What have I been doing?
Have been so captivated by the Phillimore Firecracker’s blog that I felt I had nothing to add. Take a look at:
http://phillimore-firecracker.blogspot.com/
Thursday, 16 September 2010
The thigh’s the limit!
After my morning session with Paul at Evans Cycles on the Hill, lunch with my Skinny Friend. I tell her I have been shopping. We often talk about this sort of therapy, and are sometimes even honest about how much we have really spent. It relieves the guilt or do we just re-live the thrill. I tell her that, unusually, I did not get a high from my morning’s purchases. She sympathises and tells me in order to console me and show me that there is still hope to be had from this absurd endeavour that she thinks Stella McCartney may make expensive cycling wear.
Skinny Friend doesn’t think she can fit in 300 kms on a bicycle although she would love to. She tells me that she cycled recently (and I thought I knew everything about her) on the Isle of Sky, Man, Silly or somewhere and that it was wonderful. “After a day”, she says, “I didn’t have any wobbly bits on my thighs”. I nod as if I know what she is talking about, but think that Skinny Friend does not have and has never had any wobbly bits on her thighs or any where else. “You will become so trim and tight”, she trills. This sounds so wonderful, that I decide to order dessert.
Later that afternoon, I speak to Not-So-Skinny-Friend. She tells me that she has had a matrimonial with her husband. She has just told him that she is about to have another puppy. They already have the cast of Pride and Prejudice at home and a bitch. Despite the fact that like the Phillimore Firecracker’s husband, her husband is also into S&M and has multiple partners (where do I find these people?) he has reacted soooo badly to the announcement that she thinks he may be jealous, as he isn’t the father of the idea. To share with her the fact that she is not alone to have problems I tell her about my charity cycle ride.
“You poor thing” she exclaims “all that cycling will give you enormous thighs!”
I swallow. I have just had a hugely calorific dessert in anticipation of losing all my wobbly bits and now I am being told that I will have even meatier thighs than my current thunderers. Fancy My Luck (FML is an expression often used by the Chuckle Brothers to whom I’ve given birth ) trying to raise £10,000 thereby probably losing what friends I had, and if I fail to raise the dosh having to share a single bed and my rations with the Phillimore Firecracker, submitting myself to boring, exhausting and sweaty exercise, endangering my life on a bike on real roads, calluses on my hands, shopping that just feels like expenditure and on top of all that big-ger thighs! What have I let myself in for?
I will have to see who is right on the thigh stakes/steaks: Skinny Friend or Not-So-Skinny-Friend. A tape measure will clearly be an essential tool in this experiment. And if Not-So Skinny-Friend is right, is it reversible?
After my morning session with Paul at Evans Cycles on the Hill, lunch with my Skinny Friend. I tell her I have been shopping. We often talk about this sort of therapy, and are sometimes even honest about how much we have really spent. It relieves the guilt or do we just re-live the thrill. I tell her that, unusually, I did not get a high from my morning’s purchases. She sympathises and tells me in order to console me and show me that there is still hope to be had from this absurd endeavour that she thinks Stella McCartney may make expensive cycling wear.
Skinny Friend doesn’t think she can fit in 300 kms on a bicycle although she would love to. She tells me that she cycled recently (and I thought I knew everything about her) on the Isle of Sky, Man, Silly or somewhere and that it was wonderful. “After a day”, she says, “I didn’t have any wobbly bits on my thighs”. I nod as if I know what she is talking about, but think that Skinny Friend does not have and has never had any wobbly bits on her thighs or any where else. “You will become so trim and tight”, she trills. This sounds so wonderful, that I decide to order dessert.
Later that afternoon, I speak to Not-So-Skinny-Friend. She tells me that she has had a matrimonial with her husband. She has just told him that she is about to have another puppy. They already have the cast of Pride and Prejudice at home and a bitch. Despite the fact that like the Phillimore Firecracker’s husband, her husband is also into S&M and has multiple partners (where do I find these people?) he has reacted soooo badly to the announcement that she thinks he may be jealous, as he isn’t the father of the idea. To share with her the fact that she is not alone to have problems I tell her about my charity cycle ride.
