VecchioJo's blog

A mile down the road and something feels not quite right. Pat head, there's a cap there but I've forgotten my helmet. Ah. Dolt. Turn round back home and put helmet on.

Start again.

25 miles later reach round to back pocket for a munchie bar. Ah. Dolt. I've forgotten to pack some munchie bars, and no spare inner-tubes either. Double ah.

 Nearly faint on the way to fetch fish'n'chips, I think I may have ridden myself empty.

Should have got large chips.

Ooooh, Jaffa Cakes.

Ride all the way down the long road, do a time-trial turn at the mini-roundabout at the end and head home just to get the days mileage up to 80.

78.2 just wouldn't have done.

Both knees - skin missing.
Right elbow - compact hole.
Tights - hole.
Shorts - hole.
Undervest - hole.
Handlebar Tape - holed and scuffed.
Saddle - scuffed.

As a cyclist, no matter how right you are, and no matter how any motorists get out their car to tell him he was driving like a twat, you sometimes come off worse, although kicking dents in the door is small recompense.

Where's the scrubbing-brush?

Last minute "see you at the caff" arrangement to meet up with the road ride, ride up on my own, the short quick way, quite a grey and mizzly struggle, iPod on LOUD.

At the top of the last hill before the caff I get a feeling in my water that they're just behind me, stop and get rid of the water in a hedge then cruise back down a few hundred metres and there they are, strung out.

Swing round, join in, chat. Apparently the average speed goes up 2mph.

End of the ride, sitting at the lights supping a well earned take-out mocha (two fat sugars please), lights go green, ooops, down the last inch in one, the bit with all the sugar and chocolate in, and wodge the cup in my mouth. Sprint to keep with the orange Dyno-Rod van and tuck in behind for a happy slipstream. For the next mile or so it's a wavering 28ish, and he's braking and accelerating gently, he must know I'm here. It's quite hard to breathe through a paper-coffee-cup but I haven't got the time or the nerve to take my hands away from the brakes and stuff it in my pocket.

A few 'cross rides in now and the legs are used to going round and round and round again, the long slow drag up to where I once was is hard. There have been tired legs, there has been 'I used to be able to ride twice as far as this', there has been effort and reward. But it is now time to step up to the plate and get back on the road bike and an easy group ride with friends offers the perfect opportunity. A gentle ride along the coast taking in The Best Bit Of Tarmac Ever, turn round for home the pretty way via a pint in the pub.

Two months off with That Cold That's Been Going Around has led to lung of mouse and leg of crane-fly, but I'm more than ready now, and gagging, to go for a ride. But if I venture out on the road bike I know I'm going to get far too excited about being out in the fresh air, become giddy with the speed, and giggly at the mere sheer joy of being on a bike again, go too far and too fast. And die.