People wave to you when you are on a bicycle. There are different types of wave. There’s the Thank god that’s not me wave. There’s the Hey there, I have a bike in my garage, bond with me wave. The Heeey baby I drive a flash car and my wife doesn’t understand me wave. The I’m so insecure I don’t even indicate without waving wave.
And then there’s the Sorry I nearly killed you wave.
Like in the case of the woman today, who was so excited about turning right she completely failed to notice the break in traffic was not really a break if my wobbling up the hill on a bike qualifies as ‘traffic’ (singular). Which it does – or at least did the last time I checked the Highway Code. Specifically, I am what is known as ‘other traffic’ (singular) despite my inability to produce fumes or hold up anything larger than a hedgehog.
Halfway across my right of way, she slammed on her brakes, leaving most of her tyres on the road; then scorched past half a millimetre in front of me.
Then she waved.
And I just don’t know whether Sorry I nearly killed you through my own inattentiveness/ignorance by knocking you down and driving over you and crushing your head with my tyre rendering a scene of such gruesomeness that television crews turn away from the bloody carnage to focus on your heartbreakingly flimsy helmet still spinning poignantly in the centre of the road is adequately covered by a wave.
More appropriately, she should have stopped and offered to call an ambulance to treat me for shock and inhalation of rubber fumes. Or at least offered to reimburse me the cost of a new pair of knickers