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Zen and the art of motorcycle avoidance

Space: The Final Frontier

A motorcyclist ran over my foot the other day. (Wrong scan?) It didn't really hurt, but it did remind me of my place in the scheme of things.

This happened on the Strand in London. Traffic moving as fast as paint drying. I was minding my own business about to squeeze between two queues, an ingress

Not Ingres. Note also the lack of protective footwear.

insufficiently generous to admit anything much larger than me and my folder, when it became clear that somebody else was minding my business as well: the uneasy rider a few inches to the left of my handlebars. He protested my freedom by rolling right over my pedal pusher, which at the time was engaged in attempting to pivot me and bike into that wormhole conveniently appearing down the middle of the road. What can I say, it beckoned. It always beckons. It's not usually a problem.

With some surprise I suddenly found my foot pinned to the tarmac. It's not credible the motorcyclist couldn't see me, couldn't know what he was doing. We didn't argue about it. I waited until his wheel was on the other side of my foot, then carried the hell on, quickly finding an alternate route. A few miles later I peeled off Shimano and sock and examined the slightly buzzing extremity. It looked the same as it always does. No treadmarks as a souvenir.

I don't, as a rule, kick up a fuss. What's the point? I cycle for enjoyment. Road rage doesn't do it for me. I love traffic. Sometimes it bites. 

My place in the scheme of things? Clearly a speedbump.


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