Since the myth was dispelled back in March, not much has changed other than the continuing gentle slide into middle age which apes the angle of the beer repository. The other morning though, a level of previously unattained fitness visited my commute, albeit briefly.

I was at one with my big ring, but what a monster curry that had been, a real bog roll in the fridge” encounter with a Jalfrazi cooked on Satan’s own burners. Toilet gags you see, always get a laugh. No? Ok even the small commuting hillocks warrant a shift in the ’39, when weighed down with the lead lined laptop and an early morning start. But today, I was shifting upwards and onwards chasing slow moving traffic and actually having to lean the bike through corners. Those passing car drivers, mouths forming an incredulous O, were privy and privileged to see a cycling titan at the peak of his physical powers.

Even a delayed train journey in no way shattered my aura. Taxi, buses and the odd scooter were left chocking in their own dust as BigRinged’Al burst through the traffic like an incredible bursting bursty thing (it’s the simile writers day off). A deep and manly laugh escaped my huge air chambers as those impotent zoo animals in their cages were blitzed and humiliated by a biker on speed. Even my fellow commuters were little more than instantly forgotten notches on my cycing bedpost (probably should have given the metaphor boy the day off as well, apologies for that).

Arriving at work, flushed with success, I strode as a colossus through the ranks of pod based gerbils and sat astride my mighty winged chair, a God of fitness, a man bethroned by greatness, an icon of athleticism. (It appears metaphor boy may have been on the mind altering substances again). A single deep breath almost emptied the building of air such was my capacity for life.

It felt quite good actually.

Obviously the journey home was joyfully awaited with visions of Ferrari’s being contemptuously dispatched as the lights dropped green and tarmac being shredded under the power of my mighty thighs. I began to consider accessorising the bike with fins and spoilers to aid downforce, such was the potential for mechanical based flight.

But 30 seconds out of the garage, the vision collapsed, reality rushed in and the true horror of the façade was not only brought home, but had barged in and taken the best chair in front of the telly.

It wasn’t fitness. It was a 20 MPH tailwind. Which was now a 20 MPH Headwind and trees suddenly looked fast.

But if that’s what it feels like, wow it’s almost worth giving up beer and cakes for. Note the careful use of the word, almost.