.

.. which isapproximately100{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} better than a dogs’ life. Right about now, two weeks ago, we called Murf for his walk and he wouldn’t come. As Carol and I continued to layer up against a wintry evening, we assumed the warmth of the fire and pull of the rug were understandable reasons not to receive waggy tailed dog.

Investigation proved otherwise. However much we cajoled him, he wouldn’t get up. That rapidly became couldn’t as yelping and obvious discomfort replaced anything close to walking. Or standing; our dog had gone from normal mad charging exuberance to static pain in less than 30 minutes. He was still wagging his tail and trying to please, but not trying to get up. Murf is 4 years old and for 3 and a half of those has been an integral part of our family life. Now he was obviously broken and we’d no idea why, or – more importantly – what to do next.

A call to the vet suggested we needed to find a way to transport a 35kg labrador 7 miles to Ledbury. A call next door delivered a worried babysitter to console two extremely upset children. They weren’t alone. Pet owners everywhere know exactly how four legged friends weave themselves into the tapestry of your life – threads which pull you together and the absence of which leads to everyone falling apart.

We took a rug and carefully wrapped the confused mutt in a manner which just about allowed two of us to carry him to the car. Reversing the procedure at the vet’s saw the dog slump to the floor with a lack of life and motion totally alien to every other day of his life. The duty vet, while positive and pleasant, could only suggestdiagnosis’swith scaryconsequenceslike paralysis and serious nerve damage. Whatever it was, it wasn’t going to get fixed that night, and we had to leave him – still lying on the floor – with a look of some hurt, possibly due to the pain, possibly due to pack abandonment.

Heartbroken is a terribly over-used word. And it’s just a dog for Christ’s sake, yes? A pet you know you’ll outlive so grief is at best postponed. And yet the last time I felt this helpless andwretchedwas watching Abi, as a very scared three year old, being wheeled down to an operating theatre to cut into her eye. That ended thankfully well, but the jury was well out on this one.

Carol and I agreed on a positive spin for the kids, but not much else was said. Kids, being kids of course ask direct questions like ‘will Murf die?’ and parents, being parents, lie because they don’t like the sound of the truth. We had a couple of calls from the Vet talking ofanaestheticsand x-rays and possible cracked bones but no promises and certainly no improvement.

That’ll be a night’s sleep none of us will be getting back. Both of us were endlessly restless and when sleep did come, it was filled with unhappy dreams. I’d already sacked off work in case there was talk of saying goodbye and the trauma that’d cause us all, but was still up for ages before a breathless call from the same hard-working overnighter at the surgeryexclaimingwe had a entirely different dog on our hands. The second between her starting thatconversationand me hitting the accept call dial was filled with foreboding that seemed to last for hours.

‘When can you collect him” / ‘how does now work?’ was how it ended ,which started a couple of hours where Murf was ecstatically re-united with the rest of the pack, senior vets pointed out cracked bones and cautioned that there may be further damage. Strict advice over exercise and activity was soberly noted, and an eye watering bill signed without so much as a pause.

He certainly wasn’t totally fixed. Limping around and looking miserable for a couple of days. Since we’d had to reduce his food to 3/4 rations, this may have had a contributing effect. There’s nothing as mournful as a hungry labrador. Especially one that wants to run but isn’t getting off the lead for the next month. Still better than the outcomes we’d all been dreading.

He looks pretty much better now, but we’re not risking anything to get us back to the position of a non moving dog. And the Vet’s honest enough to say they really don’t know if the bone crack was the only cause. For the first few days back, we all held our breath every time he went from supine to upright, and for me it’s still a worry.

He’s a family dog. For all of us he’s our dog. For me, he’s mine, a good listener on long walks exploring new trails, always delighted to see me and never judgemental. Bit stinky and a terrible thief but that’s a fair return on his good points. What you don’t realise is the structure dogs put on your life – when I walked downstairs the morning after the night before with no dog to greet me, it felt as if a huge hole has opened up to swallow a chunk of good stuff I’d never really appreciated.

I’m sure some will scoff at such an emotional outpouring over a mere canine. My response would be they’re missing out on the waggy glue that such a pet brings to a family. And sure we’ll all outlive the labrador, but not for many, many years. 6,7,8 or even 9 years Murf’ll still be around – a bit greyer, a lot slower, probably a bit stuff and doddery. Still I’m not likely to be much better.

