Hilly. Oh so hilly.

That’s what is says against my name in the roll of (the soon to be) dead. It seems the Marin Rough Ride entry system took one look and my date of birth and consigned me to Veteran status. Hence the V. The remainder of the mnemonic roughly translates to “old, fat and useless“.

This was brought home to me during a recce of the ten mile commute that delivers sweaty’Al* to Ledbury station. From there, Brum is a smidge over an hour away and only a escalator shoulder carry separates me from playing with the city traffic. This worries me not at all after surviving London for over two years, but I am mildly perturbed that bikes and commuters can share the same prime time train service.

Try that on Chiltern Railways and they’ll throw you in front of a passing train and pike your head – in plain view of all the other passengers – as an grisly deterrent. Anyway the commute looks fun, deserted roads, a cracking single/cycle track through Ledbury and a pub stop one mile from home. One thing tho, it’s bloody hilly.

* as there is no BLOODY WAY I am doing it in Winter.

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