A Capital Effort

Final Blog Proper - Part 2 of 2 (This time last week - Wednesday, April 6th)

Throwing open the Travelodge curtains revealed bright blue skies daubed with brushstroke wisps of cloud.   The weather on the day of the bike ride from Milton Keynes to London couldn’t have been more different from the previous blustery, rainy, grim, grey day.  As Jean Paul Sartre said “In Britain, the weather is always unusual for the time of year” … and certainly in early April, England can throw up anything from blizzards to tropical temperatures … but this day was to be Tobago not Tobolsk!  Hurrah! 

Annie and I sprang from our bed (yes, a double - we’re old friends and not given to sleep-groping) and hit the road a-pedalling.  I’d printed careful RAC instructions to get from the Travelodge to the Open University four miles away, where we were due to meet the mighty UniCyclist, Steven, as well as Mark from the Blood Pressure Association, before the four of us cruised (hah!) to old London town.

Alas, while the RAC calls the roads in Milton Keynes by  misnomers such as ‘Midsummer Boulevard’ … on maps, they’re labelled unhelpfully as things like V6 and H8.  In real life, they all look the same and end in identical roundabouts offering more cloned roads leading off them.  For the unsuspecting visitor, all sense of direction and instinct are scuppered.  Annie and I set off in precisely the opposite direction to the OU.  My fault, of course.

Annie was on her brand new birthday bike, received less than a week before, and the chain of which she’d broken immediately … but only because her fella (Mike - not a mechanic) had put the pedals on back to front.  So she’d had no chance to familiarise herself with her snazzy new steed since its repair, and was therefore spectacularly brave to undertake her longest ride ever, on an unknown machine!  Amazing Annie Absinthe.

Adding a few unnecessary miles to the day’s tally, we arrived embarrassingly late for our rendezvous at the gates of the OU despite having set out in plenty of time.  A motley crew of assorted OU bods stood shivering in the breezy spring shade as this lumpen loon careened apologetically into their midst with Amazing Annie close behind.  Muttered apologies and hasty introductions didn’t endear us to our fellow cyclists I’m sure.  Curse you Milton Keynes and your nondescript, point-of-reference-free geography.  

Steven and Mark shuffled off with the OU Publicity peopIe to record interviews and whatnot, and ultimately we all set off close to an hour later than intended.  Still racked with guilt at holding up proceedings – I resolved to be as little further trouble on the journey as humanly possible.

We cycled away from the OU Campus and maddening Milton Keynes into the most perfect spring day you could ever hope for.  A gentle breeze cooled our physical efforts, while the countryside yielded views bursting with burgeoning greenery and blossom.  Hedgerows paraded perfumed blackthorn, fields hosted gambolling lambs and ruminants surveyed our little gang with bovine indulgence.  Every now and then a pretty village punctuated nature’s bounty … thatched cottages nestled fetchingly and church spires pointed at the azure heavens.   

Cycling in these fantastic conditions has to be one of life’s greatest pleasures, and as we pedalled along in line, I sang quietly to meself.   Mark would occasionally draw parallel with one of us for a chat,  gleefully ignoring the highway code and enraging assorted hooting motorists. "This is better than being in the office innit?" he grinned. 

Most of the roads were excellent, although we did hit one part where the surface appeared to be knobbly like a giant flapjack.  Which reminded me ... Mark was carrying CAKE.  As plans had morphed so much during the previous evening, I ended up being the only one who didn’t eat something around dinnertime (although Annie’s last repast had consisted of midget gems) … so by the time we hit the road I hadn’t eaten for the best part of 24 hours.  Oops.

When we reached Leighton Buzzard late morning, I hurled myself off magicbike and into ‘On a Roll’ … free-range egg mayo on granary saved my life (I sneaked a croissant into me pannier for later).  I couldn’t have pedalled another centimetre without refuelling, despite plentiful blubber reserves, I was really running on empty.   Fortunately, the others all gratefully grabbed grub ‘n’ all … with Mark, particularly bravely, opting for a Firecracker Chicken filling. 

The next main stop was just outside Hemel Hempstead … Steven offered us a break as we cycled beside meadowy commonland, and we all collapsed gratefully in the lush grass.  Mark kindly dispensed restorative flapjacks.  We were about half way … but already low on water.

We set off again, and once in Hemel proper, came to that most bewildering manifestation of townplanners’ dark arts … a magic roundabout.   Imagine a big roundabout encircled by baby roundabouts, which means you can turn right at any junction and go round one of the baby roundabouts.  Well, the UniCyclist was having none of it, and treated the whole thing as one big normal roundabout, setting off round the main hub.  Us three dared to turn right and on to the London Road.  But in the process … lost the UniCyclist.  We waited a bit, expecting him to glide into view … but no.  Embarrassing.  The whole point of the cycle ride, and we’d lost ‘im.  I pedalled back to the roundabout, and there he was, mystified as to how we hadn’t cycled past him.  Restoring our messiah to his disciples we headed off again to find water.

All bottles refilled, I cracked open a light-sabre sized tube of jelly beans, and filled everyone’s hot little fists with multi-coloured handfuls of sugar rush.  And off we set again, until Mark’s bike rack suffered metal fatigue which no glucose could alleviate, but our great leader produced gaffer tape from his groaning panniers and effected a surprisingly sturdy repair.

Underway once more, we skirted the M25, through Kings Langley and on to Watford and its multiple carriageway one-way system – a test for motorists, but an extreme cycling challenge for us.  Thrilled at our survival we pushed on to Bushey.

And THE HILL.

Shamefully, I was the weakest cyclist of our little band.  Mark was a wiry, whippet-thin, muscle-bound paragon of fitness (and our junior by some years).  Steven, a big bear of a man, had the strength of body and mind to keep going no matter what, and Annie resolutely pushed steadily on through.  I was an underperforming fat fool.   I started off managing two out of three hills, but suddenly found that whilst I didn’t flag on the flat at all, any incline beyond a certain level meant I had to bloody well walk.  Wimp.  No matter my mental determination, my legs went on cycling-strike on hills, agreeing only to plod up 'em.  Annie joined me occasionally on foot uphill … happily we were never too far behind the boys, and we hoped they enjoyed the recovery time our catching up afforded.

But THE HILL in Bushey was a cracker.  It went on and on and on.  And then on.   I was off magicbike within moments, but Mark and Steven … on they pedalled, slowly but unwaveringly.  Magnificent.    

