Thursday, 22 October 2009
Today I has been spent sat at my desk staring into my laptop pretending to write reports. I have tapped keys, frowned, pretended to be engrossed and missed conversations, nodded and laughed when necessary, looked preplexed, confused, consulted notebooks for imaginary facts, shifted from one bum cheek to the other to stop them from hurting, drunk tea, coffee, tea, coffee, tea, coffee, rubbed my chin, scratched my head, looked to the strip lights for inspiration, fobbed off phone calls, slacked my tie, filled my stapler, yawned, stretched, chewed my lip, bitten my fingernails, eaten my lunch at my desk. 8 hours searching the internet god I'm knackered.
Monday, 20 July 2009
Manchester to Blackpool
In answer to the earlier question posted regarding my fitness, the answer is yes and no. Am I fit enough to complete a 100k bike ride, yes, just, and probably never again. I hadn’t prepared as well as I should, and I knew this but I kept convincing myself as I sat in front of Coronation St with a large brew and endless supply of Chocolate Digestives that, because I had managed a couple of 30 mile rides, that 62 point whatever miles is equal to 100k, would be manageable.
The morning started early 5am to be exact. A healthy breakfast of porridge and bananas was washed down with an isotonic fluid drink and positive thoughts. I had, following advice, purchased 2 brand new road tyres the previous day. These new tyres were to replace my current ‘tractor tyres’ and allow me to glide over the road surface instead of chewing it up, that’s the sales patter given to me by the cycle shop owner.
My two cycling companions fully kitted out with colour coordinated outfits, aerospace technology cycles had spent the previous evening resting, re-hydrating and filling up on carbs.
Yours truly was, sporting a dishevelled old cagoule, a borrowed pair of padded cycling shorts, borrowed cycling socks (apparently they have padding in them???) borrowed fingerless cycling gloves, these made me feel like Fagen and it was all I could to do to refrain from bursting into a very poor rendition of “You’ve got to pick a pocket or two. And with that the double-decker bus transporting us to the Old Trafford starting line pulled out of the car park. Like the riders the bikes were of all different colours, conditions. It was obvious to spot those who would be home, feet up and enjoying a Sunday morning bacon buttie, before some of us reached Wigan. Alternatively, there was one participant who was dressed as a Clown riding a small childs bike and is still out there somewhere yet to complete the course.
It was 7.30am when I turned my back on Salford Quays and headed towards the salty air and seaside thrills of Blackpool. I had surpassed my previous personnel best distance of 30 miles and by 11am I was refuelling with Gatorade at Preston Docks after completing the first 40 miles. Despite a slight twinge in my right thigh I was feeling fairly good and trying to envisage the remainder of the route, we had been given a map but mine was performing cartwheels in Wigan somewhere. It was about this time that things began to go slightly of course.
The route to Blackpool was not the one I had convinced myself would be taken, instead a tour of Salwick, Lea, Barton and other places I never knew existed totally threw me and my concentration. This route culminated with a short, steep, sadistic hill in Kirkham that resulted in an elderly gentleman overtaking me in his “Super Scooter” and fellow cyclist bemoaning “This isn’t Cricket” My internal sat nav re-programmed the route was convinced of a right turn at the next lights. The signpost instructed us to carry on straight ahead and into to the welcoming arms of a head wind.
This is where it nearly ended, Freckelton. By now my thigh was burning, my arse was sore and butting my head against a blustering head wind was beginning to demoralise me. I had geared down a few miles beforehand and whilst my wheels were still going round I wasn’t really making much progress. My mood was not enhanced by the constant passing breeze of other cyclists over my right shoulder. At one set of lights a cyclist asked the steward how much further “8 miles” she replied, it was not an encouraging figure.
Lytham, all along the coast road, again, with my minds eye I was planning the route to the finishing line. Again I was to be disappointed. Maybe it was the head wind but I never realised Lytham was so bloody long. Fairhaven Lake came and went as tiny grains of sand pricked my salt stained skin like tiny arrows being fired from archers hid amongst the sand dunes. One unlucky riders chain decided to give up the ghost 5 miles from the finish line. He was last seen launching the bike into the Irish Sea.
The finish line was embellished with expectant relatives clapping and cheering, as riders scanned the crowds for loved ones and the smell of fried onions filled the air. And that was that by 1.30pm I had completed the course, devouring my way through a greasy Blackpool burger and salivating at the thought of a cold beer. Had it been worth it? Yes. Would I do it again….. the decision is currently being debated by a jury re-hydrating with cold beer.
