cyclisto imbecilios

So . . . there I am, merrily pedalling my down Chiswick high street giving a cheery wave to the polite bus driver as he nudges the front wheel of his vehicle ahead of me and shepherds me gently onto the pavement. I ever so gently remonstrate with him, but his hand gestures suggest he may not be willing to discuss the matter over a drink after work. Carrying on my way, I'm pondering on the meaning of 'imbecile' when I'm confronted with the real reason why London cyclists are sometimes regarded so lowly. I'm overtaken by your typical bad news bike courier, one geared, minimalist, grubby chic machine ridden by a grubby chic imbecile. I fail to understand exactly how he's unable to see the half a dozen people walking legitimately across the zebra crossing 4 yards in front of him. Not even slowing, he careers at terminal velocity through a 12 inch gap between the 6-year-old and the old lady, offering loud advice to both of them on the danger of being on the road at this time of day. Every cyclist in London bears the brunt of the antagonism created by this idiocy every day. The bad feeling created by the few is shared out equally among the many. If my bus driver friend actually managed to swat one of these morons, I'd happily buy him a drink.