The countryside had slowly petered out,  gradually surrendering  to ugly urban sprawl.  At Stanmore we hit the A5 which heads straight into London and becomes the Edgware Road running up to Marble Arch.   Unfamiliar outlying reaches of the capital rolled by under our tyres … Colindale, Cricklewood (time for that croissant and jelly bean rations for the others) ... Hendon … suddenly the sign said 'Kilburn' … although I’m a south Londoner, this was known territory, I felt the hair on my neck stand up … we were unquestionably going to make it, and there wasn't very far to go.  The traffic increased - both human and vehicular.  The smells of assorted food outlets greeted our nostrils.  Turkish, Nepalese and indefinable but salivation-inducing whiffs tantalised us as we pedalled the last few miles.  Outdoor cafés buzzed with folk enjoying the year's first day of warm sunshine, and we whipped in and out of slow-moving traffic, jumping lights like seasoned couriers.

Steven was due to be reunited with his girlfriend, The Lovely Nina, at Trafalgar Square at 7 p.m. … a little after 6, we weaved through the traffic at Marble Arch and pulled over in Hyde Park where Steven generously furnished us with ice cream cornets. Mark opened the cake tin his colleague, Ashley, had filled with perfect, homemade chocolate cupcakes … the ride had reduced them to rather squidged (but still scrumptious) treats.

Annie and I had plans for the evening as we were anxious not to keep Steven from Nina’s tender mercies, but we decided it would be churlish not to join them for at least a drink near Trafalgar Square … so the four of us set out from Marble Arch to Nelson’s Column, zipping through the back streets (where roadworks allowed) and winding up overlooking the sadly, dry fountains.  Steven collected The Lovely Nina and we all repaired to The Salisbury on St. Martin’s Lane for a well-earned libation.

What a day!  55-60 miles of companionable cycling in exquisite weather through the glorious English countryside … does life get any better?  A mere pinprick in Steven the UniCyclist’s intended journey to 50 capitals in Europe, covering a potential 25,000 miles – the circumference of the Earth ... but a very special day we were privileged to enjoy! 

You should've come along ... you were invited ... shame ... bet you can't even remember what you did last Wednesday ...  ;-) 

I hope you’ll follow our intrepid hero, Steven Primrose-Smith's progress at:

www.unicycle50.com

and you might also like to ‘Like’ UniCycle50’s facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/home.php#!/pages/UniCycle50/112947548762679

 - there you’ll also find some photos of our little journey.

Milton Keynes Paradise Lost

Final Blog Proper - Part 1 of 2 (This time last week - Tuesday, April 5th)

Despite the grey, blustery, chilly weather, I arrived in Milton Keynes the afternoon before the big bike ride to London full of the joys of spring; brimming with excitement for the evening’s banter and bonding session ahead.   Although we were a man down, having lost Fiona the Hamstermaster to Jaws 5 – ‘Tank Command FAIL’ … surely Annie Absinthe, Steven the UniCyclist and I could ‘ave a laugh?  Couldn't we?

The unlit bikeracks outside the Travelodge looked too like thief-magnets for comfort.  Fortunately no-one on Reception blinked as I wheeled magicbike into the lift and up to the room.   I then skipped off to check out my new environs. 

The skipping soon slowed to a trudge.  Is there a more life-sapping place than Milton Keynes?  If so, please don’t ever let me find it.   I can’t even think how to adequately describe the unyielding squareness, the relentless dullness and lack of human scale employed in designing this grim city.  Hopefully the people who live and work here see this desolate place through a different lens.  As a perennial optimist, Milton Keynes came as an unexpected shove over the border into the gloomiest pessimism imaginable.

Then came the phonecall from our esteemed leader, Steven the UniCyclist.  Having spent the last few days battered by pitiless wind and rain, cycling down the country from the Isle of Man, he cried off a meet-up pleading crushing exhaustion.   Not at all unreasonable, but the seeping misery with which Milton Keynes was infusing my brain turned to a steady flow.  I dragged myself back to the Travelodge and sought the help of facebookers to find an activity other than chucking meself off the nearest multi-storey car park.  Exhorting a sortie to the pub, little did they understand ... Milton Keynes has none of these basic human amenities - not because it’s a dry town, but because … well, I don’t actually know why … perhaps because the town planners simply hated people.   I mean really, really hated people.

At last the evening hour of Annie Absinthe’s delayed arrival from Warrington drew near, and I set out for the station … but unconfident of my unfamiliar surroundings, decided to check with a lone passerby whether I was headed in the right direction.  He completely ignored me.  It was as if I didn’t exist.   In that moment, I wished I didn’t.

When Annie finally appeared through the barrier, I clutched her warmly and perhaps a little desperately, looked her in the eye and said “we have to get out of here”.  We fled by train to Leighton Buzzard, an attractive little market town brimming with pubs (or so my  husband had assured me, anxious to help me escape MK's wretchedness).

Stepping out of Leighton Buzzard Station we found ourselves in an exquisitely English version of ‘The Wire’.  Leaning nonchalantly against a silver Daewoo Matiz stuffed with spotty youth, a gangly lad asked insouciantly: “Would you be needing any crack or, um, anything?”

This cheered us immensely, and we set off laughing on a small pub crawl, which included a lovely nuzzle with a big cuddly pub sheepdog.  Weirdly, we were the only women in any of the pubs, we suspected some sort of Stepford Wives scenario to explain the lack of birds (Leighton Buzzards?) – but the locals were friendly and our faith in humanity was restored.  

Until we went to catch the train back to MK.  The departure board said Platform 3, the train pulled in on Platform 1 … we ran … the driver saw us … and closed the doors in our face as the rain fell steadily on our gasping chops.  Being charitable, perhaps he was trying to spare us spending the night in the dreaded Milton Keynes.

Eventually, we made it back to Gulag MK Travelodge, ready to ride out next day ...

Where There's a Wheel ...

Final Blog

Enough tripe, I won't bore you with my version of the day's bike ride ... have summat from a proper blogger and the man himself ... I give you, Steven Primrose-Smith, the UniCyclist ... (generous buyer of reviving ice-creams for cycling companions ... photos at the UniCycle50 page on Facebook) ...

http://unicycle50.blogspot.com/2011/04/battle-to-trafalgar.html

Follow his further adventures at www.unicycle50.com

Fish and Chimps

Blog No. 16 of 17

I've had a text from fellow pedaller Fiona the Hamstermaster.  It seems she may have to cry off tomorrow's ride due to a gippy tummy.  Acquired, she claims, when she was cleaning out a fish tank and accidentally drank some of the water.   My translation ... Fiona can't come out to play because she's been licking the fish tank.  I suppose I should be grateful she's progressed from bus windows.

Annie Absinthe on the other hand, is a higher ape, and has had her bike fixed.  She's in the bag.  So at least there are two of us.  I'm not counting on the UniCyclist himself turning up, with my luck, it's almost too much to ask.

