Over the last 6 months I’ve had the good fortune to commute from home in rural West Kent to central London by motorcycle. Sometimes it’s on the R1200GS, but more often than not it’s on the Piaggio MP3 250. And after 6 months of running the gauntlet I thought I should capture some thoughts about the daily threats to my survival. In fact, there’s probably something in here to offend everybody I know.
All human beings are patently not created equal. I deal with multiple levels on the evolutionary ladder on a daily basis, and it is only by recognising the commonalities across these levels that I survive. Yes, there’s a lot of generalisation in here, but most of it’s anchored in the truth.
Let’s start with the route. The first 30km is motorway, which represents the easy part of my day. Then another 20km through the south east London suburbs of Sidcup, Lee, Lewisham, and onwards past Peckham, New Cross and Bermondsey. Anyone who knows London will concur that these areas are not normally synonymous with words like “leafy” or “upmarket”. I think you’re more likely to see “shithole” in the estate agent’s window.
Right, onwards to the protagonists. At the very top of the evolutionary ladder is the motorcycle courier. This species does not occur in this format in South Africa, and seems to have evolved in London. They ride filthy corroded old GPz550s and CB500s, and they’re rude & inconsiderate. But oh my word how they ride. There is no equal on British roads. They are capable of swerving across 3 lanes of stationary traffic at will, while whistling at a pretty girl and giving a motorist the birdie. Despite their sublime skills, it must be noted that they occupy the top of the tree with a temporary visitors access card only. There is no way people who ride like this can live long. Not possible. The best approach is to get the hell out of their way and let them go.
Next in line are the police motorcyclists. They take their training very seriously indeed, and are able to exercise that rare skill of making great progress while being safe & careful.
Just below them on the ladder, and this will sound rather strange to my South African mates, are the bus and taxi drivers. They have a spatial awareness second to none, and long ago gave up the need to drive with their egos. They’re safe and predictable.
Next in line are the normal motorcyclists. There’s the old joke about the difference between involved and committed - look at your breakfast of fried egg and bacon, and you’ll note that the chicken was involved but the pig was committed. And motorcyclists are committed. If they cock it up they die. Which is bad. So with some exceptions they’re generally very good.
Just below them are the Alfa-Romeo drivers. Despite driving abject pieces of shit (yes, even the new ones), they tend to be enthusiastic. They’ll never claim they didn’t see you. They’re involved in the driving experience, and this is a good thing.
As we slide across the scale, we now get to the fulcrum – the average motorist. This group is worthy of a book on its own, but I’ll just leave the description at Pretty Bloody Average. There are some special cases though: Moms in minivans. The Renault Scenic / Citroen Picasso driver with or without a carload of screaming snot-gobblers. Seemingly clueless to the world outside her horrifically-styled vehicle, she just seems to be clueless. No Idea. Best approach: AVOID like the plague. Also worthy of a mention is any motorist with a hat on. It doesn’t matter if it’s a baseball cap aiming backwards (1990 BMW with lowered suspension), a bowls hat (mid-eighties Mercedes), or a tracksuit hood (stolen car) – if they’re wearing a hat in the car, avoid them.
Next in line is a subset of motorcyclists. This species split early in the evolutionary process and lost the self-preservation gene, to the benefit of the fashion gene. Yes, it’s the Vespa rider. Not all of them, mind you (says the Piaggio owner). No, it’s a very specific subset. The scooter is ALWAYS a modern Vespa / Piaggio, and never a Honda or Yamaha. The helmet is always a stylish Momo Design number, shaped more like a yarmulke than a piece of protective kit. No armoured jacket or boots are to be seen. No no, outfit de jour for these knobs is a tweed coat, overpriced shoes and a Tucano Urbano lap blanket. Tossers, the lot of them. Mercifully Darwin has his way with them eventually, so I don’t have to.
As we begin to plumb the depths of inconsideration and inability we hit the next layer – the Volvo driver. Doesn’t matter if it’s an old boxy one or a modern XC60, there’s something inherent in the marketing of these cars, no matter how good they may be, that causes their owners to be horrific drivers. Now before you take offence, remember that I’m generalising. But know this: in 1999 the Motorcycle News did an analysis of road traffic accidents involving motorcycles, and determined that motorcyclists were two and a half times more likely to be killed by a Volvo than by any other make of car. Just sayin’…
Even further down the tree we find a personal bugbear – the Facebooking pedestrian. She may be sending a text message to a friend, updating her Facebook status, or even just gazing blankly at her phone, but whatever it is she will step out into the road in front of you with not a care in the world, eyes firmly downward. And she will look up, mildly surprised as you come screeching to a stop, having cheated her of her rightful destiny.
Just below these are the white van drivers. Analogous to South African minibus taxis, these bastards will TRY to take you out. They have mastered basic speech and simian-level cognitive functions, but are missing the fear glands. And the social responsibility ones. Scary bastards, this lot.
And with this we get to the bottom of the list. The species most likely to cause death, dismemberment and general unpleasantness – the cyclist. I too ride a bicycle, but these people are a different species. They tend to have a wonderful blend of arrogance, a complete lack of consideration, no sense of self-preservation, and they look like twats. They sometimes behave like pedestrians, sometimes like motorcyclists, and sometimes like motorists. But there’s no consistency, so it’s up to you to guess which it’ll be today. Red traffic lights are a Maybe. Stops signs are a No. Signalling is a Maybe. 9 out of 10 near accidents I’ve had over the last 6 months have been because of these humourless bastards. If you value the overall quality of the gene pool you will administer a swift but firm boot to them as you go past.
And that’s that. And even with all of this on the road, it’s still infinitely better on two wheels than on four, or (god forbid) on public transport. Just keep the shiny bits up and the sticky bits down.
