Sunday, 4 May 2008
Bank holiday weekend and I'm full of Ibuprofen, Paracetamol and Codeine. A sneeze, a poor lift and turn and a bag of shopping invited a weak disk in my back to make it's presence felt once more.
So, having been liberated by the disinhibition of opiates, I dashed off a quick letter to the Observer, encouraging them to drop the Horoscope page and then sat and read the rest of the magazine, hoping to find something to inspire my entry today.
No luck. So, back on the bike then. (It's better to keep moving I find). No inspiration, just good old fashioned exercise induced thought!
There are many things about cycling that conspire to discourage you from ever doing it again. There are the foolish, life threatening actions of motorists for a start. I have known two people killed on their bikes on quiet roads and I think of them every time I climb aboard.
The inclination to consider you either,
a) a pedestrian with very big roller skates or,
b) a slow motorcyclist
causes major problems as the car driver attempts to compensate for your being on the same planet by accelerating past you. Often shouting abuse. Sometimes with a klaxon.
The wind. I have come to hate those tedious moments when you feel as if your forward progress is being unfairly hindered by a force ten gale only to be confounded as you look at the surrounding flora and see no sign of a zephyr. Fabulously quiet, speedy runs on the flat are only possible when there is a complimentary following wind.
The wrong gear. Just because you have access to 24 gear speeds doesn't mean you need more than 3. Struggling along in racing mode isn't big, nor is it clever. It won't make you any fitter either.
Dropping from 24 to 1 without thinking and losing your chain.
The state of British tarmac.