Racing home from work, checking constantly that it wasn't going away, in anticipation of finally managing to get a ride in before it changed again. This time last year I had managed to cycle every weekend and, after the clocks had changed, at least once in the week as well. This year? Well, I think I can count on one hand how many rides have been accomplished.
What the hell has happened to this weather? Has God really filled his bath too full allowing the constant cascading of liquid to descend on us? Who has upset all the Angels that they cannot stop crying? Global warming..I think not. What ever is causing this, it's certainly narking everyone off but at least you can use your hose pipe now!
Anyway, where was I? A quick change into the Lycra, a pump up of the tyres, crank the music up on the iPhone and we're away. A quick sprint and hill climb....back in an hour.
Well, that's what I thought. The hill I climbed so easily last year seemed to have got steeper and higher. The brakes seemed to be binding, surely? And where the hell did all these pot holes come from?
Onwards and upwards I went, pretending to be fit, trying to look cool when other riders passed on the other side, but feeling my heart banging on my rib cage as I quickly ran out gears.
Eventually, I rode the crest of the hill to face incline number two. An undulating, deceiving little blighter which, after burning the quads on the previous incline, felt like an anchor had been chucked out behind me. Frantic slurping of the SIS juice was made in a vain attempt to rehydrate when Mr Volvo decided to try and turn me into a sideways ejector seat - at least he was safe behind his two million air bags and five tonne of steel bracing!
The sun shone more, wow what a novelty. It really was staying out to play for the whole evening.
I was at the summit, over seeing the beautiful English countryside, feeling pleased to be there. Now, I didn't want to go in, I wanted to cycle all night. I was, after all, Andy Schleck...
...until I realised I had come the wrong way. A 13% descent with a vertical climb out of the village. By now I was blowing, legs burning, sweat running into my eyes, burning like tear gas. Please, I don't want to meet any cars on this climb. There's only room for one of us and I'm snaking like a lizard, no way will I have the energy or will power to un-clip from my pedals - doomed to fall over like a domino.
There! Finally back on the main road, not meeting Mr Volvo again. What a relief.
The Odo clicks 37mph, the breeze cooling, if not chilling, my arms as I bomb down back to civilisation, the miles clicking faster, me feeling fitter now because I'm free wheeling.
I look to the right. A young mountain biker sits at the roundabout, oblivious as to what I had gone through. The passion for losing timber and fitness.
Back home, the family are also oblivious, feet up. One on the computer, one head in the telly and one in a magazine.
"Good ride, Babe?" she asks, head still in the magazine.
"Great thanks. Do you want to see the stats on my App?", feeling so proud of myself.
Just a nonchalant response came my way: "Ssh, I'm nearly at the end of this article. And hurry up and have a shower, there's no way your parking your backside on the sofa!".
In other words, 'whateva', I really don't give a damn - you're on your own pal. Does she not appreciate what I have just achieved?
Next time, I guess I'll do it with the lads - at least we can waffle about it all night over a beer.
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