"Crouch, Touch, Pause and er.. Engage"
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- Location
- Next door to Mr Benn at No 54
Maz said:
Thank you, High Praise indeed, a rugby joke written by a female.
Dayvo
just passin' through
- Location
- 59° 50′ 5.55″ N, 10° 47′ 41.89″ E
Speicher said:Thank you, High Praise indeed, a rugby joke written by a female.
Women's rugby makes me laugh!
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- ...I don't have much idea - really.
Maz said:I was planning on going to watch Tigers v Bath on Sunday.
Plan fell through...looked like I missed a belter!
The Tigers "earned their stripes and clawed their way to victory" Maz... average to good game I reckon.
- Location
- Next door to Mr Benn at No 54
Dayvo said:Women's rugby makes me laugh!
Have you watched women's Beach volleyball?
Excellent control of the ball
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Speicher said:Have you watched women'son the Beach playing volleyball?
Excellent control of the ball
To paraphrase: "It's not about the ball"
I thought there might have been a few literary eyebrows raised at yesterday's revelations. It seems that the only way cycling is going to thrust itself forward will be the day it becomes Mills & Boonen...
Landslide
Rare Migrant
- Location
- Called to the bar
Aperitif said:It seems that the only way cycling is going to thrust itself forward will be the day it becomes Mills & Boonen...
With all the talk of hard-riding, chains, choice of rubber and lube, are we not a sordid lit-fest already?
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ChrisKH said:
Down the library Chris?
Cycling Naturalist
Guru
- Location
- Llangollen
Jeremy flashed his pefect white teeth at Henrietta. "Is there anything I can get you?" he murmoured.
"7 Up please," she replied.
"Certainly, do you want forwards or three quarters?"
"7 Up please," she replied.
"Certainly, do you want forwards or three quarters?"
Becky bit her top lip, and blinked twice to hold back tears of frustration. How could she have forgotten her pump?
The day had started so well – a cool breeze whipped cotton candy clouds across a blue sky, roads sparkled under the morning sun, and, everywhere she looked, nature burst into spring. Lambs gambolled around their mothers, the trees were in bud – what more could a girl want from life than a brand new bike, mother’s chicken sandwiches and a flask of tea in her basket, and a shiny bell to ‘ting’ every time another cyclist passed her by.
She hoped that they were struck by her new Corinne Dennis kit. A yellow top indeed! She was so pleased that she’d got the XXL size – there was just a little bit of room for the breeze to play hide and seek between her breasts. She looked down. A small insect had found refuge there. She smiled, first at the insect, and then at the gaggle (or was it peloton?) of young men coming the other way – even as they swerved towards her side of the road, perhaps to avoid a pothole, or just to be a little more friendly. Becky trilled ‘Good morning’ and waved, and then caught hold of her handlebars to correct a little wobble.
Another group of young men, lean as butchers’ dogs, passed her by, going in the same direction. It was so polite of them to wait for a mile or so before coming alongside and spending just a little while chatting. They asked her destination, and smiled, knowingly, when she mentioned Pinks Bottom. Then they were off, taught brown thighs extended as they raised their buttocks from their saddles, to accelerate toward the hill to Upper Wainscotting. The sole woman, in this little group, an Amazon with bright red hair, stayed just a couple of seconds and winked at her. How nice!
At eleven she realised that she was just a little peckish, and that, the temperature having risen, she was quite warm. Chicken sandwiches! Tea! Not minding that it was ages before lunchtime, she guzzled her tuck and remounted. Oooch! That was a little painful. The man at the Golightly's Cycles had told her that her Brooks saddle would take a little breaking in, but she had thought that a saddle was like a pony – once one had been on top, it was just a question of knowing who was in charge. Not that she would let this minor discomfort impinge upon her enjoyment of this marvellous day.
