Category Archives: B*&@!% Drivers

The New Black

So, recently the men with diggers have been busy digging up and resurfacing the Kennington Road*. After a slight glitch when they had to dig it up all over again to fix all the water mains they’d broken the first time around, it is now all lovely and smooth and they can get on with the fun part: decorating it. They’ve done most of the lines, and the writing and zig-zags and arrows and now they’re getting out their pretty coloured tarmac and colouring it all in. We’ve got a tasteful subdued burgundy for the bus lane and a rather brighter red for the pedestrian crossing (so the blood doesn’t show?) and – a new one for me – a sort of stylish beige for the lane approaching the crossing. On closer inspection, this appears to be an extra layer of grit that has been glued onto the road so that drivers who were approaching the crossing at speed can slam on their brakes more effectively when the lights suddenly change against them. These road-mending chaps think of everything these days.

Of course it would be even better if drivers could just approach the pedestrian crossing actually prepared to stop, but I suppose if one clever man with a grit lorry can undo the work of several dozen idiots armed with a car apiece, it’s better than nothing. I just wonder if they couldn’t have chosen a nicer colour than beige.

* Actually, it would probably be quicker these days to tell you which roads around us are not being dug up. Do you think they’re looking for oil? Or maybe just buried treasure…


Which part of Nee Naw do you not Understand?

You would think, wouldn’t you, that the horn would be redundant on a police car. You’d think that the whole flashing blue light and wailing siren thing – not to mention the whole screaming down the road on the wrong side at seventy miles an hour thing – would tip off the other drivers that they might want to get out of the way. But – in London at least – you’d be wrong. For, as I witnessed today, and countless other times to boot, the police car can scream up the road with all (metaphorical) guns blazing all it likes, there’s always one driver who ignores it until the police car hoots at them. And then and only then do they look in their rear view mirror, think ‘blimey, a police car, sneaking up on me like that – do you think it wants me to move?’ and manoeuvre out of the way.

Stop Me if you’ve Heard this one Before

I do hate to repeat myself, but sometimes I am driven to it. Indicating. Why do drivers find this so hard? Do you have to put a coin in the slot every time you use them, or what?

There I was, waiting to cycle across Black Prince Road on my way to the station this morning. An oncoming truck was turning right into the road I wanted to go down  – it hadn’t indicated it was turning right in any formal sense, but the fact that it had mounted the pavement to do so had tipped me off, a bit. Behind it, a car was waiting, indicating neither to right nor to left. The lorry finally made it round the bend and the car paused. I think it was kindly waiting for me to cross the road because it was intending to turn left into the street I was in but that was just a guess. You see, I’m a cyclist. My special powers include squeezing through impossibly narrow gaps, accelerating away from you (briefly) at the lights, and having an astoundingly loud air horn*. They do not include mind reading. So I had to wait at the foot of the road, unsure exactly whether the car was pausing in order to let me out or to lure me out into the road and run me over properly. Caution got the better of me and I stayed where I was, just as the car got bored of waiting and turned left. Everybody held up, and for no good reason.

Look. There’s a little stick thing by your steering wheel. Sometimes on the left, sometimes on the right. Push it up or down and it makes an entertaining ticking noise and some flashing turn signals come on. Try it, one of these days. Trust me. You’ll be amazed how effective it is at helping people guess where you are going.

*no, babymother, I didn’t. I only just remembered it now.

How Far…

And how fast can you reverse the wrong way down a one-way street before it stops being an acceptable parking manouevre and starts becoming taking the piss? Five yards? Fifty? The length of the street? There comes a point – as the engine starts doing that laboured whine thing – that you want to say, ‘oh just turn the damn car round and break the damn law properly.’


Alert readers may have noticed I’m not posting so much about the cycle ride to Battersea any more. The truth is that although I’m still pedalling down to Vauxhall every day, I haven’t tackled the longer ride for weeks. The reason is simple – it frightens me. I realised this only gradually when I found that every morning there was yet another good reason why I couldn’t do the longer ride – I was recovering from a cold, I had to be in early that day, tomorrow would be a better option, etc. etc. And the thing that frightens me most are the roundabouts where I’ve basically had one too many episodes of the old vehicle pulling out into the road without either seeing or caring about the bike that’s in their way story. I may joke about it, but when it happens it’s terrifying and one of these days I feel sure either my luck or my legs will run out and I won’t be able to get out of the way.