It’s a dog’s life alright. I’m glad he’ll be in ours for those extra years. Especially now I know what we’d be missing.

For the statistically unfulfilled, there’s a whole demographic of fun* trapped in the Mountain Biking bell curve. Mostly – if the bottom half of the Internet is to be believed** peopled by tubby middle-aged IT middle managers tediously offsetting a lack of talent and self awareness with expensive wheeled trinkets and DEFCON 1 keyboard warfare.

If you can stay their delusion for long enough to understand their motivation, there will be the trumpeting of how – this year – peaks of awesomeness will be scaled, journeys of a thousand miles shall start with a decent Pinot, and anyway they’ve barely time to waste their time with you because riding bikes is far more important. As soon as they’ve shut down this browser and levered their hippopotamus arse off the sofa.. My good mate and proper writer Dave Barter injects a healthy dose of realism into such aspirations by declaring a strong desire to be ‘a little bit less shit’

For all my predictable digs at fat people who wear Rapha XXL without a hint of irony, this is more than a little displacement activity. And I’ve quite a bit to displace with six months of nightly self medication poorly mixed with zero motivation to ride in the rain. Anyone spending summer in the UK would simply translate that to not riding very much at all. My daily diet of stress, angst, bacon sandwiches, lunchtime pizza and evening wine decimation had the predictable effect of adding a chunk of midriff that has become sentient in its’ fear of mirrors and scales.

No matter, New Year is a perfect time for resolutions or ‘goal setting’ as we IT middle managers pretentiously label it. We’ve all been on those courses where some failed hippy in a suit encourages us to visualise our goals and find expression for our dreams. When asked to ‘share my progress with the group’ I tend to go all Yorkshire and declare my dream is this fucking toe curling embarrassment is going to end soon so my goal of being the first in the bar can be enacted.

Apparently I’m missing the point. But so are they; goal setting for the genealogically lazy scores a similar success profile to slamming open the door, pointing accusingly at the sky and screaming ‘will you stop bloody raining?‘. The only way the insufficiently motivated amongst us can get anything done is to breezily declare, to those responsible for paying wages, that great things of a somewhat nebulous (but great don’t forget that bit) shall be brought forth through a maelstrom of fervent creation Monday week.

Which gives us ample time to stare out of the window, ponder blank documents, consult with our colleagues in an off-site location that may serve something stronger than horrible coffee before sitting on our hands until Sunday Night. At which point the terror-of-being-found-out fires up the crucible of dubious content and the thing hits the deadline still steamingly warm from the printer.

So faced with suffering nonsense of modified lifestyles, hurty no-fun exercise and moderation of everything which staves off the grim in the pursuit of some fanciful outcome many months away, I toast it with a large glass and instead get back to my alchematic research transforming lettuce into bacon. And that’s worked superbly well right upon to the point when – through half closed eyes behind steepled hands – the they-cannot-lie digital scales punched a blow in my flabby solar plexus that read 83.5 kg.

It may have added ‘one at at time‘ as well – I knownot having stumbled off the scales in search of a some reassurance. Maybe in the form of a chocolate biscuit. In old money that’s 3/4 of a stone of fat when compared to my Pre-Mayhem fighting weight. This clearly calls for action even for a man with a mission to single handedly ensure the financial health of Herefordshire’s finest fish’n’chip emporiums.

I’ve not really had a love handle to grab hold of – should you be in the perilous predicament of being asked to do so – in 45 bloody years and I’ll be buggered*** if such horrors shall be dragged about for the remains of my existence. So we need a plan which is like a goal but without committing to anything. Before we decide what’s in, let’s be clear what’s out; body Nazism in some sweaty exercise room with misery for company. My current place of employment has a fantastic Gym on site, entirely without cost but heavily laden with guilt. Honestly, just No. I’d rather run up and down the stairs or beat my head against repeatedly the desk both of which are available activities on my employers time.

I could ride to work. Except it is 100k. A. Day. In winter. I’m nowhere near enough nails for that. Come BST I’ll give it a crack, but 9 hours in the office and 5 more on the bike makes me reconsider the calorific value of buggery. Sure I’ll ride my bikes a bit more but that isn’t going to shift a chunk of chunk. So if we’re not going to be throwing more out, we’d best stop stuffing it in. I’ve moved on from buggery by the way in case that sentence was in any way ambivalent.