Good news: I picked up magicbike last night, I've found my bike helmet and my stiff neck has ameliorated sufficiently for me to be confident of turning me head - always useful when you're cycling.  However, when I took magicbike for a quick spin, I found the seat twists left and right quite alarmingly, so I've just popped to the bike shop and demonstrated my turning saddle problem.  With a withering look, the surly gentleman assured me this is 'normal in this kind of bike and only to be expected'.  Maybe I should credit him for his self-control in the face of my ignorance, he surely meant to say:

"Madam, as far as I'm concerned, you can swivel."

Anyhoo ... I'm nothing if not ... well, I'm nothing, but that's not important.  Put it this way, I'm persistent.  I'm packed and loaded, including a pair of borrowed cycling shorts from the inestimable bike lender Emma.   She assures me the extra padding in the tuppence area is vital, but I'm fairly convinced the elastication around my Russian-shotputter-on-extra-rations thighs will have me empathising with Douglas Bader within a couple of miles.

Pip pip.  I'm going over the top ...

Kind Hearts and Coronaries

Blog no. 15 of 17 (or thereabouts)

It's all going terribly well.  I'm moving like C3P0 with a limp, I've lost my bike helmet, Southern Railways have no record of my booking to Milton Keynes and magicbike is 30 miles away from where I need it to be.   Not to mention, co-cyclist Annie Absinthe's chain has broken.  I think I might be brewing a heart attack.

To add insult to injury ... well, injuries ... you can't quite be bothered to come along on this piffling 55-mile bike ride.  I've invited you repeatedly, promising a warm welcome, but no ... you prefer to stay safe in front of the computer in your underwear, or your wife's underwear, or no underwear ... actually I'm going to stop thinking about what you might be wearing ... but if it's my cycle helmet, bloody give it back.

I thought I could reassure you with tales of how safe England's roads are for cyclists and went to that bastion of all things bicycley, Cycling England ... look, just look what I found:

Cycling England ceased to exist as a public body on 1 April 2011.

Cycling England was the independent expert body that advised on the promotion of cycling.

If it weren't for the fact that they must've known of their own demise for some time, I'd be inclined to take it personally. 

You stay right at home.  I'd look up the statistics for mishaps there, but they're probably dismantling the Royal Society for the Prevention of Accidents as I type.

Of course you don't have to come, it's ok.  May I ask you something though?  If you won't join the communal ride for UniCycle50 ... will you at least sponsor the UniCyclist, Steven Primrose-Smith?  This is the only time I'll mention the money thing, honest, but I know you're kind-hearted and would like to help really - it's just the cycling thing that's put you off.  Steven's doing his 20,000+ ride on behalf of three charities, so there might be one you'd be prepared to shell out for - even just a quid would help.  Go to http://www.unicycle50.com/, click on the 'Donate' link on the left hand side and pick one of the charities.  Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease. 

I've blogged previously about the Blood Pressure Association, so 'ere's a mere link 
http://www.bpassoc.org.uk/.  

Steven's second charity is Action for Animals, run by his girlfriend, The Lovely Nina, who devotes her time to raising funds for animal rescue projects in England and Spain 
http://www.actionforanimals.org/.    

His third charity is OUSET .   This is the charitable arm of the Open University, which helps ensure access to higher education for people without the means to fund it themselves.  I have a friend who's a really worthwhile recipient of help from OUSET, and it's totally transformed her life.  Claire Brierley worked on the line at the Bally shoe factory in Lancashire, but last year, thanks to OUSET, she completed her undergraduate degree in Psychology, and is now doing postgraduate training to be a teacher.  She loves the Open University so much, and is such an advocate, she's even persuaded her friends to take up courses too - education's changed her life, she's determined to show others how they can improve their prospects too.    She is simply one of the most effervescent and inspirational people I've ever met, her future pupils will love her and in turn be inspired to learn - an incredible gift 

http://www.open.ac.uk/ousa/ouset.php                                                                                                                      

I hate asking for money, I really do ... but as you can see, it's not for me, it's for three good causes.  I know you'll have doling-out-dosh fatigue after Comic Relief and a seemingly endless raft of natural disasters, but I don't want to have to come round your house and pat your pockets or anything, so, please, spare a nicker or two and I'll leave you in peace.  Right.  Schtum. 

I'm off to pick up magicbike now, with a very, very simple bike rack for the car.  Why aren't I cycling the 30 miles home?  Why would I cycle that far when I don't have to? 
I'll save that kind of pointless exercise for Wednesday. 

Smack Me Up, My Bitch

Blog No. 14 of 17 (or thereabouts)

Today I went fell running.  Alright, alright ... I fell running.  As I pounded the undulating, bluebelled slopes of Whippendell Woods, Small dog in my wake was spooked by a huge Weimeraner, ran blindly after me ... and felled me.  Bless the little feller.  Down I went, like a sack of spuds, in a perfect Peter Griffin tribute - face first.  Bleeding lightly, I was righted by the Weimeraner's concerned owners and I carried on running *cocks ear for admiring gasps*.  Returning to base, muddied and bloodied, I showered and examined the damage.  Grazed: knees, arm, cheek and hands ... swelling and bruising in latter two (ameliorated by bag of frozen peas).  I could either be mistaken as having one cheek implant, or possibly as just returning from a date with Phil Tufnell.

Undaunted, I headed to Howard and Emma's to try out Emma's magic bike.  Turns out it is indeed magic, and I wish it for my trusty steed as we ride out with the good Sir Steven, most noble UniCyclist of http://www.unicycle50.com/ fame.  The bike is blameless in the short episode of carrying required today, during which I sprained my thumb.  On the trial ride, I took a wrong turn and ended up in an unfamiliar one-way system underpass - escapable only by climbing some blasted steps *gives thumbs up and winces*.

Howard kindly lent me a bike rack to attach magicbike to the car, but without instructions, it appears to require similar technical savvy to building a space station.  It seems it is yer actual rocket science, and although, spookily, Howard works with rocket scientists, he isn't one.  And nor am I. 

So the bike remains in the distant reaches of the northest of north London ... while I'm setting out from deepest, darkest, southest of south London - the day after tomorrow.   Oh goody.  It's all starting to get a bit too Raiders of the Lost Ark for my liking.  Impediment after challenge after snafu.  If I'd wanted the 12 challenges of Hercules, I'd've changed my name by deed poll ... to, um, Hercules. 

And so to bed ... with painkillers ... it's all going swimmingly doncherknow.  Trouble is, it needs to go cyclingly *sigh*.

Egrets, I've Had a Few

Blog No. 13 of 17 (or thereabouts)

I've narrowed it down to 6 options for getting out of this bike ride (you know, the 55-miles, Milton Keynes to London next Wednesday, April 6th ... the one you're shirking). 

