The White Taxi

7am. Saturday morning. Although the weatherman has promised us another relentlessly hot day, the sun has not yet made her strong presence felt. A cool, crisp early morning breeze gently brushes my face as I prepare to go out for a spin on my beloved Honda. A bright yellow CB400, of which I am proud owner since February 2007.





I am purposely selective when riding my bike. When buying the bike, I was looking at the pleasure of riding on open empty roads rather than looking at the practicality of it all, even though our heavily congested roads do encourage such means of transportation.

Riding early in the morning, on relatively quiet and resurfaced roads, is a joy that I have recently rediscovered and started to indulge in again. Not usually being a morning person, my passion for riding outweighs my natural instinct to enjoy a long lie-in.

Nothing beats the feeling of tackling a sharp bend. Feeling the wind against my bare arms keeping me cool from the warmth that radiates from the engine. Just looking at my shadow driving ahead of me on the long stretch of smooth road leading from Mosta to Gnejna. Simple pleasures.

However the concentration required to ride safely whilst enjoying the whole experience is sometimes jolted by some irresponsible and ignorant driver who shows no respect towards bikers who are out for a pleasure ride, minding their own business. Whilst there are a number of irresponsible riders who annoy other motorists with their reckless driving however it is no excuse and riders should be treated with equal if not more respect.

Case in point. Saturday morning. Qormi/Zebbug roundabout. A white taxi, belching black smoke profusely, decides to overtake from my left hand side, in the narrowest part of the road. I find it hard to believe that he has not seen my brighly coloured bike. I give him the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps he has had a busy night, ferrying tourists to and from the airport. Perhaps he is tired and just wants to go home to sleep. Whilst attempting to keep my balance, I politely make use of my horn just to make him aware of my existence. He has in fact seen me. His response? A pudgy middle finger, attached to a fat hairy hand, promptly waved from his window. What is the use of sending some expletives in his direction? Even if he hears me through my full face helmet why should I stoop to his level?

I find myself thinking what a blessing the recent public transport strike was. The roads were safer and less polluted. Motorists less inclined towards fits of road rage. Selfish as it might sound, the roads are better off without the majority of these people. Whilst not all taxi, bus or minivan drivers are thugs or thugs in the making, I think that deep down we all agree that the bulk of these drivers are rude, do not give two hoots about the environment and even less to the rest of the population who has to endure their troglodyte behaviour.