Just after I graduated from high school, my parents took me on vacation to England.

My brother was attending school on an exchange with Oxford, and we went across the pond to pick him up.

Generally speaking, I was struck by how the Brits seemed to be stuck in the ’70s — and, believe it or not, this wasn’t the ’70s when I visited — in terms of fashion and general outlook. It was like reliving the disco era.

But I was also impressed by their use of traffic circles.

I’d only been driving a couple of years, and I never got to drive through one of the traffic-calming devices myself, but I thought they were wonderful ways to regulate traffic.

I have no idea why they left such an impression, but they did — rivaling, even, memories of my big night out on my 18th birthday when I “came of age” and went out for my first legal alcoholic beverage.

Honestly, though, I didn’t give the roundabouts much thought again until they started popping up around Lawrence.

Though folks groused, I secretly rejoiced, thinking fondly of my short time in jolly old England.

Before long, though, I came to curse roundabouts like just about everybody else, and for the same reason: Nobody knows how to drive through them.

No, let me take that back. It’s not that NOBODY knows how. You’re good. It’s everybody else. And, of course, it only takes one buffoon to mess up the whole traffic flow in a traffic-calming device.

And if you think circumnavigating a roundabout’s a bear in a car, try it on a bike.

It’s too bad, really, because a roundabout should be a cyclist’s dream. Unlike a stop sign or stop light, a traffic circle allows us two-wheeled travelers the opportunity to preserve momentum without invoking the ire of our caged brethren.

In fact, some cyclists (I’m told) treat stop signs and stop lights as roundabouts and simply roll through.

When I think of cyclists and roundabouts, I invariably think about footage from European bike races like the Tour de France, with cyclists converging on, then swarming around, both sides of the circle like a time-lapse photo of locusts devouring a field.

In reality, cycling through roundabouts is considerably less poetic.

First, it seems all roundabouts are crowned at the center — to account, I’m sure, for drainage. This anti-banking can be a little tricky on a bike; careless cyclists can clip a pedal on the ground.

Second, lots of drivers seem to think it OK on the lesser-traveled traffic circles to cut across the circle to make left turns. Enough vegetation inside the circle tends to hide cyclists on the other side — until it’s too late. I’ve had several close calls on the traffic circle nearest my house.

And then there’s the person who so abhors roundabouts he/she freaks upon nearing one.

More than once I’ve been riding along and approached a roundabout, slowed to time it so that the car to my left would enter and exit the traffic circle before I get there, only to be confronted by a driver who sees me, white-knuckles the steering wheel and bugs out his eyes. I can all but see the hamster turning the wheel upstairs as the thoughts tumble about: “OMG! A BIKE! WHAT DO I DO? LET’S SEE, YIELD TO THE LEFT? NO, THE RIGHT. NO … WAIT … SPEED UP? NO … I KNOW! SLAM ON THE BRAKES!”

Inevitably, the mental giant comes to a complete stop inside the roundabout, motioning frantically for me to ride ahead as all traffic grinds to an inglorious halt and stubbornly refusing to move until I do. I oblige, sheepishly pedaling past all the dirty looks.

Hey, don’t blame me. Blame it on the bloody Brits.