I’m pretty sure it’s not me. I cycle in the midst of the traffic, not scuttling round the outside in the gutter. I have lights, and my reflective jacket and I signal my intentions as clearly as I can. But there are still simply too many drivers out there who just do not look for the bike. And I don’t intend to be the one that teaches them to do so the hard (or soft and squishy, depending on which bit of me they hit) way.

I’ve recently discovered the jealousy-inducing Copenhagen Girls on Bikes (put it away, boys, they’re real girls, not scantily clad Scandinavian fantasies). It has a deceptively simple formula – pictures of stylishly clad women cycling to work or school or home – interspersed with the odd bit of cycle advocacy. And it was only after checking it out for a week or two that I realised what was missing in the pictures. There are no helmets here, and no high-visibility jackets, no obvious safety gear at all even when cycling with kids in tow. Just people on bikes dressed in exactly the same way as people off bikes. Because any driver in Copenhagen is likely to be a cyclist too. And anyone claiming not to have seen the bike would surely get laughed out of court, for the cyclists there are everywhere.

I know what the answer is, here in London. We all have to get on and stay on our bikes. Not just in the summer months or during a tube strike, but until bikes are built into the consciousness of everyone on the road, not just the lycra clad. But I’m not sure I’m prepared to be quite out there at the bleeding edge just yet. Maybe when it’s lighter again, maybe when it isn’t raining all the bloody time, maybe if I move to Copenhagen. But for now I’m sticking to the back roads and the short route and the trains. I feel as though I’ve somehow failed. But I also feel relieved to be alive.

This Blog…

… Brought to you courtesy of the driver of the white van who answered the question, ‘I wonder what I’ll blog about today?’ with ‘why not blog about how a white van driver tried to kill you on the Queenstown Road roundabout? Again.’

The problem (apart from the nearly being killed part) is it’s almost as tedious to write about badly driven white vans than it is to write about cancelled trains. I mean, stop me if you’ve heard this one before: I’m cycling on the roundabout, in the correct lane to be turning left at the next exit. The white van is waiting to pull onto the roundabout, except, no, he isn’t waiting, he’s just pulling onto the roundabout on the exact bit of road that I’m currently cycling on, leaving me with the choice of meekly falling under his wheels, pulling out to the right and ending up in the wrong lane, or accelerating madly to get in front of him while giving him the benefit of my extensive unladylike vocabulary*.

I really don’t understand this. Unless his objective was simply to pick off all the cyclists of London one by one, all he achieved by this was to have a pissed off cyclist in front of him instead of just an ordinary one. I make a big effort to ensure I’m visible at night on my bike what with the lights and the scary jacket and everything. But I’m beginning to think the hi-vis gear is a mistake. It’s simply giving the buggers something to aim at.

*Guess which one I chose?

1, 2, 3, 4, 5 Senses Working Overtime

After a while, cycling in London, you get a bit of a sixth sense about what some drivers will do next. For instance, the other day as I was crossing Lambeth Bridge on my way home, cycling up the tiny little bike lane they’ve put in there, to get to the head of the traffic queue. Right at the front was a coach and, while it wasn’t actually indicating left, something made me hang back a little and wait next to a relatively safe taxi instead (taxi drivers, love them or loathe them, can generally be relied on to at least see the cyclist. Whether they like what they see is another matter). Sure enough the coach turned left right across the spot on the road where I would have been and I cycled on, feeling a little smug at my foresight.

For about three seconds. Because, of course, what happened next was a car decided to turn left right across me from the inside lane of the roundabout forcing me to slam on my brakes and question out loud the morality of the drivers’s parents. And this evening, on the same spot, a motorbike came from my left, onto the roundabout, cut slowly in front of me and crossed all the way across to the right hand lane without indicating or even turning their head. The problem is, it’s not just a sixth sense you need out there in London traffic, it’s a seventh or eighth. Either that, or some bloody good brakes.

