It always seems to be the cautious ones who cause me trouble.
Following along behind, trying to figure out why they're driving so slowly, there are no hazards right now, other than them and I. Are they about to pull in? Are they waiting for me to pass? All the while my patience is growing thinner.
This is the city, domain of hurried taxis, white van men, and oblivious shoppers. This is no place for a country drive. One must be assertive, anticipate the next move, make your own space. This is a land where caution and courtesy cause confusion.
They've had their space, it's time to make a move. They'll go around the waiting van and I'll go around them. Plenty of time, more than enough space, no traffic coming the other way.
Their overdeveloped sense of caution kicks in again, and bites me in the ass.
The country driver stops for the van who has already stopped for them.
I don't stop or turn fast enough.
It's one of those slow motion moments that we dread but relish when they occur. Savouring every surprisingly clear and lucid thought as it passes. Am I sure there was no traffic coming, better get up and out of the way. I'm already unclipped, that's surprising but convenient. That was a familiar movement, oh yeah, polo crashes, roll with it. My fault. All before fully hitting the ground.
Jump up and straighten out myself and the bike.
Yep, I'm OK.
