Claire Black: ‘The scariest thing was what went through my mind as I travelled through the air’

I WON’T lie, it’s been a dramatic week. That’s what happens when you find yourself sailing through the air, heading face first for the tarmac, having been side-swiped off your bike on a busy London street.

Never mind the ignominy of the side-swiping having been caused by another cyclist (how can I revel in anti-car driver rhetoric now?), the scariest thing about this incident, once I’d realised I wasn’t dead or about to die, was what went through my mind as I travelled through the air.

Don’t judge me if I confess it wasn’t my partner or loved ones that were foremost in my mind as my nose squished flat on the surface of Clerkenwell Road. They were definitely in my mind, honestly, it’s just they weren’t right at the front of it, having been pushed out of the way by the almost heart-stopping anxiety that I might be about to knock the toes out of my beautiful brown leather shoes I’d only the day before picked up from the cobblers (Hutton’s on Edina Street, the best shoe menders in Edinburgh).

And the shoes weren’t all I thought about. I was also worried that I was about to knock the elbow out of my once-worn cashmere polo neck, which I’m planning on keeping until I’m an octogenarian, cherishing it with gentle handwashing and careful reshaping whilst damp.

“Get up! Get up!” shouted the man who’d knocked me flying. Ever obedient, I tried. I don’t know why I was taking orders from him, but lying on the road didn’t seem like much of a plan either.

“I can’t,” I said pathetically, realising that my feet were somehow in the air and I was immobilised by being attached to my Boris bike. He was having none of it and picked up both me and the bike in a oner. I’m guessing it was the adrenaline that gave him super-strength. It was then I realised that the bike was hooked through my belt loops, my left leg was completely numb and something wet was running down my face.

“You’re OK. You’re OK,” he instructed in his hi-vis gilet and helmet (an hour later, as I limped along the street, I fantasised about having taken this off his head and smacking him with it).

“I don’t know if I’m OK,” I said, realising the wet stuff was blood. The minutes passed. As the crazy cyclist and the driver of the car we’d ploughed into squabbled about insurance details, I realised I was going to have to get my injured bike back to a docking station and my injured self to a Tube station.

This is what it’s like to be a grown-up, I thought as I limped along the street crying and people assiduously avoided eye contact. After I’d got rid of the bike, I phoned R. I didn’t manage to say much, but having her listen to me blubbing made me feel better.

“You’re OK,” she said. “You’ve just had a terrible fright.”

“My glasses are scratched,” I wailed.

“We’ll get them fixed.”

“My face is bleeding,” I sobbed.

“We’ll get a look at that. I’m sure it’s going to be OK.”

I looked down at my feet as she talked and noticed my shoes. Not a scratch.