I used to hate cyclists on the road. Then I became one

A few months ago, I bought a road bike to cycle to work each day.

In the interest of honesty, I should say that, after 15 years of driving, I didn't have much love for cyclists. I was the typical, “Why are they riding on the damn road?” and, “Once they start paying bike rego they can share the streets”, kind of driver.

However, I decided to embrace my new identity as a MAMIL (middle-aged man in Lycra) because it's supposedly fun to cycle: it's cheap, and it's healthy.

I jumped online, picked up a second-hand bike, got a helmet, and arranged for my next-door neighbour to hook me up with more Lyrca than a bad '80s aerobics video. I could hear my dad in the back of my mind: “All the gear and no idea.”

The writer would like to make it clear that this is, in fact, not him.

But, off I went. Pedalling out on that Monday, full of excitement and a sense of smugness as I whizzed passed the backlog of traffic.

"Look at me being fit and healthy and saving the planet!" I said smugly to myself. (I was more excited about plugging the hole in my wallet than the ozone, to be honest.)

My first ride went without incident. I made it to work faster than I would have on public transport, the cars seemed to give me plenty of space and I didn’t cop any abuse. “This riding thing’s great!” I yelled to my own brain above the traffic and the noise.

All was going swimmingly. Until day three.

I don’t know what happened but I could feel a weird tension in the air. The cars that were giving me plenty of space over the last few days were now so close I could feel them waxing the hair from my legs. I could sense pure hate pulsing through the car doors. What could I have done to upset everyone?

I tried as hard as I could to ride within the bike lane (which is difficult because it’s also used for parking and has more craters in it than the surface of the moon).

I felt like I was on the world’s skinniest tightrope. One false move in either direction and I was done for. Suddenly, a car door opens in front of me. I quickly look over my right shoulder and there’s a gap in traffic, so I merge out into the road, narrowly avoiding the open door.

I approached a set of lights that I need to turn right at. Politely, I wait for all the cars to pass then start merging over. As I’m riding towards the lights a car in front of me decides they want to make a U-turn directly in front of me. I frantically squeeze on my breaks and gravity does the rest.

My rear wheel goes up and I go over. I land flat on the bitumen and roll over just in time to watch the offending car, completely oblivious to the fact I’m even there, drive off. A van behind me starts to beep, at me, and, even worse, I put my hand up to apologise. Why the hell am I apologising? I feel like a wounded antelope surrounded by a pack of lions. Hastily, I jump up in agony and hobble off to the side of the road, wrists throbbing and ego terribly bruised.

Regardless of how bad this experience was, I wasn’t letting it deter me from my new, healthier lifestyle. I jumped back on the bike the next day and I rode to work without incident. I breathed a heavy sigh of relief, this might be great for my lungs but it’s doing nothing for my nerves. When I leave work that day it starts to rain. I look up at the sky and release a few choice expletives. I’m not a religious man but someone is definitely punishing me for something.

On the way home I’m being so careful that an old age pensioner passes me on their mobility scooter. I’m only five kilometres from my house when a car pops its nose out of a park, forcing me onto the tram tracks. If you’ve ever ridden near tram tracks, you know that bike wheels and tram tracks dislike each other as much as Tony Abbott and Malcolm Turnbull. The bike slides from underneath me and I slide down the road. My sexy Lycra pants have seen better days and so has my body.

To all my fellow cyclists, I would like to say I’m sorry, I get it now.

It’s dangerous out there.

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