The cyclist banged on the window of the pick-up truck.
“Watch where you’re fucking going you wanker!” He yelled.
The truck had, in his opinion, just slightly swerved into the cycle lane,
nearly but not quite, sending the bike rider sprawling.
The lights turned green and the burgundy truck sped off
ignoring the cyclist’s demands for retribution. But Cardiff roads at rush hour
don’t really allow for escape and the cyclist was lean and mean and could pedal
like the wind. He soon caught up with the truck at the next set of lights.
He banged on the window again, determined to get a response
from the driver.
“Look at me!” he yelled. “See me!” He banged window again
with his fist. The driver stared straight ahead not wishing to enter into a
debate about the quality of his driving. But the cyclist wasn’t giving up. Obviously
the tight Lycra was holding in some pent up frustrations.
The driver slowly lowered the window.
“Sorry mate but you swerved,” he said. But hey no harm
done.”
“I swerved? You could have bloody killed me you moron.” The
lights turned green and the truck pulled away with the cyclist giving chase. At
the next lights it was touch and go whether the truck could get through. If he
did, he’d lose the cyclist for good. The car in front went through on amber,
could he make it? No, he couldn’t risk it; it was red. He pulled up and saw in
his wing mirror the cyclist about 30 seconds behind.
The rider banged on the window again still not finished with
the driver.
“Me and you are going to fall out!” The Lycra-clad man
yelled. “You don’t want to fall out with me.”
The window wound down again.
“Just fuck off and grow up,” the driver said, before letting
the window roll back up.
Bang, bang, bang, the cyclist thumped the window. Bang. “Get
out the car and let’s settle this like men.” He cried. The lights changed but
the burgundy van didn’t move. Inside the driver was counting to ten. That is
what his anger management counsellor had told him to do. Count to ten then turn
the other cheek. He wouldn’t let this weedy cyclist win. Eight, Nine, Ten. Horns blared behind him. He
could see the cyclist staring at him.
“What’s wrong? Are you a coward? Hiding in your tin box.
Safe in your four by four.”
The driver looked at the green light and looked at the
scrawny cyclist. “Sorry,” he said to himself more than anyone else, and then
hoisted his six foot four inch frame slowly out of the car.
“What did you say about us not wanting to fall out?” he
boomed and rolled his sleeves up revealing his muscles. He walked slowly around
the back of his truck towards where the cyclist was, or more accurately to
where he had been. As soon as he’d seen the size of the driver he’d antagonised,
the rider had taken advantage of the green light and pedalled off as fast as
his little legs could carry him.
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