Juggernauts before boobytraps

Those accustomed to the seraphic tone of this column may have been surprised last week. I was.

Mostly I avoid sweeping generalisations. Especially after a reader called Russell railed against my racial vilification of a white woman from the Cape of Good Hope.

I abjectly apologise for last week’s verbal pogrom against pedestrians (peds), Anglo-Saxons, Asians who are not very cool, people speaking with American accents (including an alarming number of young Australians), Telegraph letter writers and lovers of elegant language (again, in no way insinuating those two categories are mutually exclusive – boy, once you become wary of offence it is everywhere).

And, actually, I advocate riding on the road among whatever lurching juggernauts there may be.

Four years ago, pushing towards town from Tempe on the Prince’s Highway, I fretted for the vehicles growling in lower gears behind me as I struggled uphill into the wind. The entrance to a petrol station seemed a good place to clear from the road. I did not observe the 5cm lip of concrete where the driveway met the gutter. The front wheel was caught, throwing me across the handlebars in a sprawling forward roll. All my own fault for not spotting the boobytrap.

But why put myself at risk by leaving the public highway? Why worry about slowing the haste of vehicles to the next red light? Misspending thousands of dollars on antisocial, environmentally catastrophic engineering does not make anyone King (or Queen, if you must) of the Road with the right to rage at any delay to Destiny. These were my thoughts as I tumbled across the tearing tarmac. And as I lay there, bloodied and broken, I vowed never again to bow and scrape before the hegemony of the automatons.

I offer no apology to those who confuse the power of their vehicle with their own personal capabilities. To the twerps who think insurance premiums secure suzerainty over the streets. The public ways are to be shared fairly. And with generosity of spirit.

by Peter Whitehead