A year ago there was a bloke who looked a lot like me staggering backwards off the ‘scales of truth’. These electronic gluttony judges emitted a startled parp , while all the time flashing a ‘only one person at a time‘ warning. I seem to remember having to console myself with a biscuit or two* while ingesting the weighty news that my previously ordinarily sized frame now had a large bulge in the middle – and not located in the trouser department.

Sob. Console myself. Biscuit. Rigorous self analysis: not just a round tummy, but a hint of moob, fleshy armpits and a face sagging with the effects of age and un pasteurised cheese. Bugger. Biscuit. Still as a keen cyclist, there’s a lovely simile in that my extra body shape resembled a mountain bike tyre**. H’mm good spot I thought, should reward myself for that. Biscuit.

The solution had little to do with biscuits and much to do with finally admitting I was no longer 25 with a metabolism to match. And a nasty little app which tracked your calorie intake and posted back a weight prediction – in my case on a trajectory similar to the first hour of an Apollo mission. So I ate less and better. Reduced my alcohol intake by at least 50{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} and rode my bike lots and lots.

It felt good. I felt hungry, yet surprised myself with previously unknown willpower when being tempted with cake. I fell off the wagon eventually, but not before dropping a jeans size, losing the moobs and shedding 20 old english pounds from my withered frame. And mostly clambered back on the wagon at various intervals through the the year when guilt or gluttony induced lethargy suggested Salad rather than Sausages.

So yesterday was a far less traumatic weigh in. Bob on 12st, a healthy 16 pounds*** less than the horror of the previous year. That’s more than half the weight of my heaviest mountain bike. Which is sufficient inspiration to set myself an arbitrary target of about half the same again before shivering on the Westwood 50 start line at the start of March. The weekend after is some ridiculous beach race I was duped into entering, and not many weeks after that some tarmac based misery with my name and a 100 miles written on it.

After which, I fear for the Morrisons Biscuit aisle. Expect a crazy middle aged man to arrive with a careering trolley on fire while performing a supermarket sweep of anything with the word Chocolate in it. And then a spin round to lay waste to the Cheese and Wine arrangements. Until then, it’s back to the nasty little app and a mind-powered allergic reaction to cake and much riding.

Started that yesterday. By heck it was muddy which considering our road is underwater shouldn’t have come as a surprise. Still banked the first 20k and will be flipping/flippered out again this weekend. Possibly with a bit of stilton on a stick just ahead of my front wheel 😉

* For context: Chocolate. Packet.

** 26 inch obviously. 27.5 hadn’t been invented. This was 2013.

*** I refuse to go metric. I don’t know what a kilogram is. And even if I did, I wouldn’t trust it. I mean what kind of system works in decimal? Where’s the fun in that?