Tentative re-embarkation, or: why I won’t take the bus any more

Despite still smarting about the torso (see post number one), I returned to two-wheeled transport on Friday. I’d been working from home – a perk of the job – but after three lonely days of feeling sorry for myself, I though it best to get back in the office among real-life human beings.

Yet I was a little tentative about returning to saddle, for two reasons. Firstly (and least-ly) was my physical pain – easily dismissed with an ibuprofen/paracetomol/codeine cocktail, and to be honest knackered ribs will hurt no matter what you’re doing.

Ibuprofen - good for what ails ya

The second reason was more profound – I no longer quite trust my bike, it having sent me flying for no apparent reason. Though I’m lucky inasmuch as my commute is largely level, without sharp ascents or descents - the main dangers are cowboy bus drivers and, more frequently, errant pedestrians - I was still concerned that, if I had to brake suddenly I might find myself decorating the tarmac or, even worse, become an impromptu speed bump along Europe's busiest bus route (true fact).

Counterbalancing these was the hollow, mournful feeling that immoblised cyclists everywhere share when forced to take public transport. The thought of the agonisingly stop-start journey, taking twice as long as it would on my bike and with the added torture of inane student conversation going on around me (no offence to students - I was one once and probably could've out-inaned the best of 'em) made my mind up - it was time to get back on the bike.

And of course, I was fine. I started off cautiously, but like everyone I have my own natural pace and couldn't keep slow for long; before I knew it I was gliding past the sit-up-and-beg brigade and chasing down the lycra mob, my progress slowed only by the standard red-every-time sequence of traffic lights.

(By the way, I’ll clear up my stance here and now on two of the big ‘take sides’ debates of UK cycling: red lights – I stop, always, though I'd be in favour of 'turn left on red' legislation; helmet – I wear one, always, though don't believe it should be a legal requirement)

Coming home, I just hopped on my bike like it ain't no thang - not a thought for health-concerns or pyschological trauma. Proof, if it were needed, that cycling remains an aid to the health of the mind, as well as the body. Today I went a step further and took my 'extended remix' route home, past Man City’s ground, out toward Gorton and then down the Fallowfield loop to Chorlton before rolling the final, pot-holed stretch down Barlow Moor Road to Didsbury. Bumps and lumps do give me the odd jolt of pain about the ribs, but it's nowt compared to the shock-and-awe of a sneeze - and it's nothing to the pyschic trauma of paying for the bus.