Victory for me, not for Mr Weenie

Last night I had one of those sweet sweet moments that occasionally crop up when you commute by bike.

Between Shepherd's Bush and Acton a guy on a phone swerved left and nearly hit me as I came back. He was a youngish bloke and, in response to my shout of 'Watch it you idiot!', he and his passenger waved with saccharine smiles. I waved back with a similar smile and a slightly different gesture. They laughed and apologised, I laughed and thought nothing of it.

It was a popular model silver car so when I passed it the first time I barely registered it. He overtook again but I definitely noticed when I passed it again a mile later. I didn't see him again for a couple of miles and assumed he'd turned off.

I got to west Ealing and, while stopped at traffic lights, two familiar faces peered out from the car next to me and waved, giggling. The window was rolled down, I couldn't resist: 'About time! Where the hell have you guys been?'

The reply came: 'Naaaah man! How many gears have you got on that thing?!'

I shouted back '24' before pedalling off while they stayed stuck in the traffic queue. I didn't see them again and arrived home triumphant.

Car stomping weenie-style.

In other news though, Mr Weenie came off Roger this morning. He snapped the pedal and has grazed his right side on his arm, leg and knee. Luckily, however, he was wearing the cycle mitts I bought him for our anniversary and his hands were spared. Phew!

It was me!

I'm sorry, but the sight of such woeful neglect when Reg was standing clean and shiny next to your bike was just too much. The dry and dusty orange film of rust on your chain and gears was hideous to behold.

Yes, it was me. I oiled your chainset.