Fuckers*

A little aside from the usual nonsense today. I've written my travel journal up until this Monday last, but being a curious fellow, not posted the endless nonsense yet. I'll get around to it just as soon as I can be bothered, but for today we have another story, quite out of synch with the rest of the timeline.

Christchurch is a nice enough place, but with Barbara busy conferring with other scientists, I've been at a bit of a loose end. So today I hired a mountain bike and headed out for the hills.

It was a lovely day, and I even had a map of the major tracks. To the south of the city is the Banks peninsula, which is basically an extinct volcano that's been worn down over the millennia. There are still some pretty awesome crags and cliffs, and all along the top there is a wiggly tarmac road. Mountain bike trails lead off this, back down towards the city, in a splendid abundance. They're good trails too, steep and technical how I like them.

The first problem was that I picked the wrong track to make my ascent. No biggy, really, just that I'm not as fit as I should be (especially after almost a month of sitting on my arse, drinking beer and eating too much). Nonetheless I spent a happy afternoon pottering around. If you're really unlucky, I'll add it to the journal later, but for now there's just the one incident to report.

I was on my way back to the hotel, mindful that the bike had to be returned by five o'clock, when a car slowed down to pass me on the tarmac road. Nothing odd about that - it's a public road after all. The next thing I knew there was a terrible pain in my leg and the car was speeding away. Fuckers had thrown a rock at me. Quite a large one as it happens. It hit me on the upper thigh and even now the bruise is swelling to proportions best described as epic. Tomorrow I may not even be able to walk.

To be honest, the damage is slight. I made it home with no problems and since the rock hit me and not the bike I didn't lose my deposit. I'm trying not to think about what might have happened if it had hit my knee.

Fortune favours the quick thinking, however, and I'm quite good at car-spotting (in an anoraky way - sorry). I got the licence plate and model. The police will get a call soon. And if I see the car in the street before we leave, it may well need respraying later.

*Like John, I don't have any problem with expletives when they're required. No MacBride's disease here

Comments

Stuart MacBride said…
I think you'll find that I have no trouble mastering an appropriate expletive when circumstances demand.

And from the sound of things they do. Fuckers indeed.
John Rickards said…
Good man, good man.
That sucks, James. It's fucking horrible.

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