The blow to the back of my head was sudden and sharp. Looking up, I saw a car had slowed alongside me as I cycled home. A burly man – my attacker – was leaning from its passenger window, laughing with silent malice.

The car, its headlights off, roared away along the dark and otherwise empty suburban street and disappeared into the night. It took me several seconds to realise he had smashed an egg on my head.

Funny? No, being hit from behind from a moving car is no joke. This episode, on Tuesday night, was the second time this year that I’ve been hit by an egg while cycling home. Other things have been thrown at me, too, along with regular abuse – all from strangers. And no, I don’t ignore red lights, cycle on pavements or mow down pedestrians. I just ride my bike to and from the station. I don’t even wear Lycra.

Motorists, shielded by windscreens, can be largely anonymous on the road. Cyclists stand out. Some people, as my dry-cleaning bills testify, take perverse pleasure in doing them harm. And that’s apart from routine vandalism to my (secondhand) bike in the station cycle shed.

So will I put away my bike and give up? No way. Cycling has its hazards but is cheap, healthy, convenient, nonpolluting, sometimes fun – even exhilarating. I’ll take the rough with the smooth. You can’t eat omelettes without breaking a couple of eggs.

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