Feasible excuses boil down to:

a) illness

b) feigned illness

c) bike theft
d) alien abduction

e) my death

f)  the UniCyclist's death

As I don't actually wish for four of those, and alien abduction's a long shot, it's going to have to be b).   I fully realise that fate may actually opt for one of the others, but I'm not tempting it, really I'm not.  So, I've scoured medical websites for something dramatic and worthy of exclusion from a gruelling bike ride, which is also sufficiently plausible and couldn't result in cajoling-despite-sickliness ... and it turns out I'm going to have amoebic dysentry.  Of all the things a group of cyclists really don't want, the list must surely be topped by a companion with a spectacularly explosive botty.

Just in case I bottle a wimpout though, the exercise regime continues.  Today, a full-on power-walk in the backwaters of Hertfordshire, along a little used river path where I watched a great deal of macho mallard action.  Ducks duffing each other up to show the females who's top dog, er, duck.  Sheesh, talk about ruffling feathers - it's brutal.  She had better be brilliant in (river)bed.  Then I saw an egret, big elegant thing it was, none of yer laddish behaviour, and for a moment I was in the rainforest in Africa and Big dog and Little dog were truly the wildebeeste and hyena they resemble.  Hello spring, after that winter, you're unbelievably welcome.

I may have mentioned a growing hatred for my bike.  The good news is, I've just blagged me dad-in-law's old bike (no, not my mum-in-law) ... it must be a good 20 years younger than my ebay-acquired boneshaker, with a wealth of gears and considerably less rusty.  The only minus?  Smaller wheels.  I do so like a big-wheeled bike - ergonomically, it means I don't have to work as hard.  Bonus.

Well, whaddya know?  This evening, that bike offer's been superseded by one from my lovely mate, Emma, maker of fine jewellery and bizarre culinary experimenter supreme (homemade baked beans anyone?).  She and her bike-nut husband, Howard the Gruffalo, have spent our get-together waxing lyrical about Emma's superb roadbike - if I remember rightly it requires almost no effort, self-repairs, makes tea and can fly.   So, while you're all tucking into your Sunday roasts or fumbling blindly for a hangover cure, I'll be roadtesting what sounds like the most perfect bike in the world ever.  Amoebic dysentry be damned, I might just make this blasted ride after all.

Won't Get Fooled Again

Blog something or other of a certain number

You know what?  I'm not doing it. Cycling from Milton Keynes to London on Wednesday.  Stuff the UniCyclist and stuff his 25,000 mile cycle ride round 50 European capitals while studying for two degrees with the Open University www.unicycle50.com.  If Jesus can't have me for a sunbeam, the UniCyclist's not having me for a mung bean - he can whistle.  I don't even know what that means and I DON'T CARE.  How did I get suckered into this?  What a mug.  Not happening.


You care what happens to him?  Want to follow his adventure?  Click 'Like' on this fb page:

http://www.facebook.com/login/setashome.php?ref=login#!/pages/UniCycle50/112947548762679

You want to go?  Knock yourself out.  I'm not going.  Because I might actually knock myself out. Here are the details:

http://www.facebook.com/?ref=hp#!/event.php?eid=174564295907447 

Today, I shall mostly be eating croissants.

Everyone's A Winner, Maybe, That's the Truth

Blog no. 11 of 17 (or thereabouts)

Do you dream of winning the lottery?  Is your reply “who doesn’t?”  Well, a little daydreaming does no harm, but in all honesty, it’s pretty bloody unlikely innit?  I don’t say that to plunge you into bleak reflection, more to encourage you to abandon unfruitful reverie and focus on finding your own ‘personal lottery’.  I’ve met lottery winners, one of ‘em a big one - big win, not big fella - £22m.   Although money helps, of course, the bits of life that really matter, I mean really matter, have nothing to do with money.   Have a sort through your dreams which don’t involve material acquisition, and if you don’t have any … go away, I’m not talking to you, you shallow, greedy git.

What’s left?  What matters to you most?  Why aren’t you doing it?  I’ll bet it’s not about money, or at least that’s not the main reason if you’re truly honest with yourself.  Don’t tell me about the obstacles, what they are, how bad they make you feel … tell me what you could do to shift them … you might just begin fashioning your winning personal lottery ticket.

Pursuing our dreams, if they’re different from the expectations of those closest to us or those of society generally, takes a courage few possess.   One of the odd few is Steven Primrose-Smith, the UniCyclist.  Aside of friends and family, his favourite things in life are learning, cycling and seeing the world.  After a brush with death, he fully recognized the short time we have on this planet. He decided to get on with the pursuit of a dream, and blow me down if he didn’t come up with an extraordinary plan to combine all three of his passions.  Steven’s created his ‘personal lottery’ in the form of UniCycle50, a three year cycle ride round 50 capitals in Europe while studying for two degrees with the Open University.  I know some of you’ll say “well that costs money”.  Of course, but Steven’s had the cojones to cash in his pension to fund this trip.  He’ll be living on a shoestring, but, oh! the adventure, the experience … for everything else there’s Mastercard. 

I can hear you cynically niggling and chirping, arms folded metaphorically across your chest … whatever negative gripes you’re opining, that’s fine, don’t chase your dream, but please have the good grace to respect someone going all out for theirs.   Don’t tell me how it can’t be done, tell me how it can … and when I say ‘it’, I mean whatever your dream is.  (If you’re 73 and dream of being an Olympic athlete, you’re not playing properly.)  

I mean it, I don’t want to hear why or how you can’t pursue your dreams, tell me one thing which’ll take you a step towards what would thrill you most, no matter how small.  Do it.  I’ll do the same, I really will ... my little step's only a phonecall ... so easy, ridiculous I havent' done it before.   Calm down, I'm not ringing X-Factor.

Today, Steven Primrose-Smith set off from the Isle of Man on a three-year 25,000 mile bike ride - you can find out how and why at http://www.unicycle50.com/

Steven, you magnificent dreamhunter, I humbly salute you … may your dream be as sweet in reality as it’s been in your head, my friend.

Wheels of Steal

Blog no. 10 of 17 (or thereabouts)

They say a bad workman blames his tools.  This tool blames her bike.  But truth be told, I'm clinging to the hope that I'm not a bad cyclist ... because something's hit me - the realisation that I simply don't like my bike.  Not quite a road to Damascus moment; I was, in fact, on my way to Tooting.  But writing it down crystallises the thought.  I've said it now ... I reeeeally don't like my crappy old (but new to me) bike.  It's got lots of old-fashioned metal bits where swanky modern bikes would be fashioned from fancy polymery carbony lightweight ergonomic bits.  It's a horrible thing.  Bugger.

