Once, while cycling the The Circus (South of JHB) my wife and I were standing by the side of the road when a dark blue Merc drove by. The driver, a unusually short and very round lady, that could have worked as a clown in the circus, angrily blew the car's hooter at us. I waved my index finger at her only to find the car screeching to a halt. Clown number 2, 6 foot 12 inches giant and weighing in at probably 130 kg, then exited the passenger side and came over to sort me out. On his way over he had this habit of interleaving his fingers then pushing his hands forward until the joints in his fingers creaked. In no uncertain terms he exclaimed that he is: "F..ing sick to death of cyclists riding on his road." During this interaction I was watching his hands with intent because as I was taught: "Always watch the hands - that is where the danger lies." He, on the other hand, paid not heed to my hands and only focused on pushing his face into mine and continued, without using physical violence (and not even knowing it, with that he saved his own life) to tell me how little he thought of cyclists. I always thought cycling was painful but I knew if he struck me it was going to hurt more that a long hard ride. I had flashbacks of when I was assulted and my bike was stolen by three thugs when I was down in Cape Town on my last ride before this year's Argus. Unbeknownst to him, as it happens, my hands moved to my back pocket where I felt the comforting grip of my .44 Magnum. As they say in the classics: "You never know who you meet in the street."