Technology offers a solution through the hateful App cheerfully named ‘myfitnesspal‘. Really the developers missed a trick here not calling it somewhat more truthfully ‘get the fuck away from the pie you fat bastard’. The genius of this on screen demon is doubling up your guilt when eating something vaguely pleasurable by insisting you record its calorific value. At the end of which, claxons sound, alarms bray and colours flash to explain you’re exactly one doughnut from certain heart disease and trousers sown from a pair of windsocks.

It’s free of course. Because only a fucking masochistic mentalist would pay real money for it. I suppose 1800 calories day is doable if you’ve no interest in joy entering your life for a few months. Assuming you don’t wish to drink anything other than the stuff fish shag in. So it’s back to no beer in the week, salad not sausages, counting calories not cakes. And deciding twice the misery could halve the time to endure it, three proper sporting events loom worryingly large in the diary; the wentwood 50, the illegally painful FoD Spring Classic, and to start the Dyfi Winter Warmer. Winter warmer my arse, more chance of drowning or frostbite. Fairly sure all competitors will be forced to dress like Captain Oats.

So if you notice a darkening tone to the hedgehog and a few clicks on the grumpiness ratchet be not surprised. Not tonight tho, because Friday night is the weekend and I’ve broken out the grape based therapy. I’m sure the App will have something to say about that, but this is not an issue I have to deal with right now as – due to hunger pangs – I’ve eaten the phone.

* for a given value of fun

** if I have one new years resolution, it is to PUT THE COMPUTER DOWN and walk away from the Internet. You’d have thought 8 hours sat in front of the bloody thing would have sated my desire to attempt communication with those rocking ‘the dummies guide to grammar and logic‘.

*** Maybe not that. Even a spinning class would be preferable.

It’s been a long time since I visited the opticians. How long enquired the serious looking optometrist*. Oh, you know, a while, few years, about seven, ish. I looked at him in the hope this wasn’t going to extend his frown. He looked right back somehow expressing surprise I could see anything at all.

Seven Years? Yep. Contact Lenses every day? Yep. These? – he offered up the brand I’d been sticking in my eyes with nary a concern for 2000+ days. Oh Yes. Hmm – he then carefully placed the lens packet on a nearby table with the care of a UXB professional faced with something from the ‘Properly Evil Warlords Thermonuclear Catalogue‘

Following that worrying sign were a bunch of vision related issues, asking me to confirm or otherwise how many applied to my rheumy eyeballs. Sticky? Yes. Red? Yes. Painful? Yes. Streaming? Yes. I saved him time and me trauma by concluding there would be no ‘otherwise‘ on my diagnosis form.

I’d only crossed the bloody threshold** because Carol had rightly bullied me to make an appointment after an incautious remark re: ‘you see those big matrix signs on the motorway? You do? Excellent, can you tell me what they say“. Now it seemed I’d be lucky to leave with anything other than a prescription for a white stick and a guide dog.

Jon – said optometrist, lovely man especially when confronted by idiots in denial – proceeded to tut and frown his way through a bewildering number of tests involving the traditional ‘what can you read on the board” / “what board would that be?”, stuff with lights, stuff with dye, stuff where air was blasted into your eyeball, before finishing on a peripheral test which put me in mind of the shittest ever game of space invaders.

At the end of this trial by eyeball, Jon cheered me up with some good news ‘you don’t have a brain tumour and your eyes have actually improved since your last eye test’. Awesome news that had me ready to leap from the mastermind shaped chair and make a run for the exit. Not to be, I was pinned to that chair for a while while the horrors of blood vessels growing into the cornea were explained to me along with the retina damage from oxygen starvation, and what exactly happens to a happy eyeball when it’s deprived of moisture.

My shock was so total that I failed to register the additional wonderful nugget that, being an officially old bugger, I’d best get use to the word bifocal in my immediate glasses wearing future. Not that I ever wore my glasses, but we’ll get to that humiliation later. First more upsides; veins not grown into your pupil so you’re not going blind. It can be made a lot better but the damage is done so when you’re really old, cataracts are going to be jolly, but, BEST OF ALL, you can carry on wearing lenses. Not the UXB lenses obviously but something new, clever and – crucially – unblinding.