Some years ago, I had my favourite ever bike stolen, and frankly, it's irreplaceable.  Partly because they don't make them anymore, and partly because the equivalent in today's readies is beyond the reach of my pocket money.  I've dallied halfheartedly with a succession of lame replacements from the police auction and ebay.  But when they're hewn by villains from whichever railings I've attached them to, I never feel the stomach-dropping horror of losing my original Peugeot.  

Hang on a minute, that gives me an idea ... I can't possibly join in UniCycle50 (http://www.unicycle50.com/) if my bike's been ... no, no ... must keep trying.  I may be in pork rather than peak condition, but I'm damn well going to try and get from Milton Keynes to London next week.  Our intrepid leader Steven the UniCyclist is heading our way in a few hours time as he starts out from Peel on the Isle of Man for his big adventure tomorrow.  It's not too late to sign up for the communal ride next week:
http://www.facebook.com/?ref=hp#!/event.php?eid=174564295907447 
it's only 55-miles, a mere drop in the ocean of the 20,000+ miles he's planning overall.

Well, I say 20,000+ miles ... it turns out from a radio interview Steven did with his local station yesterday, he actually quite fancies completing 25,000 miles as that's the circumference of the Earth.  How cool is that?  Fair gave me goosebumps. 

But if he tries putting 25% on our ride next Wednesday, you can be sure it won't be me getting bumps ...

The Witches of Gatwick

Blog No. 9 of 17 (or thereabouts)

This time next week I’ll be hanging out in Milton Keynes with my mates Annie Absinthe, a top notch Warrington lass, and Fiona the Hamstermaster, a beezer bird from Brighton.  We'll be preparing to fall in line behind Steven the UniCyclist as we all cycle to London the following day.  I’ve been asked “Why Milton Keynes?”, but only by people who haven’t bothered to follow my counsel to read Steven’s cracking blogs at www.unicycle50.com.  The four of us are Open University graduates, and Milton Keynes is home to the OU.  Strangely, not one of us has ever physically visited our own university.

My training regime has consisted largely of Olympic-style whingeing about undertaking it too late, hampered by a body honed to imperfection through croissant abuse.  Virtuously, Annie has been on her exercise bike for weeks.  10 miles a day.  Or so she thought.  Turns out it’s been ten kilometres.  So for the last week she’s ramped up her distance to 17k.  At least I’ll have company, as 10 miles into the actual ride, Annie and I are abandoned crippled at the kerbside, while Steven, Fiona and the others pedal on.  Fiona has maintained her cycling fitness, she and her husband cycled to Paris last year … it would sound more impressive if I could remember their starting point, but I’m guessing it wasn’t just the outskirts … I seem to remember the mention of 300 miles.  Mind you, with fag breaks for Fi, maybe Annie and I do stand a chance.

It’s a curious existence as an OU student, with distance learning you can complete your entire degree without any student contact whatsoever.  In fact, for the first five years of my degree I scarcely saw another soul, bar attending the odd tutorial.  Then I discovered the cyber-mayhem of the OU student community online, where students support and fight each other in equal measure.  Annie, Fiona and I were on the same course and frequented some of the fightier forums.  Here we ‘met’ Steven (none of us has ever actually met him as he was mostly based in Southern Spain, lucky bastard) but our mutual fondness for erratic online banter by way of essay avoidance meant we all bumped into each other in cyberspace now and then.   Yet Steven remains a stranger, and will doubtless wish he still were one once he’s met our coven, although I suppose Annie’s really a Witch of Winwick, not being a southern softy.

You could join in this ride you know, we’re practically all strangers really, so you won’t be excluded … unless you go too fast and leave us all behind … and that’ll be your own fault ... go on, join us ...
http://www.facebook.com/?ref=hp#!/event.php?eid=174564295907447 

St. Frances of Arse-easy

Blog No. 8 of 17 (or thereabouts)

I've been something of a wildlife magnet of late.   For a blog about my pursuit of a slow return to fitness after a year of being a sofa spud, woodland creatures feature surprisingly heavily.     Mrs. Tiggywinkle's cohorts have mostly taken to playing chicken whenever I'm on the road.  Yesterday evening, a whole herd of deer in the moonlight, today a suicidal pheasant.  I didn't kill her, honest.  And I'm surmising about her deathwish, because moments after she hurtled in front of me, I saw a squished male.   I thought she might've been gripped by a pheasanty distraughtness, and longed only to join Mr. P over the rainbow bridge.  They don't mate for life do they?  I do hope not.  I'd like to imagine she's a promiscuous bird, but that's not something I'm prepared to type into Google ... I'm wise to the danger of turning ornithology into hornithology.  

I did however feel compelled to investigate whether the owl I heard hooting in the middle of the day was a common occurrence, or whether I should call out the RSPB's owl whisperer.   Any urban-dweller will be used to the irrepressible blackbirds, starlings and rooks which'll squawk and sing at all hours, but an owl? 

Let me tell you, online I opened a portal into a world of undreamed of anorakery.   If you aspire to being an 'anorak' (in the human rather than the clothing sense) just pick any hobby which ends in the word 'spotting'.  Birdspotting, planespotting, trainspotting ... all require reverence for mind-numbing amounts of precise detail.  Perhaps I secretly envy their devotion to minutiae, their ability to relish absorption in something un-noticed by the rest of us, us 'missers'.  If it's not the particular one I'm after, I can comfortably confirm I'm a trainmisser and a planemisser ... well, certainly since they scrapped Concorde.  I absolutely bloody loved seeing that plane.  As for trains, I might point excitedly at a steam train if I see one, but whether it's a Mallard or a Tornado, I couldn't give a Flying Scotsman.

Anyway.  Owls.  It seems it is possible to hear them hooting in the day, but I'm telling you - it sounds well weird.  According to the pragmatically titled 'birdforum', it might've been the common jay, tricking an owl in order to attack it.   A sort of ornithological ninja Alistair McGowan.  Heavy stuff.   Alternatively, a man with the splendid chutzpah to call himself* 'very boring banned member' assures us:

Some owls do it regularly, like Glaucidium passerinum. But I have heard at least Aegolius funereus & Bubo bubo in broad daylight (and Caprimulgus europaeus, too!). G. passerinum is regarded as a dawn & dusk singer, and I have heard it often in the middle of night, too.

*Am I being sexist in assuming this ubertwitcher's a bloke?  Could it be a woman?  I only know trainspotters and planespotters, and to a man, they're all, er, male.  I've seen birdspotters in cagouled and binoculared pairs, but I don't know if she's simply been sucked into his hobby, knowing that if she's to spend any time with him, she must roam the fens equally eager to spot feathered rarities. 