She’d been riding for another hour of so when ‘The Roadies Rest’ came into view. In the normal course of events Becky wouldn’t have gone into a pub for lunch, but the day was hotter still, and half a dozen young cyclists were sitting in the garden with pints of cool shandy, making such an inviting prospect that she decided to join them. ‘Now that’s something that I haven’t done before!’ she thought to herself, by which she meant walk up to six young men with half a pint of beer in her hand, and ask them if there was a spare seat.. There wasn’t, but they made room on the little bench in such an affable way that she felt she had to take advantage. It was a bit of a squeeze, but so jolly was the conversation about gear ratios, tyre pressures, and ‘bonking’ (not quite what she thought it was at first) that she didn't mind a bit. She had entirely forgotten to fasten the top two buttons of her yellow top. Just as well – when the tallest and leanest of them leant forward and, ever so deftly, took her friendly insect into his hand, she was so grateful – especially as he was a junior doctor, and able to give her the best possible advice on the treatment of bites and stings. His name was Gavin, just like her uncle Gavin who lived with his pal Stewart in Spitalfields. She’d even mentioned this, and, how silly, asked if he knew a Gavin in Spitalfields. So nice of him to take her Uncle’s telephone number!
They chatted like old friends, about the weather, about bicycles, about the countryside, about everything that came into Becky’s head. One of them even produced a pencil and wrote down her recipe for shortcrust pastry – well, he didn’t actually write it down, but he looked very appreciative when she wrote it down for him. He didn’t have an Aga, poor thing, but he was convinced that he could do just as well with his microwave.
It cooled a bit after lunch. The happy band of cyclists shot off to complete their ‘club run’, and Becky turned her bicycle around and headed for home. Oooch, again! But a few ‘tings’ on the bell cheered her. Gosh, it was hard work, cycling against this wind. Her legs were just a little wobbly.
There were fewer cyclists on the road in the afternoon, and more cars. It wasn’t nice when they passed so close, and even less nice when they hooted. The boys leaning out of their Fiesta had absolutely no right to make the kind of remarks they made when they overtook her, and in any case, her Corinne Dennis shorts were really quite smart.
The day had started so well – a cool breeze whipped cotton candy clouds across a blue sky, roads sparkled under the morning sun, and, everywhere she looked, nature burst into spring. Lambs gambolled around their mothers, the trees were in bud – what more could a girl want from life than a brand new bike, mother’s chicken sandwiches and a flask of tea in her basket, and a shiny bell to ‘ting’ every time another cyclist passed her by.
She hoped that they were struck by her new Corinne Dennis kit. A yellow top indeed! She was so pleased that she’d got the XXL size – there was just a little bit of room for the breeze to play hide and seek between her breasts. She looked down. A small insect had found refuge there. She smiled, first at the insect, and then at the gaggle (or was it peloton?) of young men coming the other way – even as they swerved towards her side of the road, perhaps to avoid a pothole, or just to be a little more friendly. Becky trilled ‘Good morning’ and waved, and then caught hold of her handlebars to correct a little wobble.
Another group of young men, lean as butchers’ dogs, passed her by, going in the same direction. It was so polite of them to wait for a mile or so before coming alongside and spending just a little while chatting. They asked her destination, and smiled, knowingly, when she mentioned Pinks Bottom. Then they were off, taught brown thighs extended as they raised their buttocks from their saddles, to accelerate toward the hill to Upper Wainscotting. The sole woman, in this little group, an Amazon with bright red hair, stayed just a couple of seconds and winked at her. How nice!
At eleven she realised that she was just a little peckish, and that, the temperature having risen, she was quite warm. Chicken sandwiches! Tea! Not minding that it was ages before lunchtime, she guzzled her tuck and remounted. Oooch! That was a little painful. The man at the Golightly's Cycles had told her that her Brooks saddle would take a little breaking in, but she had thought that a saddle was like a pony – once one had been on top, it was just a question of knowing who was in charge. Not that she would let this minor discomfort impinge upon her enjoyment of this marvellous day.
She’d been riding for another hour of so when ‘The Roadies Rest’ came into view. In the normal course of events Becky wouldn’t have gone into a pub for lunch, but the day was hotter still, and half a dozen young cyclists were sitting in the garden with pints of cool shandy, making such an inviting prospect that she decided to join them. ‘Now that’s something that I haven’t done before!’ she thought to herself, by which she meant walk up to six young men with half a pint of beer in her hand, and ask them if there was a spare seat.. There wasn’t, but they made room on the little bench in such an affable way that she felt she had to take advantage. It was a bit of a squeeze, but so jolly was the conversation about gear ratios, tyre pressures, and ‘bonking’ (not quite what she thought it was at first) that she didn't mind a bit. She had entirely forgotten to fasten the top two buttons of her yellow top. Just as well – when the tallest and leanest of them leant forward and, ever so deftly, took her friendly insect into his hand, she was so grateful – especially as he was a junior doctor, and able to give her the best possible advice on the treatment of bites and stings. His name was Gavin, just like her uncle Gavin who lived with his pal Stewart in Spitalfields. She’d even mentioned this, and, how silly, asked if he knew a Gavin in Spitalfields. So nice of him to take her Uncle’s telephone number!
