Like a perfect 10, except for slack people. For the last week, my arse has been firmly rammed in the saddle* for at least an hour a day, regardless of the moaning of the wind. It could be heard for miles: “bloody hell, my legs hurt, this isn’t fair, can I stop now please.. and on… and on”
As for the wind – vegetables are the bellows of the Devil so I cannot be held responsible for unleashing something so nasally irresponsible. The bowels of hell if you will.
The balmy weather of Friday evening was a first swallow to summer prelude of the barmy weather now hailing at my window. So I mosied out resplendent in just a single layer of everything to spend two hours carrying my bike over muddy fields. A nice walk spoiled by a bicycle.
Forget those expensive WWII Normandy trips, just find a bridleway in the Chilterns and be transported back to Flanders. And while it may lack the authenticity of incoming shells and body parts, the local landowners are generally happy to oblige with shotguns and border repelling ‘Oi, get off my land‘
While all my favorite trails were closed for fun, the pub was both open and serving a rather lovely pint. Tomorrow we’re going for a tremendously dull day house hunting in the sleet and snow. Following that I shall replace riding with checking the forecasts for Perpignan and trying not to injure myself before flying there.
I tried that last time and it was rubbish.
* Keen to do another Max Mosely joke. Keen not to get sued.