Today's exercise involved loadsa birds, some will have been gulls, others may have been more exotic or interesting ... I've no idea, I'm not an anorak ... but the eerie and melancholy calls as they went about their beaky business were quite stunning.  I went for a power-walk on the beach, because walking in sand uses 50% more something or other, calories or muscle strength, or both or something ... I can't remember.  Read this: http://www.discoverwalking.com/blog/benefits-of-walking-on-the-beach.php 

So begins my final week of rendering meself ready to join the Milton Keynes to London leg of Steven the UniCyclist's 20,000+ mile journey around 50 capitals in  Europe http://www.unicycle50.com/ and I keep saying this ... dooooooo join us  http://www.facebook.com/?ref=hp#!/event.php?eid=174564295907447  ... I need someone else to volunteer.  I might not make it.  I'm knackered.

Weasel Words

Blog No. 7 of 17 (or thereabouts)

Today I saw a stoat.  It crossed in front of the car as I drove to a forest for a glorious and thoroughly enjoyable run with the dogs (look, I’m trying to sound positive about exercise, as psychologists tell us that by faking an attitude, you’ll rewire your brain to actually have that disposition, yada, yada, yada).  Speedy the Wonder Stoat was just about fast enough, but I can't help feeling with that ridiculously long body, an extra pair of legs somewhere in the middle would guarantee exclusion from roadkill statistics.

How did I know whether it was a stoat or a weasel?  No, stop … not that.  They’re neither totally different nor easily recognised, despite what chuckling, avuncular comb-overed folk may tell you*.  Uncle Google was far more helpful.  And fortunately this creature's near death experience meant I copped a good enough shufty to tell it was definitely a stoat.  It's the telltale black tail-tip see.   Unless the stoat is in winter mode and all-white, they're actually spectacularly weasely, and it is pretty hard to tell them apart at a distance.  There are other less immediately-obvious differences (lifespan, weight and so on) but I guess you'd be viewing Springwatch or Countryfile if you gave a flying squirrel about this sort of thing, so I'll leave our foray into mammal spotting there.

Here we are (well, me, it doesn’t look like you’re coming, even though you could  http://www.facebook.com/?ref=hp#!/event.php?eid=174564295907447)

10 days to go ‘til I wheeze-along-a-55-miles with Steven the UniCyclist as I undertake a tiny sliver of his ludicrous 20,000+ mile endeavour ‘UniCycle50’ http://www.unicycle50.com/  

Anyhoo, I’d took meself off for a nice (ha!) run in the woods.  It was cold and windy - an ideal cooling system for my over-exerted body as it tried to restore homeostasis under unaccustomed physical exertion.  Daily I'm discovering quite the damage a whole year of close to zero exercise can wreak on the human form, especially one with an addiction to croissants. 

So what happened a year ago?  I'd taken to rollerblading some of the way to work, but on spotting me from his office window, my inamorato banned me from doing that.  I must admit that, at the time, I was crossing Upper Regent Street weaving wobblily through four lanes of rush-hour traffic, so fair enough.  He explained it’s fine if I kill myself outright, he can move on with his life … but serious injury, rehab, wheelchair, etc. … he’s so not up for that.  Because morally, it would preclude the pursuit of cocaine and whores, which he's long-planned in the event of my demise.  Fair enough again. 
 
But it was the only exercise I was doing and enjoying at the time, so it totally foiled my ability to keep the perfect tension between appetite, croissants and rollerblading.  When you’re down to just appetite and croissants, it’s like crossing the beams in Ghostbusters, all hell breaks out … and now I’m like that blobby green ghost at the buffet … but pink … with legs. 
Legs that need to do a darn sight more cycling practice, damn it.    



*Just in case you're visitng from Betelgeuse:
What's the difference between a weasel and a stoat?
A weasel is weasily recognized, while a stoat is stoatally different.

Stop, In The Name of Love Handles

Blog No. 6 of 17 (or thereabouts)

London is awash with opportunities to humiliate yourself publicly in an exercising stylee.  From one-to-ones with a pert personal trainer to circuit training en masse, no open space is complete without herds of frightened red and blue tabarded partakers in ‘military’ exercise classes http://www.britmilfit.com/  For a fee, sadistic ex-army geeks force you facedown in the mud and scream at your blubbery blubbering form while you snivel into the sod … they should be paying me, not the other way round.  If I want abuse, no need to go outdoors, I’ll just post something derogatory about cats on Facebook. 

Then there are the groups of yummy mummies in their expensive tracksuits, vying for pole position in a mass jog with infants in showy, designer baby buggies.  All these exercise classes are highly entertaining for the casual stroller, but there are two forms of public exercise which take the comedy biscuit.  The first involves mature ladies in pastel fleeces and walking gear striding out with walking poles - on the flat.  They look bloody ridiculous.  But they come a poor second in the amusement stakes compared to the paired horizontal bungee nuts.  Person number one has a harness with a biiiiiig elastic loop attached to it - they have to stand their ground while person number two runs away from them while hooked in the rubber rope ... it must be some kind of resistance training.  Yeah, I'm resistant already, thanks. 

I took up kettlebells a couple of years ago, they’re sort of big, Russian metal lumps you swing around a bit until you hear a tearing sound from your muscles and get a taxi to A&E.  The Common near me has a council-provided ‘trim trail’, with wooden sticky-out things to exercise on over a bed of bark-chippings … naturally all the local dogs think these are just fancy lamp-posts … no, the pooch-piddle assault course is not for me.

To be fair, with two dogs, I do tend to plod about a bit a few times a day, so I am getting some sort of exercise, but I’m a sociable sod, and easily distracted by the myriad weirdos and their mutts keen to share personal ailments or complain about the council’s strimming policies.

All I want is to increase my stamina a bit.  Just so I'm not a nuisance when I steer smoothly into the slipstream of Steven the UniCyclist as he undertakes the 55-miles from Milton Keynes to London, a mere pinprick in his intended 20,000+ miles for UniCycle50 http://www.unicycle50.com/ - you can come too, you know - he assures me we're going to be going terribly slowly, and my participation offers a cast-iron guarantee ... join us ... 
http://www.facebook.com/?ref=hp#!/event.php?eid=174564295907447


  

Waist Not Want Not

Blog No. 5 of 17 (or thereabouts)

Do you know where your waist is?  No, I’m not calling you fat.  It’s just that when I last went to the doctor’s, the bast … the highly-esteemed health professional decided to give me a mini-MOT.  Including measuring my waist.  No big deal.  I know the official recommendation is to keep it below 31.5 inches (I’m no metric martyr, but if I’m measuring my body I don’t want scary high numbers, ok?).  That’s 31.5 inches if you're a woman.  If you’re a man, you get another 5.5 inches.  On your waist allowance.  Keep up.  

