" … cycle path"
was all I could understand from a red-faced passenger in a black 4x4 as I sailed along the Kings Road on the seafront in Brighton yesterday evening (lovely warm evening too). Maybe he was red of face because he'd mustered up the courage to splurt an authoritative I'll-show-this-cyclist-who's-boss rant or, he was suddenly embarrassed, finding out I wasn't as he assumed, some 'young blade' hogging the Queen's highway, nor was I slowing their's or anybody else's car down for that matter. It mattered not that I was maintaining the same speed as the car in front (around 25-30mph in my estimation). Nor did it matter, that at this particular stretch of the road you can fit two cars-wide easily, and the only obsticle preventing this twat from going any faster, or at least impeding his progress was … other vehicles and red lights at pedestrian crossings. I could have instructed him in the absurdity of me cycling at that speed on a shared path with slower cyclists, mums with toddlers, runners, dog-walkers, young and older couples walking and enjoying the sunshine. But I didn't. What an arse.
"… traffic jam"
Was the last bit of shit to issue from his fat jowly gob. I was calmly trying to conjure something erudite, factual or at the very least – witty to say in reply. My brain kept coming up with "Fuck off and have a heart attack."
So I remained silent and ignored the fat slob. This happened yesterday evening, and just typing now it's difficult to just "Let it go." But I'll try.