Last Friday, I am confronted by an angry fat man in a Butlin’s uniform on New Street’s main concourse:

Him: “You can’t bring your bike up the escalator sir”

Me: “It’s a bit early for all that existential shit isn’t it?”

Him: (Flumoxed): “Sorry?”

Me: “Well clearly, I am here, the bike is on the platform, I have clearly been transported by the moving walkway back there, therefore the physical evidence trumps your philosophical world view”

Him: “Er, no I mean it’s dangerous”

Me: “Damn Straight, walk up those stairs with this knee and there’s a serious possibility I’ll fall straight back down. Well done for letting me use the escalator”

It’s important at times like this to stride – or limp stride-aly – off with a enigmatic smile before the magic wears off.

Today, I’m in the Doctor’s surgery being un-diagnosed by the same newly qualified quack who had me down for malingering last time.

Her: “That’s odd, that knee really is very swollen, what do you think we should do about it?”

Me: “Well, it’s not me that’s spent seven years in Medical school and has access to google, so I’m kind of in your hands”

Three options present themselves apparently; 1) do nothing which has worked so well with my manky finger I was mad keen to try that again. 2) Pump myself full of sufficient anti-inflammatories to stun a small donkey or 3) try and un-retire the physio who sorted me out last time.

I’ve gone with 3) after being offered the reassuring advice that if things hadn’t improved in TWO OR THREE weeks, to come back. Assuming I can get my trousers on and the appendage in question has not taken on the size, texture and general flexibility of a melon.

The only conclusion one can reasonably draw is that the budget cuts are at work here. First don’t prescribe any drugs that might cost some actual money, and – phase 2 – be so entirely bloody useless to discourage further visits.and then rent the space out for CV writing workshops.

Wonky knee makes driving painful, walking a chore and riding pretty much fine until I stop. The latter is extremely vexing since I appear to have dug in enough this summer to dig out a decent level of fitness. Trails are still loads of fun and the ST4 is a bloody joy to ride. Hell, I’m even enjoying road riding, but this is entirely due to working out how much money I save swapping bike for car on my commute.

For that amount, I’d crawl naked over broken glass to get to work. Although I’ll wait until my knee is better first. Not that I’ll be bothering the Doctor, again after seeing her surreptitiously adding “Old Age and Decrepitude” to my list of symptoms.

Another cracker from the “80s film random quote generator” much loved by the hedgehog. Until inconveniently corrected by authoritative references, I used to couple it with “Your ass is grass and I’m a lawnmower”, but that is from an entirely different movie. And someone deep in my withery cortex lies the title, the retrieval of which shall make for a happy day sometime in the future.

I’m sure there is a cheating short cut to the answer, and while that would be entirely wrong for something ready to be winkled from analogue memory, it would – had it been available – have been invaluable during, or for preference just before, a crashette on my morning commute.

Car not bike. Five ton tractor ballasted by four mighty hay bales, not a clear road. Narrowing bridge barriered by armco, not forgiving ditch. Too much speed, not enough time. Too fast for the road, too slow when you’re late.

It was a moment of perfect irony as idle wonderment at the almost total lack of traffic on this unlined, twisty backroad morphed into wide eyed terror as my world was filled with high tyred immovable tonnage and not much else. No way I was stopping in time – unless your definition of “in time” includes frontal impacts and mighty airbag action.

A small slither of blacktop looked too narrow an option for the mini-truck to squeeze through, but it was the only option presenting itself before Insurance and Hospitals became involved.

“Hit the brakes and he’ll fly right by” came unbidden to a mind with far more pressing issues to deal with including steering into the tiniest of gaps, bracing for impact and offering a small prayer to the God of Collisions*.

I nearly made it too, missed the tractor wheel by the width of a badger’s todger at the expense of carressing the barrier with the front wheel arch. Inch either side and I was deep in the cacky.**

I had – conveniently – shuddered to a noisy halt at the window of the impossibly sanguine farmer who offered me this from on high “You might want to take it a bit easy lad, third one I has this year and we had to remove the last daft bugger with a fork lift“. He was joking. Probably.

It occurred to me some fifteen shaken miles later that it wasn’t just speed that nearly lunched the X-Trail, more than that this is the route I’ve commuted on about fifty times which is sometimes enlivened playing chicken with wheeled agricultural machinery. Because there is always room for a bike, and if there really isn’t a ditch works almost as well.

So some important consumer advice here; “Cars are wider than bikes“. I expect the armco scrapings will probably polish out, but nothing short of H2S04 steamed through an industrial pressure washer will do the same for my pants.

Proper bottom clenching it was. More on this theme when I’m left alone long enough to tell great lies through the medium of photography and self serving text documenting our mountain trip.

And in case you’re still struggling to identify the film “Screw this up and you’ll be flying rubber dogshit out of Hong Kong“. I find such missives comforting at times like this.

* “C’mon cut me some slack here. You KNOW how many times I’ve rammed trees on a mountain bike. I’m bloody well in credit”

** We’ve all been there lads. Easy mistake to make in the dark.