“You poor thing” she exclaims “all that cycling will give you enormous thighs!”
I swallow. I have just had a hugely calorific dessert in anticipation of losing all my wobbly bits and now I am being told that I will have even meatier thighs than my current thunderers. Fancy My Luck (FML is an expression often used by the Chuckle Brothers to whom I’ve given birth ) trying to raise £10,000 thereby probably losing what friends I had, and if I fail to raise the dosh having to share a single bed and my rations with the Phillimore Firecracker, submitting myself to boring, exhausting and sweaty exercise, endangering my life on a bike on real roads, calluses on my hands, shopping that just feels like expenditure and on top of all that big-ger thighs! What have I let myself in for?
I will have to see who is right on the thigh stakes/steaks: Skinny Friend or Not-So-Skinny-Friend. A tape measure will clearly be an essential tool in this experiment. And if Not-So Skinny-Friend is right, is it reversible?
Wednesday, 28 April 2010
You call this shopping? purleaze
Arrange to meet the Phillimore Firecracker at Evans Cycles on the Hill. We look round non-plussed until Matt and Paul take us under their wings. Being sized for a bicycle is very scientific and requires various mathematical formulae to calculate the correct height of the seat/saddle. The angle between the knee and the ankle, when the heel is on the pedal, is measured with a large protractor – I kid you not – and discloses the optimum seat height.
I tell Paul that notwithstanding the mathematical result he has arrived at, the bicycle seat seems much, much too high for me. Paul tells me that I think this because I am a woman. He confides that he knows all about women. The problem with women is that they think they should be able to have their feet firmly on the ground. This is wrong. At any rate if you want to ride a bicycle – properly. “You should be able to touch the ground on tippy-toes” (not Paul’s words but I think this is what he was trying to tell me). “You achieve this by leaving a foot on one of the pedals and leaning forward so as just to be able to stabilise yourself with your other foot’s toe”. What do I know? I haven’t been on a bike since I can remember, and Paul speaks with great authority.
I am concerned to know whether I should purchase the same bike as Mrs B, the top model. Paul looks at me and asks what I will do with the bike after my three day, three country ride. I look blank. What can he possibly mean? We stand in silence. Paul suggests that I might use the bike for long rides in the country, alternatively to dash into town. Neither of these ideas had occurred to me before. I admit that I very much doubt that I will use the bike ever again after I have raised £10,000. He looks disappointed and tells me that I might love cycling. “Yes, and pigs might fly”, I think to myself, but don’t say this to him.
Paul suggests I try the bike out in one of the nearby streets to see how it feels. I tell him that the prospect is too terrifying for words. He tells me I will have to get on it some time. This is obvious, even to me, but I see no point in risking my life just yet. This will have to be something I work up to, slowly.
“In that case, this Specialized Vita Sport Women’s Hybrid Bike at £499.99 is perfect for you”, Paul says. I don’t want to be outdone by Mrs B who has a sparkly low cut black number and ask about her Specialized Vita Elite Women's Hybrid Bike at £649.99. Paul looks uncomfortable for a minute then tells me that Mrs B’s a top model, and the bike he has chosen for me will do just fine. This is the first time I have been in a shop when I have been prepared (in order to keep up with the B’s) to buy a more expensive item, and not been encouraged to do so. Then again I am not familiar with bicycle shops. Paul tells me the bike he has chosen for me is in fact reduced by 15% because it is a 2009 model. I wonder whether he is pulling my leg – a 2009 model? How can one tell? It has no giveaway number plate to date it and looks exactly the same as a 2010 model to me – is there a fashion in bikes? Will I look ridiculous in my last season’s bike? Will the Beautiful People, who won’t have to share a berth as they can each raise £10,000 without breaking sweat, all have Vita Elites rather than Vita Sports? Will they all have 2010 models?