No problemo.  I’ve always had a waist of less than 30 inches.  Only it turns out I haven’t.  Because my waist isn’t where I think it is.  Very likely, nor is yours.  I’ll just bet, like me, aaaaall these years you’ve been measuring that bit which is sort of in the middle of the hourglass (let’s not argue about whether we’re actually hourglass-shaped, eh?).  Ooooh no, you don’t, says Doctor Fatherless – the waist measurement should be taken JUST BELOW YOUR BELLY BUTTON.  Clearly the man is a quack, I thought, but no … http://www.bhf.org.uk/bmi/bmi_measurewaist.html?frmFlash=12
 

So we resumed measuring, and thankfully my waist circumference is fine.  But henceforth, I’d like you to call me Wayne.  Thank you.

Which brings me to another less obvious indicator of general health.  Your blood pressure.  Why have I suddenly gone all serious in this short-term blog, mostly discussing my half-arsed training regime undertaken to render me just about capable of cycling 55-miles?  Because I’ll be cycling with a man whose blood pressure had a flipping good go at killing him.  He was only 38 at the time.  Scary, huh?  Simply put, if your blood pressure goes a bit Radio Rental, it makes your brain explode.  That’s what happened to him.  Don’t let it happen to you.  Get your blood pressure checked.  Soon.  Really.  Steven the UniCyclist  www.unicycle50.com is trying to raise awareness (and not his blood pressure again) of the Blood Pressure Association http://www.bpassoc.org.uk/Home and, ideally, they'd like everyone to be on top of this scary, silent killer.  Have a read – it could save your life.

I’m lucky, I have low blood pressure.  That can get dangerous too, but in my case it's pretty unlikely.  However, I have to keep my fluids up or I have the stamina of a Victorian poet.  Altitude and mild dehydration have me fainting like like a nun in a fetish club (although like you, I'm slightly perplexed by her choice of venue).  So, provided I’m well-watered, I can do absolutely anything.  However, in all honesty, I find most exercise boring, it doesn’t engage my attention span.  But, quite why sitting down having a nice read is preferable to hurtling about in some way beats me.  If my complaint is that exercise is dull, isn’t flinging limbs around more entertaining than sitting?  Shouldn't I be gripped with mounting excitement at the prospect of a 55-mile cycling adventure?  I am.  Sort of.  It's just the thought of being the fat, panting, whingey liability at the back ... as the lithe, athletic, pedalling paragons scythe indomitably through the miles.  It's all pointing towards one of those film scenarios, you know, the ones where early on in the escalating action, you spot the lame, runty, unrecognizable actor who's going to cop it from the 'bad thing' ... you know, the ginger one.  Yes.  It's me.  I'm going to die.

You could save my life life by being a crappier cyclist than I am ... join us ...

http://www.facebook.com/?ref=hp#!/event.php?eid=174564295907447

As Time Goes Bye

Blog No. 4 of 17 (or thereabouts)

Swiss precision my vast arse.  Father Christmas brought me a new watch - my first ever proper, swanky grown-up one, and it's losing time.  Not in an interesting Dr. Who or Space 1999 way, just in an oh-my-sainted-aunt-that-can't-possibly-be-the-time way.  Unfortunately, I only realised this as I paused on my cycle to work this morning to call a colleague, and thereby noticed a ten minute discrepancy as the puce numbers mocked me from the phone screen clock.   Having been held up in endless roadworks (it's the end of the financial year, councils are spending their remaining budgets like dispensationalists before The Rapture) I was a bit rushed already ... I arrived at work with 4 minutes to go before I had to read out loud in a vaguely sensible manner.  How can a new watch, mass-produced and with a battery rather than windy-uppy bits lose time? 

Anyway, speaking of taking time, I seem to only be capable of cycling r-e-a-l-l-y  s-l-o-w-l-y.  I know this because EVERYONE on wheels overtakes me.  Even people on Boris bikes.  Bloody Boris bikes, for Pete's sake.  They're made of solid lead, are extra-sensitive to gravity and only have three gears.  But they sail past me as though made of light-as-air flumps and ridden by Sir Chris Hoy.   Sadly, I'm going as fast as I feasibly can, which turns out to be not fast in the slightest.  I think I may have to drive some kind of support vehicle rather than partaking in the Milton Keynes to London bike ride with Steven the UniCyclist and anyone game enough to participate http://www.facebook.com/?ref=hp#!/event.php?eid=174564295907447 part of http://www.unicycle50.com/

I used to think nothing of pedalling off to the coast.  Sixty miles in a day?  Count me in.  Now I am, quite frankly, struggling.  If there hadn't been a coup in Kyrgyzstan last year, I'd fully intended to do an arduous cycling holiday in this curious land that vowels forgot.  Instead I've spent over a year with no exercise whatsoever, apart from flexing my bicep as I raise calorie-laden delights to my greedy gob.  If only I could've toured the Altyn Arashan valley straining on the climb to Teplokluenchka *sigh* this upcoming jaunt would've been a breeze, rather than the terrifying twister approaching from a mere week and a bit away. 

New Vroom Sweeps Clean

Blog No. 3 of 17 (or thereabouts)

The insidious drip, drip, drip of a weekly dose of Top Gear has obviously got to me.  Now, I may be a speed freak, but I'm no petrolhead, having strictly adhered to acquiring jalopy after jalopy after clown car.  But the idiotic Hamster, Jezza and Slowpoke May get as close to being a televisual dose of We Are Klang as any performers currently on TV.  And for all of you huffing and puffing in disgust at either group's foolish antics ...  get knotted, you can never have enough adult silliness on the box.  I don't give a stuff about the cars, I really don't - but the mayhem of the challenges (staged or serendipitous) is a blissful watch.  And yet, and yet ... today, I felt a stirring as I saw a vehicle up ahead on the A3 like nothing I can remember seeing before.  It wasn't even recognizably of its marque.  It gleamed silver in the blazing sun (it was proper 'ot today) and once me eyes caught its perfect voluptuous lines they locked on lasciviously.  Guiltily, I've even looked it up online ... but as with porn, it's no substitute for the real thing in the flesh.   It's not just lust, this Mercedes also has my heart, well, that bit of it reserved for car-love which has lain dormant all these years.  Mercedes SLS AMG, you are extraordinarily lovely and I'm giddy from gazing at you, your visceral and sensual effect is as bewitching as it is startling.  But with prices starting at 149.000 Euros, unless I win the lottery, I know I'll never sit in your luxurious leather lap.

