Wet Weak End

I often think about the couple on their tandem bicycle and if I ever came across them again I would be sure to apologise profusely for the mighty injustice suffered at my hands.

They were out for a regular ride through the beautiful countryside of East Yorkshire, minding their own business, packed lunch in the saddle bag and enjoying one of those mutual breathless moments that come along on a rare basis in a longstanding married relationship. It constituted for them the most fun they could have clothed in lycra on a weekend.

The day had started off quite well in terms of the weather, dry and for the ultimate enjoyment of a bike ride there was no dominant prevailing wind. From the Vale of York direction in which they approached me later that day it is likely that they will have started out on the flat glacial plain. I later, guiltily, imagined  that they may have lived in a dormer bungalow in one of the small villages within commuting distance of the historic city and were perhaps early retirees who had purchased a tandem rather than a sports car to go with that stage in their lives. Their decision  in the purchase of an open top, two seater, but two wheeler met their criteria for an environmentally friendly pursuit and one where there could be some benefits in health and well being but not involving a costly gym membership or a long drive to their nearest such facility.

Cycling in an easterly direction they will have soon encountered the rising ground of the East Yorkshire Wolds. The map holder that I happened to glimpse on the handlebars was streaked in red from non-colourfast felt tip pen depicting quite a tortuous route. This was obviously intended to take in the very picturesque hamlets and rural settlements, a few scheduled stops at local beauty spots, feeding stale bread crusts to the occupants of the numerous ponds en route, remarking at how certain scenes had not changed over time or where others had been bastardised (his words not hers) by a wind turbine or the practice of wedging as many solar panels on a roof as possible with no regard for symmetry or the outlook of neighbours. Their route also prudently avoided the steepest inclines and busiest roads although did increase the overall mileage considerably.

Time was not however a factor in this, their favourite type of day out.

I, on the other hand was racing against time. My car was crammed full of people I did not know, although we had a common interest ,and lots of lightweight racing wheels as we endeavoured to attend to a regular request for service from the participants in a 100 mile bike race through the expansive countryside.

The dry weather had soon been replaced by wet squalls and persistent rain which, on the narrow and steeply cambered lanes showed no inclination to drain away into the verge or the gateway to a field. With the tide of water came the inevitable depositing of loose gravels, chalks and other debris on the road. The well intentioned farmer and his tractor mounted cutter had in previous days contributed in an organic way to the mineral wash by slashing and spreading the severed thorns from the hedgerows which soon found their way into the treads and sidewall of some quite expensive race tyres of the competitors.

From our position closely in sight of and following the race we had progressively dropped back to change wheels and attend to mechanical problems such as a dislodged chain or loose saddle. The CB radio would crackle into life with a shout of 'Puncture' from the lead car and all managed panic would result within our vehicle as we prepared for an emergency stop, a scramble to the tailgate and whatever was then required to get the stricken rider on the move again. The frequency on which the radio operated was also popular amongst the rural boy racers in their Corsa's and agric types in brand loyal Massey Fergusons, John Deere's or Fords and much abuse would fly about as a consequence of a major clash in sunday afternoon cultures.

On one such mercy mission to a straggling rider the matching of a wheel to the machine was problematic and we became detached from the rest of the race for longer than usual. It was imperative to get back to our position in the race convoy and so, as driver, I admit that I took some risks. My normal plodding approach to motoring was abandoned. No 30mph speed limit was sacred, wildlife in the path of the car evaded impact at their own peril, potholes were counted by my passengers in terms of physical discomfort, cottages were a blur of whitewash and pantile.

It was during this mad passage that I encountered the couple on the tandem.

The combined approach of my car at 60mph and their bike at a little over 10mph (after eating the packed lunch) freakishly coincided with the largest puddle of standing water in the county.

In polite society I would have slowed and pulled over, indicating their right of way.

They were the polite society and had expected this to be the case. I ignored etiquette and protocol and ploughed on through. In my rear view mirror, between the steaming wet heads of my suffering crew the couple disappeared behind a wall of murky brown and gritty water.

Fortunately for me and my driving licence the event was not witnessed by any non-cycling persons. My forward velocity and a mud streaked rear number plate made identification virtually impossible for all but the greatest of sleuths.

I was on a mission, relied upon by elite racing cyclists, but had been ultimately disrespectful to a nice, harmless couple.

Ever since, on wet days in particular ,I am reminded of my transgression and behave in an exemplary manner to fellow road users, especially those of a two wheeled persuasion.