Don’t be a writhing, dying wraith

Lucky enough to attend the My Sauce Good CD launch last week at the new premises of 505 at 280 Cleveland Street near Elizabeth. Afterwards, standing outside with the buzzy post-gig crowd, I saw a Spectre of Death ride past clad darkly in black leather jacket and charcoal jeans on a bike without lights. Perhaps keen to end a sad history of addictions, he wore a headset and seemed to be sort of singing along [he may claim my sour observation Doppler-affected – but I don’t think so at the speed he was labouring]. It occurred to me that a cyclist lost in the soundtrack of his own movie could be surprised by an abrupt end. “Didn’t hear that one coming!” would be a disappointingly dopey final realisation.

But are we not all a little like that shadowy chap? Is it hubris to deny we are not all an oblivious accident looking to happen? Take Lord Monckton… [Get back on bikes – ed.]

Part of the persistent cyclist’s nature is a stoic belief that others must be trusted with our safety. But all of us owe it to each other to make it easy not to be careless.

If you choose to slide through the night-time streets as undetectable as a stealth bomber you have chosen to be on the precipitous edge of alone. The possibility of concern for your existence has been stolen from society.

Reasonable, responsible drivers, such foolhardiness makes you shudder. Your greatest dread is of being happily at the wheel heading home from a fine evening out and hitting some invisibility which manifests itself only as a writhing dying thing leaving you with recurring nightmares and an horrendous panel beating bill.

Good citizens fear doing harm. Thus good citizens endorse big ticket proposals that promise a safer world. We salute the promise of $70 million for cycleways without asking why no-one pays to fix the potholes and cracks in our roads.

A better cake does not require exorbitant icing.

[J.D.Salinger R.I.P.]

by Peter Whitehead