They chatted like old friends, about the weather, about bicycles, about the countryside, about everything that came into Becky’s head. One of them even produced a pencil and wrote down her recipe for shortcrust pastry – well, he didn’t actually write it down, but he looked very appreciative when she wrote it down for him. He didn’t have an Aga, poor thing, but he was convinced that he could do just as well with his microwave.
It cooled a bit after lunch. The happy band of cyclists shot off to complete their ‘club run’, and Becky turned her bicycle around and headed for home. Oooch, again! But a few ‘tings’ on the bell cheered her. Gosh, it was hard work, cycling against this wind. Her legs were just a little wobbly.
There were fewer cyclists on the road in the afternoon, and more cars. It wasn’t nice when they passed so close, and even less nice when they hooted. The boys leaning out of their Fiesta had absolutely no right to make the kind of remarks they made when they overtook her, and in any case, her Corinne Dennis shorts were really quite smart.
(cont....)
Some six miles from home disaster struck! There was a pfffftt sound from her back wheel, and her bike seemed to shimmy a little from side to side, and then there was a rumbling noise that wasn't at all nice. Becky steered gently toward the side of the road. She had to dismount in a bit of a rush as the grass bank suddenly reared up in front of her, but, having maintained her equilibrium, she leant her pride and joy against a farm gate and inspected the offending wheel.
A puncture! Momentary panic was succeeded by determination. If she was going to become a real cyclist, punctures would simply have to be dealt with. The little leather bag under her saddle yielded not just a puncture repair kit, but a spare innertube that the young man in Golightly Cycles had insisted on giving her without cost. How sweet he was! And how easy it was to use her ‘quick release’ lever to take the wheel out of it’s little holder thingys once she’d moved the chain on to the smallest gear, just like he’d told her to do. Off came the tyre, and a thorough check revealed a small piece of glass buried in the tread. Out you come, Mr. Broken Bottle! Her new tube fitted perfectly, and it was no trouble to fit the tyre back on to the wheel – years and years of kneading pastry had given her thumbs a strength that would have been the envy of many a racing cyclist.
And then…..calamity! Her little pump was propped up beside the umbrella stand in the hallway. She looked bleakly at the tiny valve sticking through the new shiny rim. How could she have been so stupid?
Becky couldn’t avoid a little sniffle. She simply didn’t know what to do. But, just as she was about to abandon her pride and call her mother to come and get her in the Morris Minor, she had an inspired thought. What if she hailed a passing cyclist, and asked if she could borrow a pump? Sadly, where the morning sun had seen dozens of cyclists, the overcast afternoon saw none at all. The sky had darkened considerably, and she thought she felt a little raindrop land on the end of her upturned nose. Becky waited and waited, and in vain.
And then it did rain – big splashes of rain bounced off the tarmac, and joined together to make a stream that ran down the road. Her Corinne Dennis top was wet through in minutes. If only she’d bought a mac with her! She pulled her bicycle, now, seemingly, much heavier, under a tree, and pressed herself against the trunk. What a silly idea, to go cycling without a mac!
Becky’s morning joy gave way to afternoon despair, a despair that deepened when half a dozen cyclists whizzed past before she realised they were upon her. She reached into her basket for her telephone, imagining the dressing down she’d endure from her father at dinner that evening. And then, as the most forbidding picture of a wrathful man appeared in front of her, so did another picture, of another man, a different man come into view.
There he was, a cyclist, a little older than her lunchtime companions, on a bicycle fitted with mudguards just like her own. His check shirt and cord shorts glistened in the rain, but he seemed not to mind as he pedalled purposefully along. He saw her. She waved weakly. He slowed, dismounting while his bicycle was still in motion, by swinging a muscled thigh over his saddle in one smooth action, and came to a stop beside her. A badge had been sewn to the check shirt with a man’s stitches. It said ‘CTC’. She didn’t know what ‘CTC’ was, but she was absolutely convinced that it meant that he was a kind man, with the very best of intentions.
