Black cat
I’ve been hobbling around with a dull ache in my arse all day. Despite the tube strike the morning should have started well, as I was on my bike while millions of others were either waiting for the bus or joining the traffic jam in their cars. The Old Kent Road was packed solid and it was good to be part of a school of bicycles flitting down the inside lane. Good until a mini-cab driver opened his door and I hit the road with a thud.
Aaggh…fury…I bounced up, fist clenched and ran towards the driver. The man nipped around the side of the car sheltering his head and dropping his mobile while I swore at him “what the f$&k do you think you’re doing…look, you idiot look”. When he saw that I wasn’t going to punch him his cowering stopped, replaced by profuse apologies. It turned out the man was African and the simpering look in his eyes completely sucked the fury out of me. Having experienced this once before I knew a bit of the drill - check the bike. As there were no buckled wheels it didn’t seem worth taking details, so I pedalled off down the road with bleeding arm and leg, and aching bum.
The great cyclist Marco Pantani once hit a black cat on the Tour de France - taking him out of the race altogether. Apparently he said afterwards “there’s always the black cat”. Unpleasant, but true.