I saved a cyclist’s life today.

Hand on heart. I stopped him from dying.

He has no idea of this. In fact, if I passed him on the street right now, he wouldn’t recognise me. He would just give me the finger and ride off.

And that’s because a lot of cyclists are, basically, ungrateful dickheads. They have absolutely no idea - and no desire to educate themselves - that all day, every day, motorists are actively saving them from appalling deaths.

I had a little epiphany about the whole topic driving through the winding streets around my place one beautiful autumnal weekend morning, when the birds are tweeting, the surf is crashing and the cyclists are, as usual, myopic.

There was a bloke on a bike. I won’t bother describing him. You know what he looks like, Sunday Morning Bike Man. Lumpy.

Anyway, he was weaving in and out of the traffic, pedalling madly to get his speed up to 32km/h, taking up the entire lane, darting back and forth between parked cars, all without looking sideways. He pulled out with no warning into what would have been certain death between my car and a line of parked vehicles on the left. I pulled away and slammed on the brakes, he sailed on oblivious.

Anyway all the details are irrelevant. The point is this: cyclists absolutely love accusing the rest of us - that is, the people who actually pay for licence and registration - of ‘endangering their lives’ and ‘refusing to share the road’.

The truth is cyclists’ lives are saved by motorists all the time. For every accident involving a reckless car-driver and some hapless bike-rider with a GoPro on his forehead, there are a hundred thousand interactions where the cyclist cheats death thanks only to the vigilance and care of a motorist.

media_camera For every accident involving a reckless car-driver and some hapless bike-rider with a GoPro on his forehead, there are a hundred thousand interactions where the cyclist cheats death.

Cyclists, how do we save you? Let me count the ways.

Leon. He is chunky. He is wobbly. He cannot go very fast. And yet he insists on an entire lane of traffic all to himself because his other bike is an Audi. He wears dark brown wraparound sunnies and rides to Wollongong with his buddies at 7am on the freeway on a Sunday morning. He clip-clops into cafes in his trip-trappety bike shoes and orders a macchiato, into which he stirs four sugars. Leon has no idea, but the Prado he rolled his eyes at this morning had been sitting just behind him for 10km, gently braking all the way to keep the 40-car line of aggro traffic from side-swiping Leon and his mates.

Bjork. She has a bike with a basket on the front, a fringe that finishes halfway down her forehead, a floral dress over cable-knit grey stockings and no helmet (she doesn’t want to ruin her fringe). A Bjork ran over our dog once, so she is a particular interest of mine. She has six glasses of pinot gris at a little bar while writing in her leather-bound journal and then rides home in the dark (she has no lights on her bike because she doesn’t really consider herself a commuter, more a little slice of European sophistication in the sweaty Antipodes). Bjork will never know it, but the bus driver who just gave way to her at the roundabout - even though he had right of way - saved her life.

Stefan. He gets up at 3am to drive his bike on the back of his Evoque to Centennial Park to bark orders at the other guys from the cycle shop while they ride peleton-style round the ring road. In the pre-dawn dark as they lean out to overtake slower peletons, Stefan and friends don’t notice the cars slowing and swerving to save their lives. Later, at the cafe, they agree motorists should be banned from the roads.

Kelly. She rides twice a year. She has nowhere near the stamina required for the giant hill between home and work. She may need to get off and walk. And she is relying on the drivers behind to save her life at every point on the way. I am Kelly. And I’m glad nobody runs over me.

Ferret. Is only riding a bike because his licence is suspended. Ferret doesn’t own a helmet. He doesn’t technically own the bike either. He rarely has his life saved by motorists, but that is because he only really rides through the park with his hands folded across his chest. Ferret is the exception that proves the rule - but when he gets his car back, he’ll be saving cyclists’ lives, too.