This is a big thing for me. No lenses, no mountain biking. Hate riding in glasses. Hate glasses really. Not because I’m vain but because they’re just – well – bloody annoying. And, this being a throwback from my 11 year old self turning up at big school with a fresh set of National Health Horrors, I’m mentally unable to admit I need to wear them***

So Jon then offered me a deal where I could wear lenses whenever I wanted – even with some special ones for riding weeks away that gave away the non dominant eye reading prescription for trail laser vision – and a further opportunity not to fuck up what was left of my vision plus some glasses I could wear in public without having people assume I was already blind.

There was a monthly cost of course. Which I immediately signed up for. Sure my inner Yorkshireman was screaming ‘setup’, but then I went home and googled the symptoms. And decided£30 a month was better than having to ever look at those web sites again.

Choosing glasses was somewhere between fun and toe-curlingly embarrassing. Firstly I had to grudgingly hand over my only remaining pair bought some fifteen years ago when – I can’t remember but there can be no other explanation – I was leg wobblingly drunk. True professionals none of the staff actually laughed out loud, although one had to be excused, hand in mouth, to the back of the shop where lung emptying guffaws were audible.

The new pair were branded “Jaguar” which I assume is some car tie up rather than being the choice of the short sighted large cat predator. Enough Inner Yorkshireman remained to rebuff incremental selling on hooky lens benefits and unobtanium materials. The very fact I have purchased glasses with a bifocal lens gave me a depressing sense of managing decline. I’d be buggered if I was going to pay further for the privilege.

I left the shop more than a little chastened. You’ve damaged your eyes not your vision was Jon’s happy parting shot. Entirely avoidable of course, but in the three weeks of new super oxygenating lenses and even occasional glasses wearing, no longer am I ruining what’s left of my vision by chucking two or three new crappy lenses at protesting eyeballs every day.

But reading glasses. Flipping hell. I can’t decide if to give up reading or investigate the possibility of longer arms.

* entire first year of study must focus on ‘how to spell what you’re training to be‘

*** Doctors. Sick People. Hospitals. Very sick People. Dentists: People with teeth falling out. Opticians: People going blind. These establishments do not play well with a man deeply affected by a mortality fear.

*** choice of ‘oi specky four eyes‘ or not being able to see the board. Or spend most of your first year fighting. All three toughen you up a bit.

In what passed for thorough research and due diligence before handing over a life’s savings for our new car, I was re-acquainted with my hatred of car reviews. They are no friend of the cosmically confused. littered as they are with incomprehensible sentences and pointless statistics. “The 63KW direct-rail moon unit delivers a punchy mid range without sacrificing everyday driveability” means nothing to me; I pick out the word punch and go looking or the author.

My favourite critique came from a batty lady who shares my understanding of how cars work. Her diminutive size made boot closure impossible without a small ladder. Or – as would be the first thought of anyone certified clinically insane – shutting it from THE INSIDE having climbed over the sill. Apparently she loved the car because it was possible to release the rear seats while trapped in the boot allowing her to exit via the sunroof. Autocar should sacrifice one of their pompous journo’s and get her reviewing the next Aston Martin.

So after a week with the Yeti, I shall avoid the tedium and banality of those whose life is completed by appending unread contributions to the bottom half of the Internet, and instead compare it to the somewhat pre-loved vehicle it replaced. They are similar only in that each has a wheel in every corner and one stuck usefully in front of the driver. Both have that marketing boxy exterior trumpeting off-road aspirations, and burn oil instead of petrol.

And that’s about it. The x-trail had some proper dirt DNA from the first generation half-truck whereas the Skoda is essentially a jacked up golf thrown together with off-cuts from the Passat’s parts bin. And while the Nissan saved me maroonment in the odd muddy field, it did compromise what I believe car mags label ‘the driving experience‘ elsewhere. Handling specifically; any attempt to corner at over 30 MPH would launch unsecured items – CD cases, Dog, Children, etc into the opposite window only being freed as we wobbled beyond the apex.

Whereupon they’d be unceremoniously dumped somewhere approximating their original location in a whiplash manoeuvre. Watching a 35 Kilogram Labrador experiencing negative G while the driver was cautiously negotiating a roundabout had me considering having the suspension properly furtled*. Not by me of course, with a diagnostic approach based on opening the bonnet and declaring confidently that what we were facing here was an electrical problem- rather the local Garage where that truck had spent rather too much of it’s time under my ownership.

