Death On Two Wheels

I hate cyclists.

Uh-oh. Stand back, Peter. Wait for the very large boulder you have just hurled to go crashing through the placid surface of the lake, and brace yourself as the waves of indignation rise like wrathful dragons defending some bicycle-shaped Sacred Chalice. For I have violated Holy Ground.

Cycling is one of the sacred cows of the modern age, what with its supposedly green credentials and associations with health, vigour and the outdoor life (we won't speculate about what odious, eco-wrecking chemicals might be going into all that glossy paintwork, and as for the tyres...). Don't touch cyclists. They are hard-done-by yet irreproachable, victims of the supreme Car God but all of them fine upstanding members of society who through their decision to spurn the internal combustion engine are helping to create a better world for us all.

So perhaps I should qualify this outrageous assertion, especially as I am something of a lifelong environmentalist myself (and at this, I hear yet more gasps of shock and dismay and shouts of "traitor" rising from the stave-bearing mob as it closes in on me).

Actually, I don't have an aversion to all cyclists. For those who haven't studied the genus in detail, let me give you a brief guide to just two of the more common species. One of the most conspicuous members of the family is the colourful, super-silky, super-expensive fabric clad cycling fanatic (I tread on ground riddled with treacherous mires and buried incendiary devices here, for my very own brother-in-law is of this self same variety). They frequently displace to new territory in rather orderly packs, seldom pausing to hunt as they go and speeding by so fast that precise identification of the sub-species is often problematical. They are relatively harmless, except for the assault on one's vision affected by all that rather silly gear they wear (oh dear, I believe I have just dug myself several metres deeper into this pit of sacrilege that I have been so casually excavating).

Then there are the solitary predators, and it is these alarming beasts that I wish to draw your attention to. These can be incredibly difficult to identify because of their astonishing diversity, which would seem to indicate great genetic variability. But something they share in common is their ability to masquerade as one of the other types, a harmless, bumbling, herbivorous sort of cyclist that likes nothing so much as to potter and amble its way through life, ignoring and being ignored by everybody else. But as with this innocuous animal, some of the carnivores wear fleece jackets, some have waterproofs, backpacks, child seats, and a few even sport suits and ties. They might have dreadlocks, plaits, bobs, curls, purple rinses, ponytails - you name it. Some even have no hair at all. But what they all do masterfully, is to disguise themselves as conscientious road users and there is one reason and one reason only for this; to kill prey.

And this is what terrifies me about them because as a lifelong pedestrian and proud of it, I am their number one target. Here, in Granada, they have several primary hunting grounds. One of these is a particularly busy pedestrian crossing at the beginning of Gran Via, one of the main city centre arteries. And it is here that they gather as surely as those enormous crocodiles in Africa that are drawn hungrily to the river crossings that the hapless masses of migrating wildebeest and zebra have no alternative but to use in order to gain fresh pastures.

The solitary predator cyclist is exceptionally cunning, because - like the clever Japanese crows that have learned to play the traffic lights in order that passing cars might crack the nuts they have gathered and dropped there - it has learned to strike when the little man turns green. Several times during the last few weeks, I myself have almost fallen victim to a cyclist attack and it is only by sheer luck that my gory remains are not at this very moment being fought over by a litter of ravenous infant cyclists, somewhere in their dark, bicycle-chain-lined den.

But the carnage doesn't end here, for it seems that by utilising this very same predatory species, the Spanish Government has embarked on a biological pedestrian control programme. A few years ago, it was decreed that cyclists could ride on pavements wider than X number of metres, further invading the territory of an already endangered mammal - otherwise known as me. They have taken to this new habitat with great gusto but then, many of them had already colonised this promising territory, so abundant in slow-moving and defenceless food. The precise number of X-es seems to make little difference either as they are especially fond of narrow sidewalks and bottlenecks caused by road-works. Easy pickings for the hunters, and woe betide their prospective lunch...

But I will end on a note of defiance, for my species is fighting for its very existence and we will not go down without a fight. So heed me, you who yet proudly utilise that most venerable and ancient form of transport - The Foot. Let all who walk or skip or gamble or totter or stride shout out, "I am a biped, not a bicycle! I will not be run over!"

Pedestrians of the World, Unite!