I was out on a ride earlier, which was a polar opposite to yesterdays lovely pootle. Blustery crosswinds and bad drivers were punctuated by debris strewn roads and badly regulated oil burning engines. I was climbing a steep hill on my way home, a bit disgrundled and with a sore lower back so was just grinding it out in the granny ring. I heard a sound that makes every cyclists heart beat faster, and a swoosh of adrenaline course though their veins - the sound of a 1.2litre engine farting its exhaust gasses through a pipe the size of a water main. I looked over my shoulder and sure enough, a red Saxo, with foglights on was screaming up the hill behind me. I turned forwards again, spidey senses tingling, and waited for the inevitable buzzing. I glanced back at them at the very last second and saw the passenger leaning out of the window, hand aimed at me. I ducked my head and the massive impact hit my back, so hard it lifted my bum off the saddle and tipped me forwards. I (only just) didn't come off, and I'm not hurt at all, but judging by the scream that was loud enough for me to hear, I think that Mr Happy-Slapper has got a broken hand. I wear my motorbike spine protector under my jersey when cycling, because of a spinal vulnerability I have, which isn't worth risking. It is made of reinforced plastic, which hopefully smashed a fair few bones in his hand. It has been reported to the Police for the usual filing directly in the bin.