Several thoughts ran through my mind as I fled the pub car park. First and foremost I was delighted that, as far as I could tell, my head was still attached to my body. Secondly, I was equally thrilled by my current power numbers. Such had been my haste to leave the venue, I’d glimpsed down at my head unit at what looked like an absolute power PB. Perhaps that’s the secret to optimum cycling performance: riding for your life.
I’d just engaged in a brief exchange of thoughts and ideas with a gang of bikers, you see, and as I was about to broach the more salient points of the discussion, it had been concluded prematurely with a punch to the head. I was still wearing my helmet, fortunately equipped with anti-rotational impact system MIPS, which went some way to soaking up the heavy right hook. Nevertheless, I thought it probably best to leave immediately. The gentleman who had administered the blow looked like he was just about to launch a follow-up volley of jabs. He also looked a bit like a leather-clad version of the Incredible Hulk. I took my leave. Quickly.
It was late July and I’d been enjoying an evening bimble on my bicycle in the wildest reaches of rural Hampshire. I’d planned an off-road route comprising byways and gravel paths laced together by the occasional stretch of asphalt. It was around 7pm – with rush hour still somewhat in effect – so in order to mitigate the possibility of succumbing to a heavy-headed commuter, tired after a hard day at the office, I erred on the side off-roading. Accidents do happen, tempers sometimes fray – and with gravel bikes able to take on just about anything they’re met with - it seemed wise to minimise tarmac time and take on a pastoral parcours. The byways were dry and running fast. The sun shone low in the sky giving the countryside a golden glow. Birds sang, roe deer ruminated. It was a delightful evening.
At about 8pm, rush hour had feathered away and traffic was sporadic if non-existent, as I went back on tarmac to complete the ride. My time to shine. I found my bike’s biggest gear, wound up some big watts, dialled in a decent cadence and gunned it towards home and an ice-cold bottle of Becks.
A mile down the road, I heard what sounded like the rumbling of thunder behind me. It was a sharp, stochastic kind of reverberation that rose and fell, angered and placated. The noise grew louder until it was deafening. Either I was being pursued by the mother of all storms or I’d inadvertently cycled to Brands Hatch motor circuit.
I looked around and a group of bikers began to pass by. The first and second kept a good distance, but the third began veering towards me until we were touching shoulders. He continued his diagonal pursuit until I was forced off the road and onto the grass verge before he rode off jubilantly into the sunset. His work here was now done.
Ultimately, however, the joke was on him – I was on a Giant Revolt X Advanced Pro and it eats grass verges for breakfast. But I couldn’t help but wonder why he’d taken such offence to that fact I’d had the sheer audacity to inhabit the same stretch of tarmac as he and his motorcycle. Had he read my travel features in Cycling Weekly and become riled to the point of fury about my lack of organisation? Or was he more of a Ribble man and this was a demonstration of distaste for my Giant?
Either way, I was keen to understand the reason for what essentially amounted to common assault. This was very unpleasant behaviour and needed addressing. Winding up some even bigger wattage, perhaps ill-advisedly, I set off on his trail, fairly confident I’d at least be able to let rip a stream of choice language at the next set of the lights.
Unfortunately, though, I found them at the next pub.
They were disrobing in the beer garden, motorcycles still idling in the car park. I located my nemesis and, unclipping, shuffled up towards him with an ungainly gait brought about by cycling shoes and an ill-fitting pair of bibshorts.
“Why the f**k did you do that?” I enquired, genuinely eager to hear his riposte.
His friends looked at me like I was quite insane. I was a middle-aged man in Lycra who’d clearly read one too many Jack Reacher crime-thriller novels.
The chap, who’d still been sitting astride his motorcycle, silently dismounted, all while staring me coldly in the face. He then stood before me. This guy was huge. Huge.
I changed tack on my line of inquiry: “Err, would it be possible if you refrained from riding like that please, err, sir.”
This evidently didn’t wash.
He squared up to me, and from where I stood, he was more or less square.
Think man, think. What would action hero Reacher do?
Who cares what Reacher would do? I click-clacked in my cleats back to my bike, just as he delivered the punch to the back of my head. What else could I do to conclude the evening’s ride satisfactorily? I wound up the biggest watts I’d ever summonsed and took the KOM on the road we’d been on.
If the same incident had occurred with the antagonist being an octogenarian on a rickety old moped how would matters have unfolded? Well, in much the same way, I guess. I probably wouldn’t have been punched – although there’s plenty of older folk who could still land a tasty right hook – and I would’ve ridden away (sans power PB) after having had an ultimately pointless argument. A few cross words will never change the world.
The moral of the story?
Apart from the fact that MIPS is worth its weight in gold and altercations with aggressive individuals can dramatically boost cycling performance, there’s certainly a lesson to be learnt here.
In the heat of the event, I had not thought to record the number plate of the motorbike involved. Whilst witnesses at the pub could corroborate my version of events, I had nothing to show the aggression that had sparked the one-sided debate. No, it shouldn't be necessary. But, had I had a helmet camera fitted to my bike or person, I’d have an accurate record of the events.
So, my lesson from the altercation is simple: to decrease the potential of getting a pummelling and to increase the likelihood of righting what was obviously a pretty significant wrong, in the future, I’ll let a helmet camera do the heavy lifting for me, and I’ll share the footage with the local police force. And if nothing happens – which is invariably the case –l I’ll have footage of a pleasant evening a-wheel to look back on.