The morning started early 5am to be exact. A healthy breakfast of porridge and bananas was washed down with an isotonic fluid drink and positive thoughts. I had, following advice, purchased 2 brand new road tyres the previous day. These new tyres were to replace my current ‘tractor tyres’ and allow me to glide over the road surface instead of chewing it up, that’s the sales patter given to me by the cycle shop owner.
My two cycling companions fully kitted out with colour coordinated outfits, aerospace technology cycles had spent the previous evening resting, re-hydrating and filling up on carbs.
Yours truly was, sporting a dishevelled old cagoule, a borrowed pair of padded cycling shorts, borrowed cycling socks (apparently they have padding in them???) borrowed fingerless cycling gloves, these made me feel like Fagen and it was all I could to do to refrain from bursting into a very poor rendition of “You’ve got to pick a pocket or two. And with that the double-decker bus transporting us to the Old Trafford starting line pulled out of the car park. Like the riders the bikes were of all different colours, conditions. It was obvious to spot those who would be home, feet up and enjoying a Sunday morning bacon buttie, before some of us reached Wigan. Alternatively, there was one participant who was dressed as a Clown riding a small childs bike and is still out there somewhere yet to complete the course.
It was 7.30am when I turned my back on Salford Quays and headed towards the salty air and seaside thrills of Blackpool. I had surpassed my previous personnel best distance of 30 miles and by 11am I was refuelling with Gatorade at Preston Docks after completing the first 40 miles. Despite a slight twinge in my right thigh I was feeling fairly good and trying to envisage the remainder of the route, we had been given a map but mine was performing cartwheels in Wigan somewhere. It was about this time that things began to go slightly of course.
The route to Blackpool was not the one I had convinced myself would be taken, instead a tour of Salwick, Lea, Barton and other places I never knew existed totally threw me and my concentration. This route culminated with a short, steep, sadistic hill in Kirkham that resulted in an elderly gentleman overtaking me in his “Super Scooter” and fellow cyclist bemoaning “This isn’t Cricket” My internal sat nav re-programmed the route was convinced of a right turn at the next lights. The signpost instructed us to carry on straight ahead and into to the welcoming arms of a head wind.
This is where it nearly ended, Freckelton. By now my thigh was burning, my arse was sore and butting my head against a blustering head wind was beginning to demoralise me. I had geared down a few miles beforehand and whilst my wheels were still going round I wasn’t really making much progress. My mood was not enhanced by the constant passing breeze of other cyclists over my right shoulder. At one set of lights a cyclist asked the steward how much further “8 miles” she replied, it was not an encouraging figure.
Lytham, all along the coast road, again, with my minds eye I was planning the route to the finishing line. Again I was to be disappointed. Maybe it was the head wind but I never realised Lytham was so bloody long. Fairhaven Lake came and went as tiny grains of sand pricked my salt stained skin like tiny arrows being fired from archers hid amongst the sand dunes. One unlucky riders chain decided to give up the ghost 5 miles from the finish line. He was last seen launching the bike into the Irish Sea.
The finish line was embellished with expectant relatives clapping and cheering, as riders scanned the crowds for loved ones and the smell of fried onions filled the air. And that was that by 1.30pm I had completed the course, devouring my way through a greasy Blackpool burger and salivating at the thought of a cold beer. Had it been worth it? Yes. Would I do it again….. the decision is currently being debated by a jury re-hydrating with cold beer.
Wednesday, 8 July 2009
Wednesday, 24 June 2009
These babies arrived today, and I'm rather happy.
However, it wont be long before the soft delicate suede is deformed by some clod hopping size 10 moron the first time they're worn.
Until i master the invisable force field I'm designing in order to protect them I shall embalm them in suede protector and woe betide anyone who comes within a 20 metre radius. You've been warned!!!!!
Monday, 8 June 2009
Help! Has anyone seen my mojo
Maybe it’s something to do with the sultry balmy weather that threatened to raise our hopes of a summer comparable with those of our youth, before drowning our hopes and reverting to type.
Maybe its something to do with my new half pint demanding her daily 4am feeds, or maybe its down to the enforced abstinence of alcohol.
