MY husband's got himself an up-to-the-minute go-anywhere bike. He's planning to hit the local cycle tracks. Excellent exercise, and it gets him out from under my feet. I'm all in favour.

At least, I think I am. The trouble is, I have a slightly equivocal view of cycling as a pastime. In the first place, it's good open-air exercise, and definitely non-polluting. Bikes don't make a noise or (unduly) churn up the countryside. As a regular walker, I've come across lots of friendly, courteous cyclists while walking on old railway tracks.

But - and this is a big but - those of us who've pounded the streets or parks of London will have come across a very different sort of cyclist. The sort who thinks he (or, more rarely, she) has a moral right to ride how, where and when they want, in any manner they please. All right, there are some appalling car drivers in London too, and cyclists are very vulnerable to them. But if you're at the bottom of the traffic pecking order, getting around on two feet, it's the cyclists you'll come to fear.

I spent six months in London looking after my baby grandson, pushing his buggy along streets, across roads, through the park. At every road junction without fail, no matter what the state of the traffic, I'd stand and wait for the 'little green man' before crossing - first making absolutely sure that all the cars had stopped. I lost count of the times I'd be half way across when all of a sudden a cyclist would shoot straight over the red light, missing me (and the buggy) by inches. I don't recall one of them ever apologising. In the parks, they ignore 'no cycling' notices. It's a case of children and little old ladies, beware!

Now and then, someone will speak up on radio or television about this nuisance - at which point, a spokesperson for cyclists pops up in his turn and hammers on about how dangerous the roads are for bikes. If they'd only acknowledge the number of cyclists who flout the law in their turn I'd be more ready to sympathise.

Then there's the little matter of Lycra. The garments many cyclists wear, that is. Sadly, there are very, very few men who look good in skin-tight Lycra. Could my husband be the exception? We shall see.

'More trenches than the Somme out there," said a man in the post office queue.

As someone who regularly drives into and through Crook, I know exactly what he meant. The bright lights of Crook are the hot topic in the town. Bright temporary traffic lights, that is. The only way to get into the town without negotiating a long stretch of roadworks is to come from Durham (by the time this appears in print there'll probably be works there too). Every other road in every direction has been full of holes for months now, mostly thanks to Northumbrian Water. Sometimes, the lights go wrong. After 20 minutes waiting at a red light, unable to see to the end of the roadworks, what do you do? In my case, I hope someone else in the queue has the courage to be the first to edge cautiously past the lights. Then I follow, nervously.

Fair enough, you can't renew out-of-date infrastructure without upheaveal. But when will it ever end? How about a water rate rebate for everyone with a local postcode?

Published: 16/02/2006