So ... for a blog encouraging you to join in a cycle-ride, I've been somewhat sidetracked.  I'm supposed to be ramping up my fitness at lightning speed (from a very dubious start two days ago) in order to participate in Steven the UniCyclist's lunatic attempt to study with the Open University (http://www.open.ac.uk/) while pedalling his way around Europe, visiting 50 capitals en route (http://www.unicycle50.com/).  London will be his second one (not his first as I suggested yesterday) after Douglas, the capital of the Isle of Man (Steven's starting point next Thursday). 

Today, I managed a walk.  Yes, a walk, a plain simple walk.  Whoop-de-do.  It was a very nice walk on Mare Hill Common high in the Surrey Hills, but any health benefits were wiped out by the straight-from-the-oven cheese scones at the impossibly eccentric Fanny's Farm Shop Café (http://www.fannysfarmshop.co.uk/) - a place so uncompromisingly bizarre I would urge you to visit should you ever come within a whiff of Junction 8 of the M25.   The website is amateurish and dull, whereas the place itself fizzes with homegrown creativity which will baffle and delight in equal measure.   Get there before health and safety or Brussels bureacrats interfere, but go easy on the coffee, it's brain-meltingly strong.

When I sought to complete my evening journey to work on a Boris-bike, as will become my target in the next couple of weeks - there were no bikes on the stand, so I took the tube ... and the lift was there as I walked into the office, so no stairs either.  I think I'm in negative-equity where exercise is concerned today, so if a 55-mile bike ride seems impossibly ambitious to you, your fitness probably matches mine and you should join us for the communal ride on April 6th http://www.facebook.com/?ref=hp#!/event.php?eid=174564295907447

The Paws Are Always With Us

Blog No. 2 of 17 (or thereabouts)

Small dog ate my sandwiches.  The little tyke.  Still, he's a rescue who arrived whippet-thin, only to be lovingly restored to Staffie-thick, so the odd lapse to his street roots is forgiveable.  Besides, it's astonishingly difficult to embarrass a dog.  Their insouciant emissions of flatulence and eructation, their devotion to genital grooming ... well, they just epitomise 'not bothered'.  Having said that, today I heard a dog who should be properly ashamed.  It didn't so much bark as go, approximately: 'huffrirrip' ... repeatedly.  Huffrirrip, huffrirrip, huffrirrip it went - interspersed with alarming wheezes.  He was the spit of Gnasher from The Beano, and if Marco-Pierre White has a son, M-P White Junior and Gnasher 2 are destined for cinematic greatness - as long as they can find a voice double for the mutt, poor little fella.   

Gnasher 2 was tied up at the Windmill caff on Wimbledon Common, where I was pausing to recover from a determined bout of power-walking with Big dog and Small dog, the Battersea beasts.   Why a power-walk and not a leisurely meander?  Ah ... I'm stepping briefly into the madness of Steven the UniCyclist as he heads across Britain before roaming round the rest of Europe for UniCycle50 (http://www.unicycle50.com/).  Today is Day 2 of my effort to render myself 55-mile cycle-ride fit, or at least capable, in just two weeks, after a year of severe corporeal neglect.  Steven's hitting London, the first of his fifty capital target, on April 6th, so I'm going to cycle from Milton Keynes to London with him and other students ... and anyone else game enough to pedal along  http://www.facebook.com/home.php#!/event.php?eid=174564295907447.

The stomp around Wimbledon Common was uneventful but invigorating, and the second I returned to the car ... out came the sun - typical.   Still cursing the cur for his swift sarnie swipe, I set off early to work in order to add to the day's exercise tally, by taking the train half way there and Boris-biking the rest.  Giant Milky Bar Kid, Mayor Boris Johnson, has rendered London bikemental, with serried ranks of unwieldy sit-up-and-beg bikes available to all who shell out for a magic key.  They're pretty horrible to ride, but they get you from A to B more reliably than bus or tube, with the added bonus of low-impact, cardio-vascular exercise - only spoilt by the zillions of carcinogenic benzene particulates effortlessly transferred from bus to lung.

I arrived at work aglow from my ride, only to see the lift doors close in my face.  So ... I walked up the six floors to my grafting eyrie.  More physical effort - huzzah!  Mind you, if I can't arrive at the top without standing bent, hands gripping my grumbling, crooked knees, gasping for breath ... cycling 55 miles seems bloody optimistic.

Come Whine With Me

Blog No. 1 of 17 (or thereabouts)

A friend of mine laughs in the face of adversity and is just gearing up to go so far as to stalk it for several years.  I think he should've called himself Nutter-on-a-Bike, but no, he's the UniCyclist.  Because he's on a unicycle?  No, because he's going to be at university on a bike. He intends to visit 50 capital cities round Europe, hence his endeavour's called UniCycle50 (http://www.unicycle50.com/).  My involvement?  I've stupidly volunteered to reach one, yes a whole 'one' of those 50 cities.  London.  "But that's where you live" you say.  No, we're setting off from the headquarters of our weird and wonderful university, The Open University in Milton Keynes. 

Steven the UniCyclist is going to cover around 20,000 miles in 3 years, well, more probably ... I just have to do 55 in 1 day.  So, having known about this ride for months I've had the chance to do some rigorous training and get really fit for this piffling ride.

So why didn't I?

I do not like exercise.  There’s no getting away from it … the fact that I don’t like exercise, I mean.  Exercise is very, very easy to get away from.  With a boredom threshold of nanoseconds, anything unexciting and repetitive is abandoned within … ooh look, a bench.  If the speed is down to me (as in running) I’ll lose interest pretty quickly … give me wheels, skis or blades and I’ll do it.  Maybe.  Well, I used to … but now?  Meh.   Gone is the woman who a mere year ago crewed a tall ship, trekked through the Madagascan rainforest and rollerbladed down Oxford Street.  She seems to have been replaced by a creature who's a cross between Zelda from Terrahawks and Ron Weasley ... in a body considerably inflated beyond manufacturer's specifications.

There's just over two weeks to go 'til I have to heft my bloated carcass from MK to London.  Today, I've begun my onerous training schedule and started this two-week (too weak?) blog. This morning I've pedalled 8 miles to work.   It's exciting stuff this cycling lark ... my chain came off, I was stopped by the police and Waitrose tried to kill me. Not with their delicious lard-based comestibles, but their evil little Ocado vans.  They tried to squash me like a grotesquely large bug, not once, but twice.  How can they possibly know I shop at Asda?  Oh, and the police?  They were right, I shouldn't have been on the pavement.  Tsk.

I don’t want to let Steven down, but how the hell am I going to render meself physically capable of this paltry feat in a fortnight?  Answers on a Caramac please.

Oh, and why not come along too ...

http://www.facebook.com/home.php#!/event.php?eid=174564295907447