Whatever the reason, my Mojo has not only left its packed up, shipped out and emigrated. It’s currently horizontal on a hot sandy beach, having its toes cooled by a tropical aqua marine ocean whilst drinking, through a straw, freshly prepared cocktails from a garishly adorned glass.
By Mojo I mean the ability to concentrate and write anything other than drivel. I know that covers most of what has been posted so far on this blog but I do try to write seriously.
So, should you find my Mojo on said beach, please ask it to come home, there is a chap sat staring blankly into his laptop in need of a "yeh baby" moment.
Maybe its something to do with my new half pint demanding her daily 4am feeds, or maybe its down to the enforced abstinence of alcohol.
Whatever the reason, my Mojo has not only left its packed up, shipped out and emigrated. It’s currently horizontal on a hot sandy beach, having its toes cooled by a tropical aqua marine ocean whilst drinking, through a straw, freshly prepared cocktails from a garishly adorned glass.
By Mojo I mean the ability to concentrate and write anything other than drivel. I know that covers most of what has been posted so far on this blog but I do try to write seriously.
So, should you find my Mojo on said beach, please ask it to come home, there is a chap sat staring blankly into his laptop in need of a "yeh baby" moment.
Tuesday, 19 May 2009
Would You?
Don't you just love politicians, maybe not as much as your partner, children or your last trip to the oil fields of Azerbaijan. Nevertheless, those upstanding, members of the community, chosen by the General Public to represent us, and our views, which given the current crop of Artful - expense - Dodgers says a lot about us and our choices, a bit like the Saturday evening line up on I.T.V.
The whole country is up in arms about M.P's and their expenses. Well, those Moats are not going to self-clean are they? And if you think I'm going to pay for, and fit, my own light bulbs, to read letters from my constituents, then you're sadly mistaken my good man.
After all I am a member of Parliament, and you, dear tax payer, are here to ensure I never have to break into the paltry salary paid to me for sitting on my self important ass (sorry working my ass off) trying to get bills passed that will enable me to pocket more cash, and finally fall asleep in the House of Lords.
But if you were in the same position at work, and allowed to get away with it would you?
Who wouldn’t claim for a Plasma T.V?
Who wouldn’t 'Flip' there house, get it decorated & furnished, sell it, and keep the profit you'd made?
Who wouldn’t claim £400 a month for food shopping?
I know I would. If my boss or my company was so slack on monitoring expenses I would claim for everything possible. The problem lays not so much with M.P's, although the 'Gimp' who claimed for a remembrance reef should be forced fed a diet of daytime T.V until his head explodes, as with the system.
That’s not to say I agree with the self serving assholes and their lame apologises, of "lapses in judgement" "oversights" or "errors of accounting" it's just, what did we expect from them?
Are we, as a country not used to being disappointed, let down and infuriated by those, we, choose to represent us?
It's been going on for years, Profumo, Milligan, Thorpe, Mandelson, Cash for Questions, Peerages for sale, or those pesky Weapons of Mass Destruction, and so on.The surprise is not that they have been scamming their expenses it is the extent, to which they have taken their privileges, that’s has caused the outcry. Along with the realisation that they have finally run out of Vaseline and its begining to smart.
If you're going to rape and pillage a country replicate the 'Vikings' do it with hate, venom and without remorse, grow a set of balls and screw the arse out of it. Their spokesman wasn’t issuing apologises about "miscalculations or promising to rebuild the torched villages".
Not a chance, the rampaging Vikings were claiming everything insight and damn anyone else, sound familiar. Except the Norse warriors brandished weapons of mass destruction instead of fabricating them.
I'm far from politically active, in fact I'm fairly submissive on that score, not to the extent of Stephen Milligan (I don't like Oranges or choking myself while raising my flagpole) you understand. However, I, like most people I expect, I'm quite content to bumble along, pay my taxes, and let them get on with ruining, sorry, running the country.
As an old chap I used to work with once said
"It’s not right, but, if you're half way through a blow job and discover its being administered by a Transvestite, would you stop?"
Well would you?
The whole country is up in arms about M.P's and their expenses. Well, those Moats are not going to self-clean are they? And if you think I'm going to pay for, and fit, my own light bulbs, to read letters from my constituents, then you're sadly mistaken my good man.
After all I am a member of Parliament, and you, dear tax payer, are here to ensure I never have to break into the paltry salary paid to me for sitting on my self important ass (sorry working my ass off) trying to get bills passed that will enable me to pocket more cash, and finally fall asleep in the House of Lords.
