And I have the bruises to prove it…

There’s something about Yorkshire roads. Beautiful beyond words. Dangerous beyond reason.

And if you’re daft enough to spend large parts of your life perched on two impossibly thin tyres wearing clothing apparently designed by people with a grudge against insulation, then eventually you discover both truths at once.

For those of you who follow the ramblings of a man hidden away in the remote wilds of Yorkshire (and if not, why don’t you?), then you’ll already know that two-wheeled transport occupies a sizeable chunk of my life.

Cycling has always been there.

Truthfully, it was probably inevitable.

I grew up in a mining town in the North West and directly across the road lived a Commonwealth Games and National Champion cyclist. As a young lad I remember watching him leave the house on this gleaming racing bike looking like some sort of superhero in Lycra before returning hours later after another brutal training ride.

I also remember seeing him racing on television. That seemed utterly magical. Someone from our street. Someone local. Someone ordinary except he clearly wasn’t ordinary at all.

The rest, as they say, is history.

Whilst I never reached the glittering heights of my neighbour, I did alright. Over the years I raced extensively, rode the test events for the Manchester Commonwealth Games and managed to collect a respectable handful of local victories along the way.

More importantly, I collected memories.

And injuries.

Although, to be fair, I’ve actually done remarkably well on the injury front considering the thousands upon thousands of miles trained and raced.

There was one particularly spectacular incident descending in the Peak District which resulted in a hospital visit and a fairly comprehensive review of my life choices.

Then there was the occasion involving a classic car where the predictable “Sorry mate, didn’t see you” translated into me removing a concours-condition wing mirror using my head.

The car survived.

I looked less immaculate. Still, all things considered, not too bad.

Well, like all good records, they exist to be broken. I’ve now had another incident.

Not a wandering sheep taking its chances whilst casually ignoring the Green Cross Code.

Not one of Yorkshire’s kamikaze rabbits that successfully completes the dangerous crossing only to suddenly sprint back directly under your wheels.

No.

This time it involved a Skoda Kodiaq and a single-lane humpback bridge deep in rural Yorkshire.

Now, these old Yorkshire bridges were not designed with modern motoring in mind. Built from unforgiving gritstone sometime around the era when people travelled mainly by horse, cart and sheer determination, they are narrow, awkward and generally command a degree of respect.

Or at least they should.

Much to my surprise, however, the driver of the aforementioned Skoda decided that the entrance to the bridge represented an excellent overtaking opportunity.

Halfway across, seemingly struck by the sudden realisation that several tonnes of 1700s Yorkshire stonework were unlikely to move out of the way voluntarily, the vehicle abruptly came left and stopped.

Unfortunately, I was already there.

What followed was less “professional cyclist” and more “human traffic cone”.

I hit the nearside of the car and became momentarily wedged between Skoda and bridge in a scene that probably looked utterly ridiculous to anyone fortunate enough to witness it from a safe distance.

Mercifully, I escaped with bruising, damaged pride and a rapidly expanding Yorkshire vocabulary.

And then came the conversation afterwards.

Apparently it was my fault.

Apparently it was nothing to get angry about.

Honestly, I was so stunned I almost forgot to be furious.

Listen, we all make mistakes. Walking, driving, cycling, working… life is one long sequence of human beings occasionally getting things wrong. I make mistakes myself.

Admittedly fewer than most obviously and certainly never involving red lights…

But what genuinely struck me was not even the collision itself. It was the casualness of it all. The strange indifference. The sense that 1.5 tonnes of metal colliding with a vulnerable cyclist was somehow just an inconvenience rather than something potentially catastrophic.

That’s the bit that stayed with me.

Has the tension between cyclists and motorists increased over the years? If social media is any guide then the answer is undoubtedly yes. Spend five minutes online and you’d think every cyclist was a public menace and every motorist a homicidal lunatic.

The reality, of course, is very different.

Most drivers are decent. Most cyclists are decent. Most people simply want to get home safely and some of those on two wheels want to be fitter in the process.

But somewhere along the line society does seem to have become a little less patient and a little less caring towards vulnerability.

Everything feels faster now. More aggressive. More entitled.

And perhaps that’s the problem.

Inside a car it’s easy to forget that the cyclist beside you is entirely exposed. No airbags. No steel cage. No protection beyond a thin helmet and optimism.

One careless moment for a driver can become life-changing for somebody else.

Thankfully, this time it wasn’t.

I brushed myself off, straightened the bike, calmed my temper and continued deeper into the Yorkshire countryside on roads far better known for sheep and rabbits than marauding Skodas.

And as I pedalled on through the silence of the Dales, I found myself thinking the same thing I always do after incidents like this…

Cycling still beats not cycling.

Especially in Yorkshire.