I’m sorry. Truly. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that I’d be the source of such heart-felt angst and misery. It was not my intention. The mere knowledge that I have caused such gut-churning anguish is something over which I am truly remorseful and more than a little embarrassed. It was never meant to turn out this way. I was simply driving along the river towards work. Then I saw you, helmet on, pedalling your heart out. You were doing such a wonderful job. Who could have known that soon you would be shaking your fist at the heavens because of me?
I’m sorry. Truly. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that I’d be the source of such heart-felt angst and misery. It was not my intention. The mere knowledge that I have caused such gut-churning anguish is something over which I am truly remorseful and more than a little embarrassed. It was never meant to turn out this way. I was simply driving along the river towards work. Then I saw you, helmet on, pedalling your heart out. You were doing such a wonderful job. Who could have known that soon you would be shaking your fist at the heavens because of me?
Let me say that in terms of provoking another person to the point they’re willing to shake a clenched fist: it’s been a while. Truth be told, I’m unaccustomed to provoking so fervent a reaction from pretty much anyone, with the possible exception of members of my immediate family. Beyond just an angry glance or raised eyebrow, you held your furious fist aloft. It is, perhaps, little comfort to learn that the whole catastrophe was an accident. I should have said as much at the time but feared stopping to explain might (of itself) be interpreted as an act of aggression.
In my defence, it had been raining. For this, I cannot reasonably be held responsible. The heavens themselves conspired to create the perfect conditions for the profound misunderstanding that followed. Perhaps that’s why you shook your fist in the air – you weren’t angry with me at all but at the skies themselves for pouring forth their glorious bounty and ensuring an ordinary road should be replete with hundreds of tiny reservoirs of water. These pools of liquid are the inevitable result of rain. As I drove, I thought very little of them.
It is, I feel, at least partly your fault. Your bike was not so much running along the edge of the road as riding right up the middle. This is in spite of the fact that there is a separate bike path just a couple of metres over. Regardless of your decision to shun perfectly good bicycle infrastructure the powers that be had seen fit to grant you, the fact that you had decided to hog most of the road wasn’t really a problem. There was nothing in the way of on-coming traffic and plenty of room to get around. As I always do, I made sure I left a wide berth to ensure that you would feel safe at all times. Not only do I consider this appropriate but also an act of friendship towards a fellow citizen who has decided to do the planet and everyone on it a favour and forsake motorised transport in favour of a bike. Leaving an overly generous margin between our respective modes of transport is the least I can do. It was as I overtook that the unthinkable manifested itself in one supremely ugly second.
Let me say right now that you were doing an excellent job. Backside raised and pointed skywards, trouser hams pumping like pistons, face flushed with exertion; you steamed along the boulevard like a man possessed. As my car pulled up alongside, I could see the determined grimace on your face. I wanted to wave. Show you my support for your athletic endeavours. I wanted to do anything that would let you know that your supreme effort had been duly noted and, for what it was worth, there was at least one person on this big round earth that was impressed. Fact is, I was so busy being impressed that I failed to notice the large pool of water that had congregated on the roadway.
Without warning, my front left tyre sank down into a concealed pothole, displacing a large body of liquid and sending it in the form of a miniature tidal wave over you. An instant earlier, you had been completely dry. Now you were entirely drenched. I had, it seems, quite literally poured a bucket over whatever hopes and aspirations you might have had to go about your morning whilst remaining relatively arid. It is little short of a miracle that you managed to remain upright under the circumstances.
Of course I was horrified. I had no intention whatsoever in giving some stranger a complete drenching. And I could not help but notice as I glanced up at my rear view mirror that you as my unwitting victim were not just wet, you were angry. Very, very angry. You shouted. Your face, which had been ripe with exhaustion, was now molten with rage. You raised your fist high into the air and shook it with fury. Railing against me and my pothole-squashing, cyclist-soaking proclivities, you expressed your displeasure in the clearest terms possible. I simply want you to know this – message received, loud and clear.
I don’t know where you were heading that day. Maybe you were meeting some friends for coffee at a local café. They too will have ridden their bikes and would have been decked out in various forms of lycra. Doubtless, you would have regaled them with tales of an unthinking driver who cast water all over you. They will have been aghast before consoling you over a decaf latte and a muffin (possibly). Perhaps you might be kind enough to let the gang know that I am truly sorry and that there is little risk of a repeat offence. Happy cycling. Yours truly…