Mainly due to a propensity for eating tyres and brakes, but we shouldn’t forget the tremendously exciting explosion when the French Turbo unit waved a predictable white flag and napalmed its’ remains to the engine bay. I can still place the date, it being exactly four days after I bought the car. Which goes some way to explaining how – in the next three and a bit years – I never really trusted it not to spontaneously combust at an inopportune moment.

In contrast the Yeti feels bulletproof. Something I very nearly had the opportunity to test in the real world, or what passes for it in South Birmingham. Mosely – twinned with the Helmand Province – in the rain is a sight to behold although not – for preference – while stationary waiting for the road to become clear. Clear that is from two young men passing a dull afternoon by punching the crap out of each other having been ejected from a pub doorway some 20 feet away. I couldn’t believe anywhere in the UK could be more depressing. Until I drove into Kings’ Heath.

Anyway I digress. As we’ve established the old x’y didn’t respond well to spirited driving. My new ice cream van is augmented with technology so close to magic it may well be so. Attack a bend that’d have Murf go supersonic in the Nissan, and there’s barely a hint of body roll or fuss even at speeds I’d normally only attain having driven off a cliff. Stopping as well is something now available to me on an everyday basis rather than the trying scenario of hitting the brake pedal, death-gripping the now bucking wheel and bracing for impact.

The engine is a feisty little thing encouraging some happy throttle action even as the dash lights up with ‘you’re killing the planet you heartless bastard‘ . I feel some duct tape may solve that issue. And while I may have lost a tape deck, I have gained so much in entertainment options. A SatNav that doesn’t attempt to route me through Reykjavik is pleasing as are Audio CDs in the boot-6 changer and my entire rubbish music collection squeezed onto an SD card.

All of which can be controlled by either ducking under the dash to randomly stab buttons on the centre console, or whirling various knobs and rollers on the steering wheel. On the upside this allows me to select from one of 24 pre-set radio stations** without having to swallow dive under the passenger seat, but still generally ensures my delight at finding Chris Evans is back on being tempered by ramming a 38 tonne Sainsbury’s lorry lost in my peripheral vision.

700 miles in, any complaints? Not much, the parking sensors scream in apparent pain when faced with anything more substantial than a blade of grass some ten feet away. And the car is now a bespoke colour I’m thinking of as ‘shit brown‘ which is more of reflection of a UK spring than any fault of the car. Oh yes, I can’t seem to find a simple way to fit a bike in.

Here the XT was great taking a fully built bike – even if it would only release it by dragging most of the boot trim with it during a frustrated wrench. The Yeti has many, many clever seating arrangements, none of which seem to have been specifically designed for accommodating muddy and spikey mountain bikes. First I tried removing the rear seats. Well one of them anyway only to be thwarted by their mass which is similar to a well apportioned mid terrace.

Bowed by unbroken, I flipped them forward which sort of worked for the outer two but the middle seat formed a splitter group and refused to lie flat. A quick glance at the manual confirmed that it was entirely flipping useless. A rather longer internet surf suggested this was a well known ‘feature‘ and you’d be better off buying a bigger car if it caused you any sort of problem.

The other obvious solution is a towbar which I have both ordered and paid for. On backorder apparently which is Salesman speak for “we’ve had your cash and when we say a week, what we really mean is not this week. And not next week either. Best call us next year. It’ll be a week from then”

A not very happy interim is both wheels off and a big tarp to prevent a custom angle grinder interior. Any more than that and I’ll have to pre-equip any riding spot with a full workshop to rebuild the bike before any actual cycling can take place.

Still small price to pay. Oh no sorry it wasn’t. But this week driving to and from work has been – if not fun – more than bearable. But the next person that asks if they can have a Mr. Whippy with a flake is going be feeling the rough end of my pineapple.

* A cross between a ‘furtive glance’ to see if there is anything expensive required and a quick fix’ fettle‘ using a sledgehammer.

** All set to Radio 2 of course. There will soon be a further missive on local radio stations, but not until my legal team have petitioned the BBC for a license refund based on the lifelong trauma inflicting by BBC Hereford and Worcester.