I ask Paul what else I will have to buy. Will I need special shoes? He thinks not. I am disappointed and ask again. “Not yet” he says. This sounds more promising. I like shoes. What else? He takes me to the helmets. I tell him that I want one which won’t ruin my hair. Paul looks completely bemused. I try to explain to him about ‘helmet hair’, but don’t think he gets it. I start to wonder whether Paul does in fact know all about women. He suggests I buy the cheapest version. Again I look disappointed and point to others. He tells me that the helmet he has chosen for me is also made by Specialized and will match by bike. I feel slightly re-assured.
“What else?” Paul tells me I will need gloves. So that I don’t get calluses from the reins or handles or whatever they are called. Unbelievable. Calluses! He suggests I buy two pairs, one thickish for now and then a summer pair. He meets no opposition at this multiple purchase.
“What else?” Paul tells me those are the essentials. I now realise that Paul may know about bicycles but that he knows nothing at all about women and shopping. “What about a yellow jacket thing?” Paul takes me to some very expensive jackets in luminous lime. I decide that I don’t want to spend a lot on a cycling jacket at Evans in case there are more expensive designer models in and about Bond Street – for all I know Donna Karan or DKNY may have just the ticket. I point to a vest in yellow and orange with reflective bits. “But someone might take you for a navvy in that”, he says. I look him in the eye. “Do you think anyone would take ME for a navvy? I ask. He thinks for a moment, then says, “I suppose not”. “I suppose not”, rings in my ears. I wonder whether the only thing which stands between me and a navvy is my fashion-victim wardrobe. If so, what better reason to go on buying designer ensembles.
“More!” Paul says I could buy a lock which could be fitted to the bike and a water bottle. “Great” I think “accessories”.
Paul says he will fit the lock and the bottle to the bike and strip it down (for a safety check?!), put the seat to the right height and that I can collect it shortly. I have arranged to see my Skinny Friend for lunch at 202 and tell Paul that I will be back for the bike when all is done.
What of the Phillimore Firecracker? Well, there isn’t a bike big enough for her, so she orders one. She buys a pair of fingerless gloves she will wear for golf and appoints Matt to be the second person on her team, subject to him being around in September and not cycling round the world/finishing his masters/she knows all about his life ….
After lunch I am back to collect the bike. The seat still looks very very high. I buy a spanner-thing to be able to lower it, even though Paul tells me this is a cardinal sin. I realise that short of walking the bike back under the horrid underpass near Paddy via Venice there is no way of getting it home. I simply can’t ride it (too scared, too many roundabouts, seat too high), my car is in the knackers’ yard and the bike is too big to get into a cab. What to do? Reader, I texted Mr Big to tell him my bike was ready for collection and sauntered off.
Arrange to meet the Phillimore Firecracker at Evans Cycles on the Hill. We look round non-plussed until Matt and Paul take us under their wings. Being sized for a bicycle is very scientific and requires various mathematical formulae to calculate the correct height of the seat/saddle. The angle between the knee and the ankle, when the heel is on the pedal, is measured with a large protractor – I kid you not – and discloses the optimum seat height.
I tell Paul that notwithstanding the mathematical result he has arrived at, the bicycle seat seems much, much too high for me. Paul tells me that I think this because I am a woman. He confides that he knows all about women. The problem with women is that they think they should be able to have their feet firmly on the ground. This is wrong. At any rate if you want to ride a bicycle – properly. “You should be able to touch the ground on tippy-toes” (not Paul’s words but I think this is what he was trying to tell me). “You achieve this by leaving a foot on one of the pedals and leaning forward so as just to be able to stabilise yourself with your other foot’s toe”. What do I know? I haven’t been on a bike since I can remember, and Paul speaks with great authority.
I am concerned to know whether I should purchase the same bike as Mrs B, the top model. Paul looks at me and asks what I will do with the bike after my three day, three country ride. I look blank. What can he possibly mean? We stand in silence. Paul suggests that I might use the bike for long rides in the country, alternatively to dash into town. Neither of these ideas had occurred to me before. I admit that I very much doubt that I will use the bike ever again after I have raised £10,000. He looks disappointed and tells me that I might love cycling. “Yes, and pigs might fly”, I think to myself, but don’t say this to him.