‘Yoo’m be a bit stuck’ he said, motioning at the tyre. ‘And a bit on the cold side’ he said, motioning at her Corinne Dennis top. ‘I tried to fix it, I did, but I left my pu….’ she gabbled. ‘I can see that’ he said, and reached into his capacious saddle bag to produce, along with a couple of spare tyres, half a dozen Ordnance Survey maps, a yellow cape and a bottle of R. Whites lemonade, a pump with a stand just like the one she’s seen in Golightly Cycles.
The pump had a little fitting that slipped snugly on to her valve. He wiggled it back and forth to check it was secure, and then pushed mightily on the pump handle again and again. She could see her tyre getting plumper and rounder by the second. In less than a minute it was full of air. He looked at the pressure gauge, tweaked the tyre between thumb and forefinger, and, taking her hand in his calloused, sunbrowned fingers, invited her to do the same. Firm as could be! The pump disappeared into the saddle bag, along with the maps and the lemonade. He looked at her top again. ‘Yoo’m best wear this, he said, unrolling the cape. ‘I couldn’t possibly’ Becky answered, wanting to snatch the words back into her mouth, even as she said them. ‘You’ll catch your death’ he said, and, leaning forward, passed the cape over her head, and pulled it down to her shoulders. It smelt of rubber, of dubbin and of mint humbugs. Becky couldn’t think of a thing to say, as he wheeled her bike back to the road, which was now drying rapidly, as the sun, having driven away the clouds, warmed the tarmac so quickly that clouds of milky vapour hung over it. She looked at the bike. ‘Come on now’ he said, a little gruffly. 'The beasts are all lying down in the field, it’ll be pouring again soon’.
She tried to lift her leg over the saddle, just as she’d seen him do, and sort of got stuck midway. He leant forward, and in one swift action, deftly lifted her ankle, and then her calf so that her leg slid over the wet leather saddle, and then put her foot firmly on the pedal. OOOCH!
But then her pain melted away. The sound of the breeze in her ears turned to a roar. The rubber aroma swirled in her head. She knew she was going to faint.
As she slipped from the saddle she felt a pair of hands reach under her cape and gently, ever so gently take hold of her Corinne Dennis top and ever, ever so gently bear her back to the grass bank. ‘Don’t you worry, m’dear’ she heard him breath. ‘I’m a doctor. My estate is just across that field’. And Becky’s head went back as he lifted her in his arms, and walked through the farm gate and across the lush grass…….
Some six miles from home disaster struck! There was a pfffftt sound from her back wheel, and her bike seemed to shimmy a little from side to side, and then there was a rumbling noise that wasn't at all nice. Becky steered gently toward the side of the road. She had to dismount in a bit of a rush as the grass bank suddenly reared up in front of her, but, having maintained her equilibrium, she leant her pride and joy against a farm gate and inspected the offending wheel.
A puncture! Momentary panic was succeeded by determination. If she was going to become a real cyclist, punctures would simply have to be dealt with. The little leather bag under her saddle yielded not just a puncture repair kit, but a spare innertube that the young man in Golightly Cycles had insisted on giving her without cost. How sweet he was! And how easy it was to use her ‘quick release’ lever to take the wheel out of it’s little holder thingys once she’d moved the chain on to the smallest gear, just like he’d told her to do. Off came the tyre, and a thorough check revealed a small piece of glass buried in the tread. Out you come, Mr. Broken Bottle! Her new tube fitted perfectly, and it was no trouble to fit the tyre back on to the wheel – years and years of kneading pastry had given her thumbs a strength that would have been the envy of many a racing cyclist.
And then…..calamity! Her little pump was propped up beside the umbrella stand in the hallway. She looked bleakly at the tiny valve sticking through the new shiny rim. How could she have been so stupid?
Becky couldn’t avoid a little sniffle. She simply didn’t know what to do. But, just as she was about to abandon her pride and call her mother to come and get her in the Morris Minor, she had an inspired thought. What if she hailed a passing cyclist, and asked if she could borrow a pump? Sadly, where the morning sun had seen dozens of cyclists, the overcast afternoon saw none at all. The sky had darkened considerably, and she thought she felt a little raindrop land on the end of her upturned nose. Becky waited and waited, and in vain.
