Two miles from home. The lane up to Aldwark. A strip of tarmac less than three metres wide. A strip of tarmac that goes nowhere. Aldwark hasn't been on a through route to anywhere since Ogilby drew his map in the seventeenth century, marking on it the Pipers Inne – a bygone boozer to add to the list of ones to track down in the hamlet.
A horn sounds. It sounds again. It then sounds continuously for fifteen seconds as a black BMW X5 with personalised number plates forces me off the road, before accelerating away wildly up the hill. It must've been doing about fifty miles an hour by the time it got to the blind bend. The blind bend before the farm. The blind bend before the farm where Jenny's kids frequently play outside.
Would he have acted the same way had he come up to the herd of cows that gets moved along the lane, twice daily, at a leisurely two miles an hour? Would he have acted the same way had he come up behind a farm loader carrying its round bale up the hill at eight miles an hour? So why did he behave in the way that he did why he came up behind me travelling at ten miles an hour?
Why? Because he is a self-entitled bully who believes that his wants and needs outweigh anybody else's. Who knows, he might even make it to be Prime Minister one day.
Who is this puffed-up pillock? Certainly not a local. No one in the half-dozen houses in Aldwark has an X5. No local would drive into the hamlet at that speed. And all locals would have known that about fifty yards beyond the point where the arsehole bullied his way past me there is a gateway providing sufficient room to get by.
My thoughts? Someone up for the Y Not festival who wanted to nip out from the festival site in the middle of nowhere to civilisation and get back in time to see a specific act. Tap 'civilisation' into satnav and follow it blindly. In my lifetime of cycling I've had my fair share of inane shouts from occupants of passing vehicles who presumably believe it to be 'funny' or 'entertaining'. The neanderthal who once threw a half-eaten ham cob at me probably didn't think that I looked emaciated but thought it would be 'amusing'. The cro-magnon who once threw an unopened can of Coke which hit my shoulder whilst I was time trialling on the A50 probably thought it was 'funny' too. The four lads in an open-topped BMW (now there's a coincidence) who shot me with a ball-bearing gun whilst I was in a time trial near Ranby were probably amusing themselves. There was nothing that could be considered remotely amusing about today's incident. However, I do think it would've been amusing if my pedal had been in contact with his paintwork as he accelerated away.
Rant over. Just off to buy a Fly6 and a jersey with 'Smile! You're on camera.' written on the back to enhance the Hawthorne effect. My next post is hopefully back to bygone boozers.