Wednesday 17 February 2016

Road Rage

For audio click here 
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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