And then it did rain – big splashes of rain bounced off the tarmac, and joined together to make a stream that ran down the road. Her Corinne Dennis top was wet through in minutes. If only she’d bought a mac with her! She pulled her bicycle, now, seemingly, much heavier, under a tree, and pressed herself against the trunk. What a silly idea, to go cycling without a mac!
Becky’s morning joy gave way to afternoon despair, a despair that deepened when half a dozen cyclists whizzed past before she realised they were upon her. She reached into her basket for her telephone, imagining the dressing down she’d endure from her father at dinner that evening. And then, as the most forbidding picture of a wrathful man appeared in front of her, so did another picture, of another man, a different man come into view.
There he was, a cyclist, a little older than her lunchtime companions, on a bicycle fitted with mudguards just like her own. His check shirt and cord shorts glistened in the rain, but he seemed not to mind as he pedalled purposefully along. He saw her. She waved weakly. He slowed, dismounting while his bicycle was still in motion, by swinging a muscled thigh over his saddle in one smooth action, and came to a stop beside her. A badge had been sewn to the check shirt with a man’s stitches. It said ‘CTC’. She didn’t know what ‘CTC’ was, but she was absolutely convinced that it meant that he was a kind man, with the very best of intentions.
‘Yoo’m be a bit stuck’ he said, motioning at the tyre. ‘And a bit on the cold side’ he said, motioning at her Corinne Dennis top. ‘I tried to fix it, I did, but I left my pu….’ she gabbled. ‘I can see that’ he said, and reached into his capacious saddle bag to produce, along with a couple of spare tyres, half a dozen Ordnance Survey maps, a yellow cape and a bottle of R. Whites lemonade, a pump with a stand just like the one she’s seen in Golightly Cycles.
The pump had a little fitting that slipped snugly on to her valve. He wiggled it back and forth to check it was secure, and then pushed mightily on the pump handle again and again. She could see her tyre getting plumper and rounder by the second. In less than a minute it was full of air. He looked at the pressure gauge, tweaked the tyre between thumb and forefinger, and, taking her hand in his calloused, sunbrowned fingers, invited her to do the same. Firm as could be! The pump disappeared into the saddle bag, along with the maps and the lemonade. He looked at her top again. ‘Yoo’m best wear this, he said, unrolling the cape. ‘I couldn’t possibly’ Becky answered, wanting to snatch the words back into her mouth, even as she said them. ‘You’ll catch your death’ he said, and, leaning forward, passed the cape over her head, and pulled it down to her shoulders. It smelt of rubber, of dubbin and of mint humbugs. Becky couldn’t think of a thing to say, as he wheeled her bike back to the road, which was now drying rapidly, as the sun, having driven away the clouds, warmed the tarmac so quickly that clouds of milky vapour hung over it. She looked at the bike. ‘Come on now’ he said, a little gruffly. 'The beasts are all lying down in the field, it’ll be pouring again soon’.
She tried to lift her leg over the saddle, just as she’d seen him do, and sort of got stuck midway. He leant forward, and in one swift action, deftly lifted her ankle, and then her calf so that her leg slid over the wet leather saddle, and then put her foot firmly on the pedal. OOOCH!
But then her pain melted away. The sound of the breeze in her ears turned to a roar. The rubber aroma swirled in her head. She knew she was going to faint.
As she slipped from the saddle she felt a pair of hands reach under her cape and gently, ever so gently take hold of her Corinne Dennis top and ever, ever so gently bear her back to the grass bank. ‘Don’t you worry, m’dear’ she heard him breath. ‘I’m a doctor. My estate is just across that field’. And Becky’s head went back as he lifted her in his arms, and walked through the farm gate and across the lush grass…….
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Aperitif
Meme bar
- Location
- ...I don't have much idea - really.
Perfect reply dell - just perfect, thank you...a really nice read. 10/10
Definitely one for Miles and Boonen.
(Now you lot - that's a reply, right?)
Definitely one for Miles and Boonen.
(Now you lot - that's a reply, right?)