Paul suggests I try the bike out in one of the nearby streets to see how it feels. I tell him that the prospect is too terrifying for words. He tells me I will have to get on it some time. This is obvious, even to me, but I see no point in risking my life just yet. This will have to be something I work up to, slowly.
“In that case, this Specialized Vita Sport Women’s Hybrid Bike at £499.99 is perfect for you”, Paul says. I don’t want to be outdone by Mrs B who has a sparkly low cut black number and ask about her Specialized Vita Elite Women's Hybrid Bike at £649.99. Paul looks uncomfortable for a minute then tells me that Mrs B’s a top model, and the bike he has chosen for me will do just fine. This is the first time I have been in a shop when I have been prepared (in order to keep up with the B’s) to buy a more expensive item, and not been encouraged to do so. Then again I am not familiar with bicycle shops. Paul tells me the bike he has chosen for me is in fact reduced by 15% because it is a 2009 model. I wonder whether he is pulling my leg – a 2009 model? How can one tell? It has no giveaway number plate to date it and looks exactly the same as a 2010 model to me – is there a fashion in bikes? Will I look ridiculous in my last season’s bike? Will the Beautiful People, who won’t have to share a berth as they can each raise £10,000 without breaking sweat, all have Vita Elites rather than Vita Sports? Will they all have 2010 models?
I ask Paul what else I will have to buy. Will I need special shoes? He thinks not. I am disappointed and ask again. “Not yet” he says. This sounds more promising. I like shoes. What else? He takes me to the helmets. I tell him that I want one which won’t ruin my hair. Paul looks completely bemused. I try to explain to him about ‘helmet hair’, but don’t think he gets it. I start to wonder whether Paul does in fact know all about women. He suggests I buy the cheapest version. Again I look disappointed and point to others. He tells me that the helmet he has chosen for me is also made by Specialized and will match by bike. I feel slightly re-assured.
“What else?” Paul tells me I will need gloves. So that I don’t get calluses from the reins or handles or whatever they are called. Unbelievable. Calluses! He suggests I buy two pairs, one thickish for now and then a summer pair. He meets no opposition at this multiple purchase.
“What else?” Paul tells me those are the essentials. I now realise that Paul may know about bicycles but that he knows nothing at all about women and shopping. “What about a yellow jacket thing?” Paul takes me to some very expensive jackets in luminous lime. I decide that I don’t want to spend a lot on a cycling jacket at Evans in case there are more expensive designer models in and about Bond Street – for all I know Donna Karan or DKNY may have just the ticket. I point to a vest in yellow and orange with reflective bits. “But someone might take you for a navvy in that”, he says. I look him in the eye. “Do you think anyone would take ME for a navvy? I ask. He thinks for a moment, then says, “I suppose not”. “I suppose not”, rings in my ears. I wonder whether the only thing which stands between me and a navvy is my fashion-victim wardrobe. If so, what better reason to go on buying designer ensembles.
“More!” Paul says I could buy a lock which could be fitted to the bike and a water bottle. “Great” I think “accessories”.
Paul says he will fit the lock and the bottle to the bike and strip it down (for a safety check?!), put the seat to the right height and that I can collect it shortly. I have arranged to see my Skinny Friend for lunch at 202 and tell Paul that I will be back for the bike when all is done.
What of the Phillimore Firecracker? Well, there isn’t a bike big enough for her, so she orders one. She buys a pair of fingerless gloves she will wear for golf and appoints Matt to be the second person on her team, subject to him being around in September and not cycling round the world/finishing his masters/she knows all about his life ….
After lunch I am back to collect the bike. The seat still looks very very high. I buy a spanner-thing to be able to lower it, even though Paul tells me this is a cardinal sin. I realise that short of walking the bike back under the horrid underpass near Paddy via Venice there is no way of getting it home. I simply can’t ride it (too scared, too many roundabouts, seat too high), my car is in the knackers’ yard and the bike is too big to get into a cab. What to do? Reader, I texted Mr Big to tell him my bike was ready for collection and sauntered off.
