The New Generation of Road Rage

Those of you who have read my London Word rants before would be excused for thinking that my potty mouth might benefit from a jet wash, but I can assure you that in real life I can’t even say the word ‘bottom’ without blushing. I’m patient, laidback, and never so much as raise my voice – until I get behind the wheel of a car, that is. Yes, that’s right, I suffer from road rage like half of the world’s driving population, and pretty much anyone that lives within sight of a road in London.

But it’s not your typical road rage that I’m worried about. In a car there’s a windscreen between you and that surly looking man you’re calling a twat. In a car when you catch me screaming in your rear view mirror you probably just think I’m singing (unless you can lip read in which case I’m very sorry). And the best thing about being in a car: when the going gets ugly, you can make a speedy getaway. But in this new wave of transport anger, it’s not quite as easy to avoid the consequences of your profanities. Because you’re on a bike.

As a new cyclist in London, I took to the lanes feeling much like I’d escaped from captivity; no longer did I have to gaze longingly from my commuter prison, wondering what it felt like to have the wind in my hair and fresh air in my lungs. I was living the dream. So what if my dress blew in my face and I flashed a bus full of old men? So what if bees flew in my mouth? I didn’t have to sit in traffic for hours, I could cut through scenic parks, and most importantly, I didn’t have to spend an hour fighting for elbow space with an obese stranger.

But my naïve dreams of a perfect London commute were dashed all too soon when I was subjected to an onslaught of anger on the roads. I was squeezed into curbs by impatient bus drivers, called names for obeying the law and stopping at traffic lights, and antagonised by defiant pigeons refusing to get out of my way. Turns out you don’t have to have four wheels to be an arsehole; two will do just fine.

There’s a definite line between screaming at people that will never hear you and people you’re two foot from. Call me a coward, but I’m more than happy to keep my outward intolerance confined to places where I can shout abuse without getting lamped for it. But it’s ruddy hard to keep your cool when the guy who’s nearly just run you down with his van pulls alongside you and wolf whistles. Either murder me or attempt to chat me up, mate – you can’t do both. After accumulating about three weeks’ experience on my bike, my subconscious commuter defence system has definitely kicked in, and I dare anyone to make fun of my helmet again. I don’t care if you’re five years old and stroking a pit bull – you’ll get it.