But if you were in the same position at work, and allowed to get away with it would you?
Who wouldn’t claim for a Plasma T.V?
Who wouldn’t 'Flip' there house, get it decorated & furnished, sell it, and keep the profit you'd made?
Who wouldn’t claim £400 a month for food shopping?
I know I would. If my boss or my company was so slack on monitoring expenses I would claim for everything possible. The problem lays not so much with M.P's, although the 'Gimp' who claimed for a remembrance reef should be forced fed a diet of daytime T.V until his head explodes, as with the system.
That’s not to say I agree with the self serving assholes and their lame apologises, of "lapses in judgement" "oversights" or "errors of accounting" it's just, what did we expect from them?
Are we, as a country not used to being disappointed, let down and infuriated by those, we, choose to represent us?
It's been going on for years, Profumo, Milligan, Thorpe, Mandelson, Cash for Questions, Peerages for sale, or those pesky Weapons of Mass Destruction, and so on.The surprise is not that they have been scamming their expenses it is the extent, to which they have taken their privileges, that’s has caused the outcry. Along with the realisation that they have finally run out of Vaseline and its begining to smart.
If you're going to rape and pillage a country replicate the 'Vikings' do it with hate, venom and without remorse, grow a set of balls and screw the arse out of it. Their spokesman wasn’t issuing apologises about "miscalculations or promising to rebuild the torched villages".
Not a chance, the rampaging Vikings were claiming everything insight and damn anyone else, sound familiar. Except the Norse warriors brandished weapons of mass destruction instead of fabricating them.
I'm far from politically active, in fact I'm fairly submissive on that score, not to the extent of Stephen Milligan (I don't like Oranges or choking myself while raising my flagpole) you understand. However, I, like most people I expect, I'm quite content to bumble along, pay my taxes, and let them get on with ruining, sorry, running the country.
As an old chap I used to work with once said
"It’s not right, but, if you're half way through a blow job and discover its being administered by a Transvestite, would you stop?"
Well would you?
Thursday, 14 May 2009
Lillies in May
The lyrics below belong to Nick Drake (the chap in b&w picture top right) I have posted them on my blog in order to celebrate the arrival of my new baby daughter.
Northern Sky
I never felt magic crazy as this
I never felt magic crazy as this
I never saw moons knew the meaning of the sea
I never held emotion in the palm of my hand
Or felt sweet breezes in the top of a tree
But now you’re here
Brighten my northern sky
I’ve been a long time that I’m waiting
Been a long time that I’m blown
I’ve been a long time that I’ve wandered
Through the people I have known
Oh, if you would and you could
Straighten my new mind’s eye
Would you love me for my money
Would you love me for my head
Would you love me through the winter
Would you love me ‘til I’m dead
Oh, if you would and you could
Come blow your horn on high
I never felt magic crazy as this
I never saw moons knew the meaning of the sea
I never held emotion in the palm of my hand
Or felt sweet breezes in the top of a tree
But now you’re here
Brighten my northern sky
Brighten my northern sky
Saturday, 9 May 2009
Think Big!!
Miami International Airport.
Bags deposited - Beer in hand - Ipod on, and Ian Brown is still searching for his star.
I've just returned from a week working on Sanibel Island. Where? You may well ask. Sanibel Island a euphemism for 'The village of the Dammend'. A place affluent leather hide Floridians await the Reaper and bemoan the youth, a bit like Eastbourne I suspect. I've been working in underground storage tanks and sharing Bud Light with a man mountain named Jessie.
Bud Light, what the f$%k!! invented for the image conscious bagman.
The T.V I've seen whilst here is depressing, worse even than Channel 5 or BBC 3, yes, that bad. I wish one of the electrical storms would strike the T.V Station. Everyone has a 4 wheel drive, the roads are like Kirea Knightly's chest, but you 'gotta have a Truck, man'.
Sunday, a day of rest. Jessie was taking his 'friend' back home to Tampa, so I played Gooseberry. The 'ride' bounced along to the sound of over produced 80's Soul, Jessie and his 'friend' holding hands while I to their astonishment, named them all, Losse Ends, Luther Vandross etc, (its not a talent I'm particularly proud of).
I wished Jessie's 'friend' goodbye and stayed in the 'ride'. On his return Jessie informed me we would nip round and see his Wife Twanda!!!! this was on top his Latino Girlfriend who would ring confessing undying love, five minutes after promising to deprive him of his obviously, over active, manhood.
