View from the Back

I haven’t written much recently about my close shaves with four-wheeled vehicles.  Largely because I’ve come to appreciate that other road users, and I’m including pedestrians in this sub-set, can be neatly divided into two groups: those that ride a bike and those that don’t. The problems lie with the latter group. Not a day goes by when I narrowly avoid being knocked off my bike by the rash actions of a motorised vehicle or a pedestrian. I largely avoid disaster because I don’t cycle particularly fast, spot danger looming and take evasive action. My average speed in an urban environment hovers around 22-25km/hour. I’m a tortoise not a hare!

I never continue to be amazed by the number of vehicles, in their rush to get wherever they’re going, who are quite happy to place my life in peril rather than slow down and allow me to pass by safely. A classic is the right-hand turn. I’m approaching one, so I signal to the oncoming traffic, and that behind me, I’m going straight on. This seems to be the equivalent of a call to arms as vehicles rev their engines and drivers apply feet to accelerator pedals in an effort to overtake me and then turn right into my oncoming path. Would they do that if I were another vehicle? Before you answer, remember we’re talking about France here, the country with one of the highest rates of mortality on the roads.

The answer is that it depends on the right hand turn. If there’s a slip road, then the turn’s large so, if there’s room to squeeze in front, they will: likewise with a scooter or motor bike. Accounting no doubt for the high level of two-wheeled fatalities. Of course, as you cycle across these death traps yawning chasms, motorists have two choices: slow down and then turn behind you or speed up and cut in front. Now, I don’t think it’s going to take a genius to work out their generally preferred option.

We’ve covered traffic turning right, but what about traffic exiting right. With the exception of roads clearly marked ” GIVE WAY TO RIGHT” albeit in French, I have right of way on my bicycle. I know because I’ve checked in the French version of the Highway Code. However, it’s as if other road users have applied a ruling of their own, a sort of I know there’s a big fat white line telling me to stop but as it’s only a cyclist I can just nip out. The ones I particularly dislike are those who’ve stopped, looked in your direction, waited and then shot out at the last moment narrowly missing your front wheel. Did they not see me, or did they see me  surreptitiously feathering the brakes? Who knows?

I should add that this group is particularly dangerous on roundabouts. In France, pay no heed to where cars are positioned on a road, they’ll pretty much always opt for the shortest queue. Yes, I’m turning first right at the roundabout but I’m in the shortest queue on the left-hand side of the road, generally reserved for those turning left or maybe straight-on.  This means if the car on the right-hand side isn’t turning right, equally possible, I’m going to cut him up as I turn right. For the cyclist these are the most dangerous as they need to get across quickly to avoid hitting the car on their inside, they’re not on our radar and they’re paying us no heed whatsoever!

Now, what about oncoming traffic turning left across my bows. Regular readers will know that I’ve been knocked off my bike twice. Both times by inattentive lady drivers. In both instance, I had right of way and they were in the wrong. However a sense of righteous injustice won’t save my life. Luckily my ample padding saved me from anything more serious than cuts and bruises.

Lack of speed however does not apply when I’m descending. Again those additional kilos and my fast wheels help me drop like a stone. Similarly, concentration, awareness and keeping over to my side of the road have seen me stay largely upright, safe and sound. Of course, I also generally ride on roads I know really well which helps enormously. I tend to more cautious when dealing with the unknown.

What about those pesky pedestrians? Indeed, they will happily step out in front of cyclists. Why oh why? You wouldn’t step out in front of a speeding car, so why step out in front of a speeding cyclist? Many zebra crossings in France are controlled by traffic lights. So, do they wait until the light turns green before stepping into the road. Hell no, they step into the road and then freeze in the middle of the lane. This leaves me in a quandary, which way are they going to move? It’s often hard to tell whether they’re going to rashly push on or rapidly retreat.

I have practised emergency braking with my coach but I can’t stop on a sixpense certainly not when I’ve just come barreling down a hill at top speed. I have nightmares about headlines saying “Speeding Cyclist Crushes Pensioners” except, of course, it would be in French and probably say something along the lines of “Une grosse cycliste britannique écrase les petits retraités françaises”.

A recent UK television drama involving the murder of a child was based in a fictional town in Dorset. The drama proved popular and has allegedly boosted tourism to the Jurassic coast. I watched some, but not all, of the episodes and didn’t appreciate that it was set in Dorset but, even if I had, it would not have lured me to visit. I thought the whole place had a very sinister air. One actress making a welcome return to the screens in this was Pauline Quirke, probably better known [to me] for her long-running role as the sister Sharon in the comedy Birds of a Feather.

I mention this because I was twice, yes twice, mistaken for Pauline Quirke. It happened many moons ago when I lived in London and “Birds of” was at the height of its fame. The first was at a jolly at Selfridges department store. I can’t recall exactly why I was there but I believe it was an American Express sponsored event. I was just about to take a sip from my glass of champagne when I set upon by a lady who’d clearly already been freely imbibing. “It’s you isn’t it?” she said. Now I have an excellent memory for faces, your name might elude me for a few seconds but your face, no. I had never met this woman before in my life.  However, to give her the benefit of the doubt, I enquired whether we’d ever met before. She confirmed we hadn’t and said she wouldn’t tell, tapping the side of her nose in conspiratorial fashion. I tried to reassure that I was no one but she was having none of it. In fact she even commented on my “posh” accent and congratulated me on my cockney accent on the television. She stuck to me like a limpet and, in the end, it order to shake her free, I lost patience and asked who she thought I was. She told me. Talk about being brought down to earth with a bump!

Now my late mother was mistaken for the late Princess Grace a couple of times, but I really couldn’t, or didn’t want to, see any likeness between me and Pauline Quirke. I put it down to her over consumption of my favourite beverage. But, blow me down with a feather. A couple of months later, I was walking down the King’s Road one evening with my beloved when a gaggle of giggly ladies asked me for my autograph, quite convinced I was the actress in question. They clearly didn’t believe my protestations so, I bowed to the inevitable and, in order to get rid of them, I signed Pauline Quirke several times and exited right.

I was a bit shaken by both these episodes as it’s quite common to see “celebrities” all over London, without even trying. Among others, I’ve seen Tom Cruise in a bar in Notting Hill, Paul McCartney in one of the arcades, John Malkovich ambling along Oxford Street, Steven Spielberg and Rob Lowe in a restauarnt. I’ve never felt any desire to either ackowledge their presence or ask them for their autograph. Why would you?

My last employer wanted a photograph to accompany the announcement that I was joining the company and I was wheeled in front of a professional photographer. Now, I hate having my photo taken. Photos of me as a child show me staring resentfully at the camera and it’s not gotten any better in later life. I recall one wedding we attended in Germany where three people shot videos and everyone else ran amok with those disposable cameras. I’m pleased to announce that no one captured my image. I have a sixth sense when a lens is swung in my direction and I just merge into the background. Group photos? I generally hide behind my beloved.

I made the usual jokes about her using the lens which made me look 10 years’ younger. But clearly she hadn’t used it as I looked like Rosemary West! Now Pauline Quirke was bad enough but fancy being made to look like one half of a notorious serial murdering couple. Quite! I used to joke about it because people would look at the photo, frown and say “you know you remind me of someone………..” This latest drama was therefore vaguely unsettling as Pauline played a women who’d been married to an incestuous murderer. It was all starting to become eerily spooky.