Wednesday, 21 April 2010
Interlude - why I am bothered
Dear reader, please take a moment to look at the JDRF video at http://www.thewellingtonappeal.org/video-gallery.asp?play=3 and the Red Cross video at http://www.thewellingtonappeal.org/video-gallery.asp?play=2.
To those of you who have donated, thank you again. I hope the videos give you some idea of how important your donation is.
To those of you who are reading this but haven’t donated to my JustGiving page, or to anyone else’s, or to the charities direct (and I understand there are some of you out there) please consider doing so now. You will see from the videos how much difference you can make.
Dear reader, please take a moment to look at the JDRF video at http://www.thewellingtonappeal.org/video-gallery.asp?play=3 and the Red Cross video at http://www.thewellingtonappeal.org/video-gallery.asp?play=2.
To those of you who have donated, thank you again. I hope the videos give you some idea of how important your donation is.
To those of you who are reading this but haven’t donated to my JustGiving page, or to anyone else’s, or to the charities direct (and I understand there are some of you out there) please consider doing so now. You will see from the videos how much difference you can make.
Tuesday, 20 April 2010
Tuesday telephone ping – very first thing
My mate Fred who calls me ‘Ginger’ PINGS me. He tells me that this is the last PING I will receive from him because he has given up his passé Crackberry for an eye-catching new number.
I sigh. How sad to lose a BBM correspondent. But then Fred has only really been interested in my instant messages when I can tell him – in real time - about some of the extraordinary meetings I attend. Fred never seems to be able to attend these. He always uses as an excuse that he is being whipped. It crosses my mind that we may be talking at cross purposes but I never like to enquire as I fear that he may give me more information than I want to hear.
Between Fred and the Phillimore Firecracker and her S&M lifestyle, I wonder whether I am missing out on something. I think about raising the humdrum of our conjugal felicity with long suffering husband but decide I am happy with our S&M-and-whipping-free-virtual-ménage- à-trois which he, I and Jeremy/Gavin/Andrew enjoy occasionally as we drop off to sleep together. However I would give up each and everyone of those companions any night of the week (apart of course from long suffering husband) for my all-time fave page 3 visitor who beams into our bedroom, of whom I never tire, who always perks me up, who can make any subject shamelessly tacky, who leads me through the cut and thrust of the headlines and the throb of the next day’s news, Kelvin. Kelvin sometimes addresses me as “the viewer” straight to camera, as his intercourse with me is filmed. I (and long suffering husband if he is still awake) may be Kelvin’s only voyeur but at least, if he ever reads this, he should know that there is some body satisfied with his performance.
Fred writes that his sources have told him that I am going away with Mr Big, and wonders if this can possibly be true. Can Fred be jealous? I wonder how Fred can know about my foreign affair when, so far, I have only divulged that I am cycling 270kms to Brussels to long suffering husband and the Phillimore Firecracker. It transpires that he has met Mr Big at the harbour who was bragging about his conquest.
Very worried about this. Mr Big has implied that I am a saddo for not knowing 10,000 people who can each contribute £1 to sponsor me, and yet the only person he and Fred have found in common to speak about that morning is me. Could it be that there aren’t 100 cyclists going on this ride? Could it be that there is only Mr Big and me? I remember with relief that the Phillimore Firecracker has also been roped in and that Mr Big has shown me a sparkly new bicycle bought for his top model wife, Mrs B. Has no-one else been mad enough to agree to this challenge? Shouldn’t there be a Facebook page with photos of lots of Beautiful People?
Fred tells me that, notwithstanding the loveliness of my company, he has said NO to the trip and asks why I haven’t done the same. I tell Fred that I too have said NO to Mr Big. I don’t think he believes me, and he texts back that I should speak louder next time.
I wonder how we will have silent chats like this without BBM, and sigh again.
At the date of posting Fred tells me he hasn’t had the time to read this blog or to follow my twitter (http://twitter.com/downwardcycle - the fact that I have got my head round how to tweet gives you some idea of the lengths to which I am going to raise money for the two charities, JDRF and the Red Cross – not that I have understood the point of twittering**). You, dear reader, have clearly seen my blog – now try my twaddle.
