russ.will
Slimboy Fat
- Location
- The Fen Edge
....or at least, he had all the kit.
A year after buying my Charge Plug 3, I'd largely done sod all on it; The world is paved with the best intentions, etc. About 10 weeks ago, a saviour appeared in the shape of a mates wife, who wanted someone to cycle with early Saturday mornings, as she is training to do the Cambridge-London ride. Well, if she can follow my fat arse in lycra shorts, I'm certainly happy to follow hers, and it's a good way to clear out an ale fueled post Friday hangover.
Anyway, we've been at it for about 8 weeks now, but the weekend before last, she had a hair-do appointment (it's his only slot for six weeks, blah, blah...) so I ventured out by myself, to do our usual 24 miler up and down the Cambridge-St.Ives Misguided bus route, solo. About a mile before the point where I normally exit stage left to my village, I realized I was catching a bloke on a Cannondale of some sort - I'd passed him going in the opposite direction about 1/2 mile before the St. Ives U-turn - decked head to foot in all the right gear. Better still, he was skinnier than me and I'd like to think, younger.
Now at 17st and 'a bit' I'm no lightweight, but growing up in/around Cambridge, I have cycling legs, but there is no fecking way I'm going to wear anything that doesn't hide my beer storage and give me the sort of breast support I need. I also still have the flat peddles I'd swore I'd change and wear the running trainers I bought before shin splints ended that particular dream. Hell, I've been too lazy to change my bars to stop my fingers going numb at mile 18, every damn week.
I digress; the hound had sniffed the fox and I was going to pass him if it killed me. 2 miles later, it nearly did, but then I realized that in every sport a pass isn't a pass unless you make it stick and I could now hear that the cheeky bastard was now drafting my ample wind shadow. I decided that If I hadn't broken him by the Cambridge end of the MGB at the A10, I'd take a call or some such rather than turn round straight away. My thighs were burning, my lungs were creaking with the gasping and I was frankly, feeling like a right plonker.
At the turn, I finally took a look back (I'd wanted to appear nonchalant earlier) and he was a good couple of hundred metres back. I felt like I did after my first snog with Debbie Can't-remember-her-surname aged 16. I'd climbed a mountain (or felt a molehill in her case) and it felt ridiculously good. Inadvertently, I'd also just committed myself to my first 30 miler too, but I was knackered, still had six miles to go and I didn't care.
So, after several false starts and a lot of excuses, I've finally got the bug back. I'm cycling because I like it and not because my blood pressure really needs me to do something my 46 mile each-way car commute and desk job won't allow.
Splendid.
Russell
A year after buying my Charge Plug 3, I'd largely done sod all on it; The world is paved with the best intentions, etc. About 10 weeks ago, a saviour appeared in the shape of a mates wife, who wanted someone to cycle with early Saturday mornings, as she is training to do the Cambridge-London ride. Well, if she can follow my fat arse in lycra shorts, I'm certainly happy to follow hers, and it's a good way to clear out an ale fueled post Friday hangover.
Anyway, we've been at it for about 8 weeks now, but the weekend before last, she had a hair-do appointment (it's his only slot for six weeks, blah, blah...) so I ventured out by myself, to do our usual 24 miler up and down the Cambridge-St.Ives Misguided bus route, solo. About a mile before the point where I normally exit stage left to my village, I realized I was catching a bloke on a Cannondale of some sort - I'd passed him going in the opposite direction about 1/2 mile before the St. Ives U-turn - decked head to foot in all the right gear. Better still, he was skinnier than me and I'd like to think, younger.
Now at 17st and 'a bit' I'm no lightweight, but growing up in/around Cambridge, I have cycling legs, but there is no fecking way I'm going to wear anything that doesn't hide my beer storage and give me the sort of breast support I need. I also still have the flat peddles I'd swore I'd change and wear the running trainers I bought before shin splints ended that particular dream. Hell, I've been too lazy to change my bars to stop my fingers going numb at mile 18, every damn week.
I digress; the hound had sniffed the fox and I was going to pass him if it killed me. 2 miles later, it nearly did, but then I realized that in every sport a pass isn't a pass unless you make it stick and I could now hear that the cheeky bastard was now drafting my ample wind shadow. I decided that If I hadn't broken him by the Cambridge end of the MGB at the A10, I'd take a call or some such rather than turn round straight away. My thighs were burning, my lungs were creaking with the gasping and I was frankly, feeling like a right plonker.
At the turn, I finally took a look back (I'd wanted to appear nonchalant earlier) and he was a good couple of hundred metres back. I felt like I did after my first snog with Debbie Can't-remember-her-surname aged 16. I'd climbed a mountain (or felt a molehill in her case) and it felt ridiculously good. Inadvertently, I'd also just committed myself to my first 30 miler too, but I was knackered, still had six miles to go and I didn't care.
So, after several false starts and a lot of excuses, I've finally got the bug back. I'm cycling because I like it and not because my blood pressure really needs me to do something my 46 mile each-way car commute and desk job won't allow.
Splendid.
Russell
