The Haircut & The Convertible

I recall many moons ago reading (and chortling at) the tales of a Glaswegian bus driver in The Blood Bus, about the various encounters he had with Glasgow's bus-riding brigade. Well, just call me The Blood Bike not just because it's the best way to get your blood moving but also because like the blood bus driver anyone that behaves like a moron on my watch woe betide them. Like the haircut driving his fancy black convertible at top speed through the pastoral country lanes of East Renfrewshire this morning. The wild cyclist does not tolerate such behaviour especially when they refuse to slow down when they see you approaching. These roads up here are unmarked for the most part and not much bigger than a single track road so when I see muppets hairing it towards me I do something that only a dedicated wild cyclist practitioner should do, that is, pull out into the middle of the road, preventing him from passing you and thereby forcing him to slow down. Call it my pastoral duty. So when I did today, this particular haircut (he looked like a football star out for his morning coiffeure) presumably thought I wanted his autograph or something because he slowed down with a smile. Maybe he thought I recognised the car. But when the penny dropped (I never stopped but continued onwards past his haircut and, by now, almost stationary vehicle) and he realised I was simply forcing him to slow down, it was too late. The wide awake cyclist had put the half-witted car driver in his place once again. And for that, he claimed twenty five points in the wild cycling game, (and another ten for getting the haircut to holler what cannot be printed here).