Ron MacKenna takes his life in his hands on the mode of urban transport as recommended by the Government

FIFTY yards to go to the safety of the other side of the junction. There's a revving Volvo right on my back wheel, my heart's beating, I'm sweating, and my lips are savouring the taste of fresh exhaust fumes - worst of all I've got an upturned pudding bowl on my head.

This is the Government's answer to the next century's transport problems - cycling to work. I've tried it and frankly the idea needs a bit of development. Cycling in an urban environment may indeed be faster and more environmentally friendly than most other forms of transport, but it should also be pointed out that it has none of the glamour of the Tour de France and is about as safe as tap dancing across a minefield.

The journey involved a four-mile trip from my home on Glasgow's south side into the city centre. In a car it takes up to 30 minutes at rush hour and around 20 minutes at other times. It's a straightforward undemanding run for the motorist apart from the minor hassle of dozens of sets of traffic lights and the occasional flash of road rage.

On a bike the route takes on a whole new perspective and transformed itself into a frighteneing duel with buses down Victoria Road, a bowel-loosening race through Gorbals Cross and a panic-stricken weave across the hell that's the Victoria Bridge.

It starts off in a pleasant manner: Four minutes after leaving home I'm heading smoothly down flat and gentle Holmlea Road and cycling does seem to have its place. Certainly the cars are whizzing past at an alarming rate and there's no cycle lane, but there's room for both of us.

About a minute later the first drawback manifests itself - cycling is sweaty. Or rather cycling makes me sweaty. Even the mild exertion required by pedal pushing is enough to indicate that a shower and a change of clothes are on the cards before I can start work. Things area also heating up under the pudding bowl - an expensive cycle helmet that I have been ordered to wear for my safety.

Langside Road, curving round Queens Park, app-roaches and things start to get a bit more serious. I find myself dumped in the outside lane with fast traffic feeding in on my left hand side and no way for me to get across towards the kerb. To compound matters cars are overtaking me very closely on my right hand side and it begins to sink in this is an extremely dangerous mode of transport for the uninitiated.

To my amazement considering motorists act like I don't exist, no-one hits me and I shuttle into Victoria Road pedalling, legs going like fury in a highly undignified attempt to keep up with the traffic.

Here, a totally new phenomenon emerges - the bus race. This simple and not very entertaining game, unless you're a bus driver, involves double-deckers transforming themselves into a series of mobile road blocks as the desperate cyclist struggles to get round them on either side.

A Strathclyde bus can accelerate at an alarming rate and the sound of a double-decker bearing down from behind, the engine screaming louder as it approaches, signals the entertainment has started.

n Scenario One: The bus stop is very close and the bus sits moodily and noisily on your rear wheel until you pass the stop. The only damage is to your nerves and of course dignity as the people in the bus queue look at you as though you are an idiot.

n Scenario Two: It's a few yards to the bus stop and the double-decker overtakes just yards away from it before piling to a stop right in front of you. It leaves you boxed in by the pavement, the bus and the disembarking passengers.

n Scenario Three: The bus has already stopped a few yards ahead of you and you're forced to overtake it. It then pulls out in a rush pushing you into the middle of the road, and leaving you stranded there facing the traffic as it roars off down the road.

Victoria Road has dozens of bus stops, or so it appears, and by the time I reach the relative sanity of Gorbals Road my nerves are shot and I have to stop for a fag.

Gorbals Road leads to Gorbals Cross where I wobble across a 20-yard stretch of junction, no kerb anywhere near, with traffic breathing down my neck.

Motorists, as has been the order of the day are less than understanding and I get the impression that if I don't reach the other side of the junction and get out of their way quickly they'll just go over the top of me.

By now the smell of exhaust and diesel fumes is overpowering. If I lick my lips I can taste a fine film of some bitter-tasting chemical.

Still I'm nearly at the office and only one more obstacle to surmount - Victoria Bridge. I have seen absolutely no concession to cyclists from the roads' authorities anywhere on my route and this bridge across the Clyde and into the heart of the city sums up their attitude.

On a bike it is an absolute nightmare.

The road is offset from the bridge and I have to cross three lanes of speeding traffic to get in the right position for my exit.

There's a straight run-up to the bridge and as soon as the lights change the cars are off and running. I, on the other hand, am going about 20mph slower than them and am in serious danger of imminent death as I try and move across.

Nobody gives an inch and its only after a driver in a Cavalier waves me on with an agitated two-finger gesture, that appears nowhere in the Highway Code, that I make it to the outside lane. Here, I sit on the only available space, the white line, as buses race towards me, scaring me witless.

The office approaches after 20 minutes or so, about the same time as it would have taken by car. However, I'm not in the best of moods and I still have that shower to take.

Anyone want to buy a bike?