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:
Feasible excuses boil down to:
a) illness
b) feigned illness
c) bike theft
d) alien abduction
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 This evening, that bike offer's been superseded by one from my lovely mate, Emma, maker of fine jewellery and bizarre culinary experimenter supreme (homemade baked beans anyone?).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.
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.
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