Time for a tale from he North...
John Leach (it may be his real name), a lantern-jawed, big-knuckled hard man from East Lancs Road Club, was out with his mates on a mid-week training run and was coming home to Burnley mid-evening. It was the middle of summer: still well light but late enough for some of the local lads to have downed a few pints and be moving on to another boozer.
The sprint for the thirty sign strung them out and John, whose sprint was never the best, noticed a party of youths who took turns jumping out into the roadway in front of the approaching cyclists. This had happened two or three times, and John could see them getting ready as he and two others cruised into town.
But John was never much of a man for cruising. He could see what was about to happen, so he kept pedalling, held his pace, held his line and, as the appointed drunken galoot jumped out in front of him, ducked his head at the last minute.
Ten seconds later John was getting up off the road, giving the bars a quick wrench to straighten them, while the other writhed on the tarmac, one hand at his groin and the other over his broken and bleeding face.
"Jesus," said the injured one's friend. "Why doncha look where yer ****in' goin' pal!"
"Oh we were both looking where I was going,' said John, swinging his leg back over the saddle. "Difference is, I'm still goin, but matey boy there's only going to the hospital."