Take a step to the left...

There is one particular, consistent phenomenon that always, without fail, will inspire road rage in me. Even pedestrian rage in these car-less/bike-less times.

Inconsistency.

I can't stand inconsistent drivers. Or walkers for that matter.

I came to this realisation on a long stretch of road somewhere between Brisbane and Sydney, just after I got my P-plates and was riding on the back of a screaming 250CC sportsbike going just a little bit quicker than I should have been (given that the speed limit for a P-plater is 90km/h).

Not much quicker - I was probably averaging about 95km/h. But I was wanting to get home. I had just spent a wonderful weekend with my darling friend from Queensland in a muddy, soaked tent in Byron Bay at the East Coast Blues Festival. I had a dinner to be at that night, but was still a good few hundred kilometres from the warm shower and the change of clean clothes that I needed before I could take my place at a dinner table in a nice restaurant with my cousins from New York.

I have told this epic many times before, so will spare most details.

I wanted to be going 110km/h. I was going 95km/h because 110km/h would have placed me somewhere in the back seat of the Holden Commodore in front. Anyone who has driven the Pacific Highway north would know that there aren't often overtaking opportunities, especially when you are on a small-engined bike which you're already pushing hard. There just wasn't the power beneath my bum to zip around the car without getting hit by that oncoming semi.

So come the overtaking lane (a welcome sight if ever there was one), I twisted the throttle and watched the needle slowly creep up towards that magic 115km/h mark which would put me past this Commodore and let me cruise at the wonderfully tempting 110.

Deeming that I had enough speed to move out into the lane beside and make my dash for freedom, I checked my mirrors, my blind spot, indicated and went for it.

I was gaining slowly on the Commodore. The needle was at 105. Drew up level at 110km/h. Just a little bit more and I would be far enough in front to claim this road ahead as mine to command!

At 112km/h I noticed something curious. The Commodore was pulling away from me. At 115km/h (at which point my engine was verbally protesting with the vigour of a young child being smacked by an angry parent) the Commodore was clearly in front again. Try as I might, I could not make up those few more metres needed to squeeze in front.

At 118km/h (with not enough riding experience behind me to maintain those speeds on a rattly little ZZR250), I resigned. But don't mistake my resignation for disappointment. I pulled in behind the Commodore, tucked down below my fairing, and congratulated myself on reminding the driver that this was a good road with a speed limit of 110km/h and absolutely no reason not to be doing it. Home was feeling closer already.

As the overtaking lane ended and I made myself comfortable cruising along at the wonderous 11o, my thoughts drifted ahead to the warmth and comfort of home and friends and family. As much as I love being on the back of a motorbike, highway riding is not very inspiring. And the ZZR is not known for its comfort on long, solo journeys with stops only to refuel.

What's this? In my comfort has my hand twisted a little more? Have I edged above 110? Why am I needing to suddenly pull on my brakes and drop back from the boot of the Holden in front?

I checked my speed. 95km/h.

Why?!!?!

Sign post on the side of the road: Next overtaking lane 3km.
I read: Next chance for revenge and a quick trip home 3km.

In 3km time I tried again to zoom past this annoyance. In fact I even took a run up at it, beginning my run a good 300m before the overtaking lane - you need a bit of a headstart when competing with an engine literally 20 times the size of your own.

To no avail. The Commodore sped up to about 125km/h, successfully staying ahead of me, before dropping back to 95km/h once we were back to a one-lane road.

We danced like this another 3 times before the Commodore's empty fuel tank or the driver's need for fast food proved to be my saviour.

In all my attempts I did get close enough on one occasion to see the driver. I don't even think he had registered my existence. He definitely wasn't trying to speed up and cut me off on purpose (you know if someone is driving with ill-intent towards you when you are on a motorcycle). This just furthered my frustration.

He wasn't doing this on purpose. He was just an inconsistent driver. And at the end of our tango, I found myself fuming at being stuck behind this tonne of inconsistency for a 60km stretch of my ride home.

In a similar way I can't stand to be stuck behind people who stagger all over a footpath, following no clear direction, offering inconsistent speeds and then absolutely no warning when they decide to stop in the middle of a crowd.

This is becoming an even more apparent problem in these colder times. Footpaths in Edinburgh can be as slippery as a snake's smooth stomach, especially after a dump of snow overnight. Maneuvering around obstacles is difficult, negotiating the quickest route to work when you are already running 10 minutes late is tricky enough without having to calculate for the errant and erratic movements of aimless wanderers.

To add to it all, I have inherited the Northern tendency to walk with my head down, minimising weather exposure to my all-too-vulnerable neck and chest. And to keep snow out of my eyes. More than once I have looked up to find that the person in front of me has stopped to pull a phone from their pocket, or greet a friend in the middle of a packed, narrow, icy city footpath.

This problem could be easily solved with a set of simple pedestrian rules which encouraged consistent, predictable movement in high-traffic areas at peak times. For example maintaining a constant speed, or checking one's blind spots before stepping suddenly at right angles across three lanes of pedestrian traffic to look in a shopfront window.

I am learning, however, that the world is an extremely inconsistent place.

And that sometimes unpredictability is as intriguing, exciting and thrilling as consistency can be comforting.

That doesn't make it any less frustrating!