Dispelling the Mists

Ah, one of my least favourite bits of autumn: the return of the fog. Fog, for those of you who are unfamiliar with it (which, from the evidence of the roads this morning is pretty much every car driver in London), is when the clouds come all the way down to the ground, thereby cutting visibility to around 30 feet, and in turn making it advisable for drivers to avoid such behaviour as – to pick a few at random from this morning’s journey – indicating without turning and turning without indicating, accelerating wildly between speedbumps and (my personal favourite) overtaking the cyclist on the blind bend in the narrow part of the road. Although granted, that last manouevre is insane under any meteorological conditions, not just in the fog. Now I know, I know, all cyclists are lycra-clad scofflaws who speed through red lights for fun, scattering old ladies to right and left as they laugh maniacally with glee, but on this evidence, drivers are STILL WORSE.

Let’s all try and put the mellow back into the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, eh?

Very Green Cross Code

OK, I’m used to the fact now that most people in London don’t know how to use a zebra crossing, but PCSOs? I’m not talking about drivers here for once. Most drivers who abuse the zebras know – deep down in their stunted little hearts – that pedestrians have right of way on the zebra crossing, they just choose to ignore that fact because that way they don’t have to stop or even slow down. It’s only when I or people like me come along with our stroppy little ways, stepping boldly out in front of them with every indication that we haven’t seen them and will be denting their bumper some time soon if they don’t stop, that they come to a reluctant halt. And half the time, crossing along in my wake will be the small crowd of hapless pavementflowers who had been cowering on the edge of the road waiting for a gap in the traffic, possibly for some weeks.

But those, I thought, were probably tourists, who weren’t to be expected to know the exact rules for bullying drivers to a halt with a confident (but carefully judged) stride out into the road, the sort of stride that says I am related to not one but two lawyers and will not hesitate to sue. So I was a little startled this morning as I headed down for my run to find hovering nervously at the edge of the crossing a couple of PCSOs, in full uniform, waiting in vain for the traffic to stop for them. One car whizzed by while I was crossing the other half of the road and the one behind it was all set to follow, if the squeal of its brakes was anything to go by, had I not stepped out and asserted my right of way in front of it.

WTF? Surely, if anyone, these guys know the law? I’ve not got a beef with PCSOs in general – sure we want bobbies on the beat but more to the point we want bobbies out solving actual crimes. I don’t want to wake up and find my house has been burgled and nobody can arrest the wrongdoers because the real police are all busy walking up and down the South Bank with a measured tread, reassuring tourists and visibly deterring crime for the few hundred yards they can be seen in any direction. But I would have thought at some time during their however-many-weeks-it-is training the PCSOs would have been given a brief introduction into the traffic laws. Or maybe (having cleared up all the easy wi-fi bandwith thefts and with no other more pressing matters to attend to, for after all, nobody’s been shot in the borough for ooh, weeks, now) they were conducting a zebra crossing violator sting operation. In which case, I wish they’d caught the guy who didn’t just not stop but accelerated towards me on the crossing yesterday. In a Lambeth council van, too. I’m pretty sure I didn’t pay my council taxes for that.

Now Look Here

If bikes don’t belong on the pavement – and I agree they don’t – then motorbikes surely don’t either. I did think that I’d seen the lot from London drivers, but every so often they pull a new one out of the bag and surprise even me. Like the motorbike that reached the end of the dead-end street at Vauxhall Cross and simply rode up the dropped curb onto the pavement, drove down the joint cycle/pedestrian part of the pavement, and rejoined the traffic at the pedestrian crossing. Hello? Which part of ‘don’t drive on the pavement’ do you not understand here? This may or may not be the same guy who occasionally locks up his motorbike at the bike racks in the Vauxhall underpass – I was too flabbergasted to take his license number to check – so perhaps he’s unaware he’s riding a motorbike at all? You’d think the vroom vroom noise and lack of pedalling would tip him off, but who knows what goes through a rider’s mind these days. Not much, if this guy was anything to go by.