An Eggshell Finish!

Curse them! Curse them and their roadly, exhaust-free, fresh airish ways!



Expecting other road users to, well, avoid them, perhaps delaying the journey times of others by as little as nanoseconds. Trundling along those narrow country lanes, as they've every inconsiderate right so to do.



And whose fault would it be, should that lumbering great SUV happen to just so much as nudge the soft bodied fellow into a verge, or some such adjacent off-road location? No doubt, the thick necked, heavily tattooed, shaven-headed 4x4 driver, that's who!



Some of the fools don't even bother to so much as avail themselves of a helmet, leaving all of the bodily preservation issues to the already over-taxed driver.

And I would know, I was yesterday one such idiot. Back lanes only, as I sought out the coast and contemplated coffee anew. What could possible go wrong? Sunshine, hedgerows and reflective thoughts... What could go wrong, except for the weather?

I was trundling along, somewhere just a few miles south-east of Burham Market. Legs were in need of a stretch, so I did what any sensible cyclist would have done, I stretched them, stood upon the pedals and pushed my toes up, heels down, to extend the calves. Mmmm...



I've done it so many times before, helmeted or otherwise. The difference being that this time I didn't quite remain aloft for long enough to regain the saddle. There was a stomach-lurching moment of lop-sided free-fall, as my left foot slipped from its platform, toes digging into the road, exacerbating the bike's already violent, verge-ward trajectory.

The front wheel plugged itself into the steep grassy bank, throwing the idiot cyclist over the handlebars, whereupon the left shoulder thudded into the assorted grass, nettle and thistle-knitted verge. The unprotected head whipped to the left and thudded into the dirt. "Ow!" or some other such approximation was, I believe, muttered.



Having just dumped myself into the verge, it seemed prudent to contemplate the ringing in my ears, the thumping inside my head, prior to perhaps attempting to regain anything remotely horizontal, at least in the immediate aftermath. I think that I may have even considered resting awhile, in situ. "Give some time for the world to regain its equilibrium," I mused.

Today, stiff shouldered, head largely intact, I count my blessings. So simple, t'was, to reason that I am a careful cyclist, that I will avoid busy main roads, keep my eyes and ears to the task, that my fate is entirely in my own hands, that the helmet might sit this one out. Damn fool that I was!

I may be thick headed, but oh-so-much of that which verges our roads, or hurtles along them, is alarmingly less forgiving than the not-so-soft verge with which I chanced to collide.

And I'd taken such care to avoid the bull-barred Countryside Alliance brigade. Hunt'n, shoot'n, fish'n and drive'n (a confounded armoured tank), always in a hurry to nowhere in particular.



Helmet!