I have, of late, been mulling a theory of no little consequence to myself and my many fellow members of the cycling fraternity.
Afore I delve into the nitty-gritty of my hypothesis, it must be noted we cyclists are fairly translucent to the general motoring populace at the best of times.
But once that first drop of rain hits, bang, we disappear entirely. It appears rainwater makes cyclists invisible.
Let me illustrate. Struggling my way home astride my two-wheeled steed one recent rainy evening, I imagined I must have disappeared into the ether as car after truck after bus after van pulled out in front of me or forced me into the kerb. There was no other explanation for it. My pitifully short life flashed before my eyes every 20 yards. Time and time again, my continued existence was in the balance. I was nearly pizzafied on countless occasions.
My noggin came particularly close to engaging in an act of near conjugal intimacy with a lamppost near Christchurch when a mental midget in a SUV careered towards me as if I wasn't there, bullying me onto the pavement.
Whilst recovering my composure at home, craftily using my wet socks to douse the flame of my fury, the remarkable theory of liquid-induced invisibility came to me. The ramifications are shocking. Imagine if al-Qaeda got a hold of it? I'll let your imaginations deal with that prospect.
Two days later, same story. As I trundled through another downpour, a chap in a clapped-out Mitsubishi came out of nowhere and right up my jacksie, nudging me so hard in the back wheel I thought my saddle was going to have to be surgically removed. Miraculously, I stayed upright. "This invisibility lark is getting tedious," I mused, my thoughts with the unfortunate driver who must've been bamboozled as to what he'd hit. I felt for him, poor man, I really did.
But then something happened that blew my theory out of the water, so to speak. As the car pulled up alongside me, the passenger - a half-wit with the complexion of an acne-ridden warthog - leaned out of the window and subjected me to a torrent of abuse so foul it'd make Twink blush. It wasn't pretty. Still, it was useful. It showed me I wasn't invisible after all. He could see me. So why couldn't the poor driver?
Then came my Eureka moment: the fact my abuser saw me through the passenger window suggested the magical invisibility property only applies to the windscreen. The reams of knowledge that got me a B in Inter Cert Physics came flooding back. Somehow, the diffusion of light through wet windscreens blocks motorists from seeing cyclists.
The plot thickens.
Obviously, the drivers are not at fault. No motorist would willingly ignore the right of a fellow road user, albeit a two-wheeled road user, to proceed without being rammed. To suggest otherwise is scurrilous slander, the likes of which I simply won't tolerate.
There can be only one rational explanation. Vehicle manufacturers are to blame. I don't have the proof to hand, but I know for a fact they are installing cyclist-cloaking glass in modern cars as part of a skulduggerous plot to rid the world of pedalistes by using innocent motorists to do their dirty work. Don't be daft, you say. Why on earth would they do such a thing?
Think about it - if you turn drivers into unwitting weapons and render cycling so dangerous it becomes utterly unviable, what happens? People resign themselves to driving and, therefore, more cars are sold. If that isn't a valid motive, I'm made of apricot-flavoured cream cheese.
Someone should do something. Not me, of course. I've done my bit by exposing this heinous scandal.
Finally, a word of conciliation. If there are any sodden cyclists out there fuming at their treatment at the hands of motorists, don't blame them. They're victims too.
