About seventeen minutes into my ride yesterday afternoon, two-hundred yards after I dropped my chain while shifting down into my small chainring (I need to get that derailleur tuned), ninety seconds into the final climb on Iron Point Road, I was passed at speed by a knobjacket in a clown-red Dodge pick-up truck. Now, IPR has a very generous bike lane, but it also has three massive lanes for traffic on a relatively un-busy stretch. But, given his torque and horsepower, and his geographical options, Old Crotchflaps decided to hum past me, hugging the white line while gunning his engine.
It was moist on the road from the ample rainfall, so I caught a little of his spray, which doesn’t bother me, since I don’t have mudguards anyway, but it does illustrate just how fucking close he was. “Arse doctor”, I thought to myself as I re-focused my attention on beating Michael’s very impressive best time for the ascent (sorry Mike), and by the time I crested the rise I had pretty much forgotten all about Mr Spleensucker.
But apparently he wasn’t finished with me. About seven and a half minutes later, as I rolled down Sophia Parkway, passed by eight or nine perfectly charming drivers who afforded me several acres of clear space as they slowed down to overtake, who should come up on my left flank but King Wankshaft in his lipstick-red scrotum-wagon, screaming past me at a steady clip, just inches from my shoulder.
Was he lost? Running errands? Or just a massive tool who gets his jollies from side-swiping innocent, law-abiding cyclists. I wish I had shouted something, or tried to memorize his license plate, but honestly, I was just keen to get the hell off the main road in case the smegmuncher came back.