Blar-aon-deug: the battle with the #11

It was the First buses that drove me to riding a bike. First and their manky passengers. Are the buses in Glasgow just full of disgusting people or does the experience of being on the bus cause them to behave like this? It is the great autobus nature vs nurture debate. Whatever the reason I want no more of it. I no longer wish to wade through floors ankle deep in discarded newspapers and bus tickets. Or to take my seat amongst the half-eaten serves of chips and empty bottles of Irn Bru. Getting on my bike means I no longer need sit opposite that clarty woman who threw her half-eaten sandwich on the floor of the bus. No chance of mayo and salad messing up my ride these days.

Possibly I could have put up with the filth if First could have managed to provide a reliable service. On their #11 route they put the oldest buses with the rudest drivers. This is the route for buses and men about to be retired or sacked. I wasted days of my life waiting for the 11 to turn up. Getting on my bike means the end of the battle with the 11. What a relief.

ICBW: you could be on the bus

A wee while ago I decided to use a bicycle for my daily commute. This is despite my living in the west of Scotland where the predominant weather pattern is rain. A mind-boggling array of rain. Definitely in my first year of cycling I was wet more than I was dry. But no matter how wet I got I always thought "it could be worse: you could have the misfortune to be on the bus".

Rainbow over the high flats, St George Cross