** I have been told that I can tweet my progress minute by minute (?!) on the three day three country ordeal from my mobile if I learn to cycle hands-free between now and September 24. It occurs to me that this might be too much of a good thing - but all suggestions/comments will be gratefully received.
My mate Fred who calls me ‘Ginger’ PINGS me. He tells me that this is the last PING I will receive from him because he has given up his passé Crackberry for an eye-catching new number.
I sigh. How sad to lose a BBM correspondent. But then Fred has only really been interested in my instant messages when I can tell him – in real time - about some of the extraordinary meetings I attend. Fred never seems to be able to attend these. He always uses as an excuse that he is being whipped. It crosses my mind that we may be talking at cross purposes but I never like to enquire as I fear that he may give me more information than I want to hear.
Between Fred and the Phillimore Firecracker and her S&M lifestyle, I wonder whether I am missing out on something. I think about raising the humdrum of our conjugal felicity with long suffering husband but decide I am happy with our S&M-and-whipping-free-virtual-ménage- à-trois which he, I and Jeremy/Gavin/Andrew enjoy occasionally as we drop off to sleep together. However I would give up each and everyone of those companions any night of the week (apart of course from long suffering husband) for my all-time fave page 3 visitor who beams into our bedroom, of whom I never tire, who always perks me up, who can make any subject shamelessly tacky, who leads me through the cut and thrust of the headlines and the throb of the next day’s news, Kelvin. Kelvin sometimes addresses me as “the viewer” straight to camera, as his intercourse with me is filmed. I (and long suffering husband if he is still awake) may be Kelvin’s only voyeur but at least, if he ever reads this, he should know that there is some body satisfied with his performance.
Fred writes that his sources have told him that I am going away with Mr Big, and wonders if this can possibly be true. Can Fred be jealous? I wonder how Fred can know about my foreign affair when, so far, I have only divulged that I am cycling 270kms to Brussels to long suffering husband and the Phillimore Firecracker. It transpires that he has met Mr Big at the harbour who was bragging about his conquest.
Very worried about this. Mr Big has implied that I am a saddo for not knowing 10,000 people who can each contribute £1 to sponsor me, and yet the only person he and Fred have found in common to speak about that morning is me. Could it be that there aren’t 100 cyclists going on this ride? Could it be that there is only Mr Big and me? I remember with relief that the Phillimore Firecracker has also been roped in and that Mr Big has shown me a sparkly new bicycle bought for his top model wife, Mrs B. Has no-one else been mad enough to agree to this challenge? Shouldn’t there be a Facebook page with photos of lots of Beautiful People?
Fred tells me that, notwithstanding the loveliness of my company, he has said NO to the trip and asks why I haven’t done the same. I tell Fred that I too have said NO to Mr Big. I don’t think he believes me, and he texts back that I should speak louder next time.
I wonder how we will have silent chats like this without BBM, and sigh again.
At the date of posting Fred tells me he hasn’t had the time to read this blog or to follow my twitter (http://twitter.com/downwardcycle - the fact that I have got my head round how to tweet gives you some idea of the lengths to which I am going to raise money for the two charities, JDRF and the Red Cross – not that I have understood the point of twittering**). You, dear reader, have clearly seen my blog – now try my twaddle.
** I have been told that I can tweet my progress minute by minute (?!) on the three day three country ordeal from my mobile if I learn to cycle hands-free between now and September 24. It occurs to me that this might be too much of a good thing - but all suggestions/comments will be gratefully received.
Thursday, 15 April 2010
A Tale of Two Gyms - with thanks to Charles Dickens
Wake up early on Sunday, with a sense of belief, and with a sense of incredulity. What did I agree to yesterday? Even counsel of doom could not help me to work out what and why with his incisive cross-examination. Decide to try cycling in a gym to get an idea of what might be in store for me.