We arrived in a neighboorhood named Temple Terrace, means nothing to me either. I was introduced to Twanda, her parents and numerous branches of the family. Before you could say pass me the wrench, I was under Jessie's father-in-law's sink with a wire coat hanger in hand, attempting to remove a blockage.
My Boss had sold this trip to me and I quote as a 'Shagger', it was then I realised I'd well and truly been rogered. Blockage removed, Corn bread, Pork and Greens followed, we headed back to the village of the dammed, and another day in the underground fuel storage tanks.
Ian Brown has been succeded by Mel Thome's "I'm coming home, Baby" as I wander through the departure lounge aware that any more alcohol and I will be asleep before the safety demonstration. Spinning the book carousel its the defying hairstyle that catches my attention.
Donald Trump - Think Big.
Maybe it's something to do with full fat Bud coursing my veins,
Think Big, I rage, Think f%^king Big, its Trump and his big thinking advocates that has got us in this mess. Go Large, Supersize, set Big Hairy Goals.
I want to scream, Stop and think! It's not about Bling, the speed of your Internet connection, or the size of you Plasma. It's not the energy pills on sale in the 7-11, the botox or working it at the Gym. Life shouldn't be extremes, higher peaks = deeper pits to climb out of.
Think what's important! Big has greater impact, needs additional sustenance. Big is a waist size that exceeds your IQ, that's taking it to the Max, add the extra toppings, after all, "You're worth it"
You're worth what? You've done what? You derseve nothing!
Thinking Big means more for few, 5 loaves won't feed us, 5 loaves is a breakfast to some. Ball park figures, touching base, you gotta be reading from the same hymn sheet.
F%$k the hymn sheet, don't be scared of a different song, learn to sing it. Understand the importance of diversity, don't just Think Big, just Think!
Bags deposited - Beer in hand - Ipod on, and Ian Brown is still searching for his star.
I've just returned from a week working on Sanibel Island. Where? You may well ask. Sanibel Island a euphemism for 'The village of the Dammend'. A place affluent leather hide Floridians await the Reaper and bemoan the youth, a bit like Eastbourne I suspect. I've been working in underground storage tanks and sharing Bud Light with a man mountain named Jessie.
Bud Light, what the f$%k!! invented for the image conscious bagman.
The T.V I've seen whilst here is depressing, worse even than Channel 5 or BBC 3, yes, that bad. I wish one of the electrical storms would strike the T.V Station. Everyone has a 4 wheel drive, the roads are like Kirea Knightly's chest, but you 'gotta have a Truck, man'.
Sunday, a day of rest. Jessie was taking his 'friend' back home to Tampa, so I played Gooseberry. The 'ride' bounced along to the sound of over produced 80's Soul, Jessie and his 'friend' holding hands while I to their astonishment, named them all, Losse Ends, Luther Vandross etc, (its not a talent I'm particularly proud of).
I wished Jessie's 'friend' goodbye and stayed in the 'ride'. On his return Jessie informed me we would nip round and see his Wife Twanda!!!! this was on top his Latino Girlfriend who would ring confessing undying love, five minutes after promising to deprive him of his obviously, over active, manhood.
We arrived in a neighboorhood named Temple Terrace, means nothing to me either. I was introduced to Twanda, her parents and numerous branches of the family. Before you could say pass me the wrench, I was under Jessie's father-in-law's sink with a wire coat hanger in hand, attempting to remove a blockage.
My Boss had sold this trip to me and I quote as a 'Shagger', it was then I realised I'd well and truly been rogered. Blockage removed, Corn bread, Pork and Greens followed, we headed back to the village of the dammed, and another day in the underground fuel storage tanks.
Ian Brown has been succeded by Mel Thome's "I'm coming home, Baby" as I wander through the departure lounge aware that any more alcohol and I will be asleep before the safety demonstration. Spinning the book carousel its the defying hairstyle that catches my attention.
Donald Trump - Think Big.
Maybe it's something to do with full fat Bud coursing my veins,
Think Big, I rage, Think f%^king Big, its Trump and his big thinking advocates that has got us in this mess. Go Large, Supersize, set Big Hairy Goals.
