You can’t possibly hate cyclists more than we hate each other

I’ve cycled for primary transportation for 53 years. Accordingly, I’m not naive about the degree of resentment — nay, loathing — that the general population harbours towards what I’m reluctant to dub the ‘cycling community’, since no group of people behaves less like brethren. You may hate cyclists, but you can’t possibly hate cyclists more than they hate each other.

Nevertheless, ever since pedal-pushers in London have multiplied by a factor of a bazillion in the past few years, numerous of my encounters in traffic have entailed a degree of incendiary rage that takes even this cynical veteran of the cycling wars aback. All these incidents, if you can call them that, have conformed to the same pattern. No one’s right of way was impeded; indeed, no road user was faintly inconvenienced. No life or limb was imperilled. The offended party had absolutely no reason to care. In sum, the triggers for these episodes didn’t matter.

Twice now at the same intersection in Southwark — which makes me wonder if the same taxi driver lies in wait for days on end, poised to stage an ear-splitting hissy fit the moment that Shriver woman shows up again — I have just missed the light on Webber Street. I make a discreet left turn anyway, slipping on to The Cut, the better to make the green light across Waterloo Road. The traffic on The Cut has barely begun to move. I remain three inches from the curb, and four solid feet from the nearest vehicle.

I happily admit that strictly speaking this is running a red light, but I’ve never pretended to be obsessively rectitudinous on a bike (bending the rules a bit is one of the pleasures of cycling, or it used to be).