office (if post offices still exist in villages by then). Let’s make the pedestrian a lady, because that fits with the road we’re on, and in a floral summer dress, because, well, I like them. The cyclist is moving fast. He’s on his way to work afterall. He’s also quiet as the bike is maintained to a decent level and isn’t squeaking and grinding up the road. Is everything set for a romance, or will it end in tragedy and farce?
All is well so far, and continues to be as the lady steps into the road and begins to cross. This isn’t an utterly suicidal pedestrian stepping out straight in front of a cyclist who’s seemingly donned his temporary invisibility cloak, but one crossing a little in front of the bike. She hasn’t, however, yet noticed the rider. Or if she has she’s under the impression that she has plenty of time before he’ll arrive.
The rider has seen her, he was probably looking at her anyway, and is starting to judge her journey across the road. He’s decided she’ll be far enough across when he gets there to go behind. So it’ll be all ok. He’s adjusting for a smooth pass. Then the script is torn up. She notices the bike coming towards her. She panics and wobbles forward and back. The cyclist adjusts as she makes a half step towards the curb thinking he’ll go around the outside, but then she wobbles back and stops dead, caught in the glare of the oncoming bike, perhaps dazzled by a shiny bit of metal or the sun reflecting off his sunglasses. After the wobbling, the cyclist was still aiming behind her, but now, as she’s stopped, he’s going straight for her…
A final late swerve, the tranquil scene is torn apart with harsh words, and the moment’s over. They’ve missed this time, thankfully. It would have all worked out so well if she’d just kept going. The smoothness of the pass would have been delightful as the bike glided behind her. It would have been poetic.
A
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