I want to scream, Stop and think! It's not about Bling, the speed of your Internet connection, or the size of you Plasma. It's not the energy pills on sale in the 7-11, the botox or working it at the Gym. Life shouldn't be extremes, higher peaks = deeper pits to climb out of.
Think what's important! Big has greater impact, needs additional sustenance. Big is a waist size that exceeds your IQ, that's taking it to the Max, add the extra toppings, after all, "You're worth it"
You're worth what? You've done what? You derseve nothing!
Thinking Big means more for few, 5 loaves won't feed us, 5 loaves is a breakfast to some. Ball park figures, touching base, you gotta be reading from the same hymn sheet.
F%$k the hymn sheet, don't be scared of a different song, learn to sing it. Understand the importance of diversity, don't just Think Big, just Think!
Friday, 1 May 2009
Am I fit enough?
I've just signed up to a 'fun ride'. Not a leisurely ride out on my Vespa in the sunshine, but an actual bike, that runs on actual thigh power. The term it's self is an oxymoron, a bit like a 'good war', or a restrained riot police officer. The organisers have softned the impact slightly with the precursor 'Charity' but I'm still convinced it's a concept developed by Sadists rather than Saints.
Salford Quays to Blackpool Pleasure beach, 63 miles of unforgiving, spirit sapping Tarmac, interspersed with the inevitable crater sized potholes, down which any number of 'fun cycleists' could disappear, and I'm sure there will be a convoy of motorised vehicals behind us cyclists wishing we would.
I say 'us', as having been out on the road twice with my push-iron, I feel I'am now a member of the two wheeled, non road tax paying, traffic light dodging, wobbly Joe fraternity, as my old driving instructor used to call cyclists.
My first excursion into the world of the habitually abused cyclist was last Sunday. I dragged the Mountain Bike screaming from the depths of the Garage were it had lain with both tyres as flat as a Wicthes tit since I bought it. 12 miles later I returned, out of breath a little saddle sore but feeling quite pleased, and confident that the 63 miles would be possible.
I could lie and say something like, I was blackmailed with the threat of pictures featuring myself and Cheryl Tweedy in a compromising situation, or my arm was violently twisted to breaking point behind my back if I didn't comply.
However, it was nothing so exotic, all it took was a suggestion by my wife's friend, (who has been cycling for a while and is looking for someone to humiliate probably due to my constant jibes about her needing stabilisers) and an off the cuff remark "Are you fit enough Dad" from my son regarding the impending birth of his sibling.
There will be an 18 year gap between my Son and his half sibling, hence his comment questioning my fitness. Although I am still south of the dreaded FOUR-O.... just. The speed with which I am appraoching this milestone is greater than Usain Bolt. So with the validity of my parental credentials questioned and the opportunity to prove I'm not worthy of a seat on couch potato front row, I graspped the challenge with both hands once I had put down the bottle of Beer and sponged the Chicken Vinadloo stain from my T-shirt.
A second training session was arranged for Tuesday with my co-rider. She arrived looking like an extra from the Tour de France. Complete with fingerless gloves, racing helmet and pants padded with what looked like a cushion from the settee, her bike had wheels the width of a blade and was lighter than the contents of my takeaway bag.
I on the other hand looked like Stig of the Dumps stand in. Kagoule as waterproof as a sieve, my wifes far to tight threequarter length shorts (I dont posses any tracksuit bottoms and I'm not cycling in my bermuda holiday shorts) that, if she hadn't already been pregnant would have served as a very effective contraception device, and a beenie hat that Benny from Crossroads refused to wear as it made him look simple.
In addition to this was my bike. I'd popped a bottle of Lucozade, an Isotonic one, in the drinks holder, I would have swapped it for a can of Lager but it would only get warm and I didn't want to get pulled over for drinking and riding, plus I was wobblying around enough without the aid of the amber nectar.
We departed. "How far do you want to go?" my co-rider asked. With the loss of man points at risk I replied "I'm easy it's up to you" 20 miles later, after a couple of near death experiences,
and the humiliation of having to dismount and walk up what consituted a mole hill, although at the time my legs swore it was Everest, we returned.
As we went our separate ways my co-rider enquired "How many gears has your bike got?"
"I'm not sure, but I could do with a f$£king automatic" was my response
"You need to get a Gel seat" was another pearl of wisdom
"Gel seat!!! I need a chuffing Chesterfield couch nevermind a Gel" I berated.
