I don’t like being on the road. If I can, I walk from A to B, because I know that the people with whom I share the pavement have far more control of direction and better grasp of spatial awareness those with which I share the tarmac.
This is another reason why I love my scooter; Its size and manoeuvrability keep me safe from the poorly driven cars, vans and trucks that stalk the land between my home and place of employment.
No, a scooter doesn’t have a roll-cage, air-bags or cup-holders and yes, if I did get hit (god forbid) I would most likely be transported to the morgue in a jar, but if I can see trouble; with a scooter I can avoid it.
If I see it.
Riding home yesterday I was almost force-fed an off-roader as it emerged, with speed, from a concealed dirt track onto the road.
Had I been on 4 wheels rather than 2, the entire passenger side of the car would have ended up wedged between the opposing vehicle’s absurdly shiny chrome bull-bars and its radiator.
Which would have been annoying.
I don’t trust or like other road users much, but there are certain drivers that I hold a particular fear and loathing of: those that travel in clean Land Rovers.
Like the one that jumped out from behind a hedge and made me poo a little.
I specify clean because dirty Land Rovers (or any other type of off-road vehicle) have a different breed of driver at the wheel.
If the chasse of the machine is encrusted with mud, cow manure and the rotting remains of small (but slow) woodland animals, it’s a sign that it’s used for its intended purpose, and used regularly.
Therefore, the driver knows how to use it and not kill people.
The drivers of clean Land Rovers are the exact opposite. They don’t know how large their vehicle is, they don’t know how much power is under the bonnet and they don’t care if they hit anything smaller than them as they’re well aware that both they and the over-priced Marks & Spencer food they just popped out to buy will survive the impact without a scratch.
A clean Land Rover is naught but a status symbol. Forget super cars; for men, off-roaders are true extensions of the Magic Love Truncheon, and for women, they scream “I am Queen Bee! Get the fek out of my way!”
You could only get more obvious if you stuck your head out the window and shouted “Look! Look how BIG I am!”
Such individuals should not be allowed on the roads at all, let alone be given charge of a turbo-charged tonnage of metal to throw around the countryside.
Are you one of these people?
Are you a potential agent of Death?
Are you a git?
A simple test will give you an answer: Go outside. Look at your Land Rover. Is it dirty from a day at work? If not; you don’t need it, and neither do the poor souls you share the road with.
Get a smaller car, you poser.