Friday, 17 September 2010

Another one gone...

Love my road bike. Hate fucking moronic brain-dead murdering car drivers. Over the crest of Chunal and flat out big-ringing it down into the sweeping S-bends towards Little Hayfield. Pedal down, knee out and leeeean into the lefthander, drift to the side of the overbanding, loads of traffic coming the other way. Dead people, commuters.

Then, fuck, some wanker in a silver grey Defender driving straight at me, overtaking on my side of the road, because I don't exist and he's a fuckwit and he'd rather kill me that get home 30 seconds later and of course, in his superfast Defender, he's going to scream past the 20-odd cars in front of him and reach clear, blue tarmac.

But first he wants to kill me. Tuck hard left into the wall as close as I dare, too much focus even to bother to shout at the cock. And then the moment's gone. I'm still alive, anger brushed into me by the draft of his passing. And I want to murder him. I want to slam his head repeatedly into the dry-stone wall. I want to torch his wanky, life-styling Landrover in front of his piggy eyes. But mostly I just want to kill him. Because then he'll understand.

And the funny thing is that I'm angry, but I'm not scared. I don't really know why. It's not like nearly dying on mountaineering epics. Or almost dying on my motorbike when I was 19. For some reason, I just don't care any more. Not in a bleak, despairing sort of way. Not in a 'my life's pointless and worthless' sort of way. Not in any sort of way at all really.

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