Well it’s been a while since I posted but that has a lot to do with me actually getting out there and having a life rather than slaving over a hot keyboard and waffling on about the nonsense that I think about for the five or six people that bother to read this stuff. But the urge to talk bollocks is not a thing I can turn off that easily so I’ve succumbed to my keyboard’s siren song once again to bring you another slice of my inane bullshit.
As you probably know I live in Brighton, which is a fabulous place to live. But as you also probably know it’s the kind of place that eats money quicker than one of those obese Americans who scoff hundreds of hot dogs at one of those weird eating contests. Getting around town can be bloody pricey too, the bus company here charge such extortionate fares that even a hardened mafia don would blush. And having a car would cost so much that I’d have to take out a mortgage to run one around here. That or stop partaking of the excesses I’ve become accustomed to over the past decade, like smoking gold plated cigarettes and drinking saffron infused beer out of my diamond encrusted goblet in the shape of the Royal Pavilion. I can’t help it, Brighton just turns you into a ponce whether you like it or not.
As well as the usual inflated costs involved in running a car – tax, insurance, general running costs, outrageous petrol prices – you have special Brighton taxes thrown in for good measure. Nowadays it is damn near impossible to park anywhere, and I mean anywhere, without being shafted with charges. So on top of everything else it would also cost an arm and a leg to get a residents parking permit and then even if I did have a car the roads get so congested, especially in the summer, that I could walk anywhere in town quicker. Kind of defeats the object doesn’t it?
But as Brighton (& Hove) is a relatively small place geographically you can get from one end of town to the other on a bike in about half an hour tops. Suits me fine because I’ve been using a bike as my main form of transport since I was about eleven. And it affords me some exercise because if I didn’t ride my bike to get places I’d be even more of a cheese addicted fat bastard than I already am.
Brighton has cycle paths everywhere so you can move around on a bike in large parts of the city without having to brave the roads and the murderous arseholes who fly round the place in their metal boxes on wheels. Well, in theory at least. The reality is at times I’d rather chance my arm with the cars by riding on the road because the cycle paths are surprisingly dangerous places.My main route to work is pleasant enough - again in theory - because most of it runs right along the seafront. On a good day when there’s little wind and the sun’s out I think it’s probably one of the most enjoyable rides to a workplace anywhere in the country. But then the problems start. Riding on the cycle path between the two piers is a nightmare in summer thanks to the multitudes of moronic holiday makers and dodgy day trippers shambling around like Romero zombies. I swear most of them have a subconscious death wish the way they throw themselves like Lemmings into the path of oncoming bikes. I mean it’s not like the cycle path is camouflaged and difficult to spot, it’s made of different coloured tarmac, has big white lines either side of it and has bicycles painted on it at regular intervals. But still they wander onto it while shovelling their over-priced fast food and cans of coke into their faces, oblivious of the danger they’re putting themselves and cyclists in as they womble around the seafront.
You’d think dealing with the suicidal tendencies of the average tourist was bad enough but they’re nothing compared to other cyclists. And I use the term cyclist lightly when I refer to these people. Now I’m pretty good on a bike if I do say so myself, I tend to be fairly aware of what’s going on, which is probably why I haven’t crashed into a wall or one of the abundant groups of hyperactive French school kids on a jolly to Blighty. Now I’m hardly one who is a stickler for rules, especially if they’re stupid ones that can be broken to comedy effect, but I know the rules of the road, how they apply to me as a cyclist and I understand that they’re ultimately guidelines that to keep me and other people safe more than anything. I think I’m in the minority there though because many of the cyclists I encounter seem to treat the rules of the road like a black bloc twatarchist, thinking that they’re only there to keep us subjugated by The Man and should be smashed.
There are a few types of these moronic cyclists. Firstly there’s the idiots that can barely ride a bike in a straight line let alone at a speed worth riding on at. Small point for these people, if you can walk faster than you travel on your bike, do me a favour and fucking well walk and make sure you do it away from the cycle path because you probably walk like you ride; like a drunken, slow, directionless dipshit.
Then there are the infuriating Brighton types who are like the Modern Parents in Viz and think that it’s jolly funny to allow 2 year old Tarquin to ride his little bike with stabilisers on, weaving like a whirling dervish on the cycle path at 5 o’clock in the evening just as half of Brighton decide to ride home after a day’s work. And you know who’d get the blame if the little snot got run over don’t you? Of course it wouldn’t be their fault for allowing Tarquin on a busy cycle path when they can barely speak let alone ride a fucking bike.
Which deftly brings me to the next - and my most despised - type of cyclist; the ones most likely to crush little Tarquin under the gleaming wheels of their outrageously expensive bikes. These are the ones who think they’re ‘proper’ cyclists simply because they buy the most expensive kit and clothing and then think that they’re Lance fucking Armstrong. These pretend pros tear-arse down the cycle path as though they’re in the bloody Tour De France without a regard for others, causing all kinds of dangerous situations. And the most laughable thing about these pseudo cyclists is that they can be some of the worst riders imaginable. I take immense pleasure, when the path is a bit less congested, in letting them pass me and then tailing them at just the right distance so that they know I’m keeping up with them. You should see how crestfallen their little faces are when some big, bearded bloke with a shaved head wearing a Techno Sucks shirt and camo shorts just won’t piss off no matter how much they huff and puff in their ‘proper’ cyclist uniform to try to get away from me. Just because I’m not trussed up like a prize twat doesn’t mean I can’t ride a bike. Newsflash dickheads, clothing and kit do not make the cyclist, it’s all about how you ride the bike you dullards.
Before I go I want to point out one last thing that does my noodle in with some people who ride bikes. If you’re on the road and you’re approaching red traffic lights, you’re not exempt from stopping at them just because you think you’re so fucking important. Having an inflated sense of superiority won’t shield you from harm if you’re slammed into by a fast moving metal box on wheels, regardless of how indestructible you think you are. Surely cutting your journey time by six and a half seconds isn’t worth getting yourself injured or killed, is it? Then again maybe I should ignore this little point, because essentially what’s happening is the equivalent of natural selection for cyclists. And who am I to stand in the way of evolution. If these kinds of riders kill themselves by being idiots then there’ll be more room on the roads and cycle paths for me.
Then again, maybe I should just stop letting this stuff get to me and calm the fuck down a bit. That, or become CycleMan, a two wheeled vigilante who travels round in a mask and dishes out bikey justice to fools. I should probably go for the former but the latter seems like so much more fun.
