NYC 1986 (approximate)..

It had been a while – years even– since I'd ridden a bike with any intention of being speedy, or of being seen as such, but I was in NYC, on an old battered Flandria, retrieved by a girlfriend from her ex boyfriend for me. A bike I liked and felt better on than I should have, given its weight. Or my strength.

I was on my way to the Graham School, and fancied sprinting. Taking out a few slowed cars. Uphill. And I'd hang a smooth left at the top instead of waiting subserviently, waiting for the cars to clear, the lights to change.

I danced on the pedals, or rather, honked, and found I didn't quite have the power I'd expected as the road steepened. I was on the outside, left of two or three lanes of disgruntled New York SUV guiding drivers totally unused to cocky European cyclists, and indeed intolerant of anything resembling weaker users in the savannah like mayhem of Manhattan traffic.

He leaned down from the high black tinted window of his high black vehicle. His voice, an insane basso profundo that seemed to make the skyscrapers vibrate around us. “You,” he told me, “you are going to die”. The window rolled up and he was gone.