When I go out it is one of those lovely March mornings. Can’t make up my mind whether it is the season of Light, or the season of Darkness, the spring of hope, or the winter of despair, whether I have everything before me, or have nothing before me, whether I am going direct to Heaven, or going direct the other way.
Long suffering husband is a member of the Really Awful Club in PM, where he swims regularly and where they also have exercise bikes. The gym is rather nice, despite the name of the club. The exercise bikes have a choice of hundreds of channels of TV and radio. Realise I can’t tune in to any of the entertainment as I have no ear-phones with me to plug into the sound. Try to read one of the Sunday papers. After 20 minutes cycling (at level 3 out of 12) I almost collapse. Legs are stiff and back and shoulders are killing. Reading broadsheets is clearly not a good idea on a bicycle.
Following morning I decide to go to nearby local gym off the Vale, where they offer concessions for those who have seen half a century. The entrance is £1.50. As I now know all about gyms, having visited one the previous day, I have brought with me my earphones. Sadly there is no choice of noise on the bikes, and I cycle in silence. Again for 20 minutes at level 3, but am not sure what the max level is on this bike. Unlike the Really Awful Club this gym does not have fluffy white towels or any towels at all, and of course I haven’t brought one. Leave the gym looking as if I’d swum the channel. It was the session of wisdom, it was the session of foolishness.
In a reverie, I think about the two gyms, revolutions (per minute) and the moveable framework that is La Bicyclette to which I will be sentenced for three days from London to Brussels. I wonder whether it will be the best of times or the worst of times, and whether I will be able to console myself that it is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done. Swiftly decide that there may be some competition for that prize. However after the grueling daily cycles we will endure on the sponsored bike ride it is likely to be a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known - even if I have to share a berth with the Phillimore Firecracker between the Hook and Harwich. Reflect that there is nothing poetic or heroic about the slog of training, pull myself together realising I will need discipline, and a low (very) boredom threshold, to maintain an exercise regime on a gym bike.
Wake up early on Sunday, with a sense of belief, and with a sense of incredulity. What did I agree to yesterday? Even counsel of doom could not help me to work out what and why with his incisive cross-examination. Decide to try cycling in a gym to get an idea of what might be in store for me.
When I go out it is one of those lovely March mornings. Can’t make up my mind whether it is the season of Light, or the season of Darkness, the spring of hope, or the winter of despair, whether I have everything before me, or have nothing before me, whether I am going direct to Heaven, or going direct the other way.
Long suffering husband is a member of the Really Awful Club in PM, where he swims regularly and where they also have exercise bikes. The gym is rather nice, despite the name of the club. The exercise bikes have a choice of hundreds of channels of TV and radio. Realise I can’t tune in to any of the entertainment as I have no ear-phones with me to plug into the sound. Try to read one of the Sunday papers. After 20 minutes cycling (at level 3 out of 12) I almost collapse. Legs are stiff and back and shoulders are killing. Reading broadsheets is clearly not a good idea on a bicycle.
Following morning I decide to go to nearby local gym off the Vale, where they offer concessions for those who have seen half a century. The entrance is £1.50. As I now know all about gyms, having visited one the previous day, I have brought with me my earphones. Sadly there is no choice of noise on the bikes, and I cycle in silence. Again for 20 minutes at level 3, but am not sure what the max level is on this bike. Unlike the Really Awful Club this gym does not have fluffy white towels or any towels at all, and of course I haven’t brought one. Leave the gym looking as if I’d swum the channel. It was the session of wisdom, it was the session of foolishness.
In a reverie, I think about the two gyms, revolutions (per minute) and the moveable framework that is La Bicyclette to which I will be sentenced for three days from London to Brussels. I wonder whether it will be the best of times or the worst of times, and whether I will be able to console myself that it is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done. Swiftly decide that there may be some competition for that prize. However after the grueling daily cycles we will endure on the sponsored bike ride it is likely to be a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known - even if I have to share a berth with the Phillimore Firecracker between the Hook and Harwich. Reflect that there is nothing poetic or heroic about the slog of training, pull myself together realising I will need discipline, and a low (very) boredom threshold, to maintain an exercise regime on a gym bike.
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