… and I’m bad. Bad tempered because I packed a chest infection to go to Scotland. It accompanied me on three rides weighing me down and holding me back up the hills. Bad riding meant this didn’t matter much because it took me almost as long to go back down again, and this time I had no medical complaint to blame. If I may paraphase Swiss Tony “Corners are like a beautiful woman, fantastic when pumped and taken at speed but not quite so much fun if molested by a shuddering panic and sworn at”
I was bad at hangovers but good at drinking including a first night lager train crash that rendered me almost blind come the morning. And considering what happened late in the bar, this was clearly an act of kindness. I’ll say no more than nurses uniform, hairy bloke, drunken mates and phone camera. It was beyond ugly and still travelling when passing obscene, ungodly and probably illegal.
Here a few photos of men on bikes. Evidence of the previous paragraph was forever consigned to the great digital dustbin in the sky once I’d eaten the phone. It seemed the right thing to do.
Next week, I’ll be 40. Although friends have advised me not to start any long books and to put my affairs in order on hearing a hacking cough which is a close medical twin to tuberculous. If my peak flow doesn’t creep over 450 again soon, I’m going to buy a bungalow because stairs are just too bloody challenging.
It was fun actually. Not the cough but everything else. But then bikes, beer, sun, stupidity and great friends usually is. Until the incident with the dress and the concept that having sex with three or more vegetables should be properly called a “medley”. Or that the best way to treat a weeping wound is to “Stella-rise” it.
You probably had to be there.