To weigh down the other end of the see-saw — against a fresh, crushing terror of my own mortality — my seizure at the start of the summer has given me a six-month driving ban which actually has worked out pretty well so far; it’s meant I’ve cycled a hundred times more than I otherwise would have done, to parks and friends’ houses and errands. My bike is rubbish, with tyres that flatten within weeks no matter what we do, and the size and weight of the bike locks means I can barely collect anything on those errands, but the joy of pedalling doesn’t seem to fade. Push down with one foot, balance, away.
At one set of traffic lights, BMWs revving behind me, I watch as the cyclist just ahead of me kicks his pedal up and backwards with one foot, preparing himself for the lights to change. I do exactly the same at exactly the same moment, and I wonder if the drivers behind notice that choreography of cycling each time a few bikes get ahead of them.
On the bridge, I indicate right and slow the traffic behind me as I get into position to turn. The cars all stop for me at the junction; the white van behind me gives me plenty of room and neither hoots nor calls out abuse; I arrive in one piece, cruising down the road on my rusty bike to my friend’s front door. In the boundless blue of the day, my hands are shaking, my thighs are aching, and my heart races, as I smile, and Pollyanna the shit out of that driving ban.