Two weeks ago I was cycling home after visiting my 90-year-old father who had fallen over and broken a hip. It was a fine spring evening, my bike had just been tuned up and I was racing along feeling grateful not to be ancient, frail and immobilised.
Halfway down Dalston Lane, the hipster cycling in front of me took a corner too fast, lost control of his bike and fell under my front wheel. I panicked, swerved and fell off myself.
As I lay on the tarmac, I had a sense of déjà vu. The first thought that came into my head was: I’ve had a bike accident — again.
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