I’m sure I’ve mentioned previously that one of the great hazards to Australian cyclists is the swooping Magpie. The males do this to protect their nest when their eggs have been laid. In other words, in spring. In other other words, now. And if you look at that beak, you can see why being subject to the attentions of a fast-moving black-and-white fowl bent on grievous bodily harm is not a prospect many would welcome.

So this post is to tell you that I, too, have experienced the terror and exhilaration of being buzzed by a territorial magpie daddy. I managed to avoid the experience last spring, although Daniela did not — she was beset by an aggressive magparent while returning from the IGA and defended herself with spirit, belting the bird into touch with a 12-pack of toilet rolls.

They say these Aussie magpies are extremely intelligent — in particular, they have an eidetic memory, particularly for faces. Once you’re in their bad books, they remember you and will come after you when you least expect it. I’m seriously considering upping my beloved spouse’s life policy. You never know . . ..

As I say, while postmen might dispute this assertion, it’s cyclists who seem to bear the brunt of Magpie swoopings. If your habitual route takes you past a magpie nest, there’s a chance the expectant dad will embark on a spirited strafing run or two to see you on your way. They have been known to draw blood — or worse. Which is why people resort to the zip-tie strategy to keep them off. Even so, their attentions can be disconcerting to say the least — and terrifying to say the most.

So there I was yesterday, taking a bit of a ride out in the country on the old road bike. I had chosen a 30km loop wittily dubbed the ‘Tour de Araluen’ which takes in a chunk of gold-rush country to the south of Braidwood. Here’s a photo, taken on the basis of ‘no photo, never happened’ which social media has imposed on us all. Also, the repetition of the speed joke was just too tempting — it’s funny ‘cos it’s not true!

This is a pleasant enough route and thanks to lockdown, virtually traffic-free. Perhaps its defining feature is a four-and-a-quarter kilometre stretch of dirt road which roughly indicates the halfway mark, after which you turn back toward Braidwood on the surfaced Araluen Road. It is also a Strava segment, which those of you in the know will understand is a significant piece of route. For those not in the know, Strava is a cunning app; a Strava segment enables you to track your performance against previous attempts, and — for some — against those of other intrepid two-wheeled sportsters. And that information is posted on your profile for all to see and judge.

Now, being a dedicated back-of-the-pack athlete, I’m not going for King of the Mountain status (for that is what Srava calls the holder of the fastest segment time) — I’m more interested in beating my own previous glacial attempts. Yesterday’s assault on the imaginatively dubbed Monga to Araluen segment hadn’t started auspiciously. There was a flat tyre to fix before setting out. There was a slight incipient hangover which portended early dehydration. And, true to form, as soon as I set wheel outside town, a chilly gale was blowing — but due to simultaneous bright sunshine, I was slathered in SPF 50, which, commingled with sweat, trickled into my eyes to incendiary effect.

Having rested and rehydrated at the start of the gravel section, I set off with dull acceptance in my heart that today would not be a PB (personal best) day. I had removed my helmet and slung it over my back, replacing it with a natty bandana to absorb the fiery brow-sweat. The gravelly road requires careful line-selection, with a lazer-like concentration through teary eyes to ensure safe passage over sharp-edged stones and such.

And then a strange “eerk eerk” noise penetrated the fog of concentration and the roar of the wind. It took a second to work out what was happening. “I’m being buzzed by a Magpie,” I mused, speeding up a bit. The waft of wings past the head accompanied the next “eerk eerk” and the pedal cadence rose markedly again. He peeled off and came back for another strafing run, and then another, requiring the adoption of a very ‘aero’ position, nose to handlebars. It may have been the bandanna, or perhaps the helmet on my back giving a two-headed effect, but our swooping dadbird didn’t score any hits — and after a couple of hundred metres, he gave up.

So there I was, pedalling slowly home, sweaty and bandanna-topped, relieved that this encounter had been bloodless. And when the data was fed into Strava, it transpired that the avian attacks had driven me to an unlooked-for PB on that segment!

It’s not really the motivation I’d have chosen, but in a life devoid of athletic achievement, I’ll take what I can get.