As she sped off into the dark, dank spring evening, and I gently rolled home, like an O.A.P being wheeled down Blackpool front, the enormity of the task, dawned on me.
Which will probably be about the time I arrive at the Pleasure Beach from Salford.
Salford Quays to Blackpool Pleasure beach, 63 miles of unforgiving, spirit sapping Tarmac, interspersed with the inevitable crater sized potholes, down which any number of 'fun cycleists' could disappear, and I'm sure there will be a convoy of motorised vehicals behind us cyclists wishing we would.
I say 'us', as having been out on the road twice with my push-iron, I feel I'am now a member of the two wheeled, non road tax paying, traffic light dodging, wobbly Joe fraternity, as my old driving instructor used to call cyclists.
My first excursion into the world of the habitually abused cyclist was last Sunday. I dragged the Mountain Bike screaming from the depths of the Garage were it had lain with both tyres as flat as a Wicthes tit since I bought it. 12 miles later I returned, out of breath a little saddle sore but feeling quite pleased, and confident that the 63 miles would be possible.
I could lie and say something like, I was blackmailed with the threat of pictures featuring myself and Cheryl Tweedy in a compromising situation, or my arm was violently twisted to breaking point behind my back if I didn't comply.
However, it was nothing so exotic, all it took was a suggestion by my wife's friend, (who has been cycling for a while and is looking for someone to humiliate probably due to my constant jibes about her needing stabilisers) and an off the cuff remark "Are you fit enough Dad" from my son regarding the impending birth of his sibling.
There will be an 18 year gap between my Son and his half sibling, hence his comment questioning my fitness. Although I am still south of the dreaded FOUR-O.... just. The speed with which I am appraoching this milestone is greater than Usain Bolt. So with the validity of my parental credentials questioned and the opportunity to prove I'm not worthy of a seat on couch potato front row, I graspped the challenge with both hands once I had put down the bottle of Beer and sponged the Chicken Vinadloo stain from my T-shirt.
A second training session was arranged for Tuesday with my co-rider. She arrived looking like an extra from the Tour de France. Complete with fingerless gloves, racing helmet and pants padded with what looked like a cushion from the settee, her bike had wheels the width of a blade and was lighter than the contents of my takeaway bag.
I on the other hand looked like Stig of the Dumps stand in. Kagoule as waterproof as a sieve, my wifes far to tight threequarter length shorts (I dont posses any tracksuit bottoms and I'm not cycling in my bermuda holiday shorts) that, if she hadn't already been pregnant would have served as a very effective contraception device, and a beenie hat that Benny from Crossroads refused to wear as it made him look simple.
In addition to this was my bike. I'd popped a bottle of Lucozade, an Isotonic one, in the drinks holder, I would have swapped it for a can of Lager but it would only get warm and I didn't want to get pulled over for drinking and riding, plus I was wobblying around enough without the aid of the amber nectar.
We departed. "How far do you want to go?" my co-rider asked. With the loss of man points at risk I replied "I'm easy it's up to you" 20 miles later, after a couple of near death experiences,
and the humiliation of having to dismount and walk up what consituted a mole hill, although at the time my legs swore it was Everest, we returned.
As we went our separate ways my co-rider enquired "How many gears has your bike got?"
"I'm not sure, but I could do with a f$£king automatic" was my response
"You need to get a Gel seat" was another pearl of wisdom
"Gel seat!!! I need a chuffing Chesterfield couch nevermind a Gel" I berated.
As she sped off into the dark, dank spring evening, and I gently rolled home, like an O.A.P being wheeled down Blackpool front, the enormity of the task, dawned on me.
Which will probably be about the time I arrive at the Pleasure Beach from Salford.
Friday, 10 April 2009
I suppose it's got to start somewhere and seeing as I haven't really done anything worth talking about this week this will have to do:
Jersey. I've been to Jersey this week, the home of Jersey Potatoes, and Gold top Milk. A shuddering, rollercoaster of a flight that touched (more of a thud) down in Gurnsey first before bouncing over to Jersey. Upon landing in Jersey the first thing I saw was not a welcome to Jersey but a sign offering Wealth management.
Jersey. I've been to Jersey this week, the home of Jersey Potatoes, and Gold top Milk. A shuddering, rollercoaster of a flight that touched (more of a thud) down in Gurnsey first before bouncing over to Jersey. Upon landing in Jersey the first thing I saw was not a welcome to Jersey but a sign offering Wealth management.
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