A man is
sitting on a bicycle, his grey hair should be being riffled by the breeze of
his passing, it isn’t, for several reasons:-
1. It is contained in a helmet, though
this still offers scope for riffling through the ventilation holes, in the past
this has led to spectacular hairstyles reminiscent of a balding sea-urchin.
2. It, the hair, is plastered to his
skull by sweat, later more sweat will take up the encrusted salt, exit from the
helmet and deposit its briny load, excruciatingly, in his eyes. This may prove
a useful excuse for crying.
3. There is no breeze of his passage, he
is overtaken by snails, tortoises, ancient glass windows, in fact overtaken by
everything that defines: “slow”. The only things that are not slow are:
1. His breathing rate.
2. His heart rate.
What
thoughts are going through the noggin of this inverted speed-merchant? At the
moment it is, “Oh a yellow golf ball!” For Nick, yes it is he, has just noticed
one below his left pedal as he grinds up Haldon Hill. Already his gaze has
drifted from the prize, the top, to the mundane, how to get there. How to get
there without dying, how to get there without having your lower limbs independently
fly off at a tangent due to the explosive pressure produced by synovial boiling.
A couple of
months previously his pal Carol has suggested that he might like to do the Devon Classic
a “bike ride”, he has opted for
the 55 mile stage and has trained by doing a 40 miler, two weeks before in
rural Hertfordshire, which, until now, he thought had hills. Thus he is
woefully under-trained, under-fit, and, if this hill doesn’t stop, soon to be
underground. He thinks that he will ask his fellow bikers if anyone else
noticed the golf ball, a paradigm for Haldon Hill fitness, sadly he never catches
up with any, apart from Paul, who waits for him at the top of every hill. He
sees an older woman, who walks up every hill but never catches her, and so he
descends into a Sisyphucian gloom, believing he is scorned for his lack of
lycra and his panniers with 1.5 litres of water.
Eventually
the Fit Bloke what rides at the back hoves into view, makes fun of his panniers
– see – and then delivers a series of cycling homilies designed to make the fat
boy feel better about himself. It makes the fat boy grit his teeth (only for a
short time, gritted teeth impairing the ingress of oxygen) and mutter darkly
(also only for a short time, passim).
Several bouts of hours, hills, power bars (power bars MY ARSE!) and unshed
tears later, there is a whispered conference between Paul and the Fit Bloke.
Nick is, of course, aware of this conference, the rush of blood through his
head has not rendered him deaf quite yet, it is not Niagara, more Hardraw Force.
He knows that they are talking about shame, swallowing bitter black bile, ignominy.
Does this spur him to new heights, it does, he fumbles another power bar (MY
ARSE!) out of his pocket and manages to summon the energy to tear open the
wrapper.
A
conference, a conference that will see him agree to suffer defeat, and be
picked up from the feeding station at Castle Drogo, but first he has to get
there, it is quite a long steep walk. There he finds his fellow defeatists,
bids farewell to Paul and Fit Bloke, and lies around feeling sick for an hour watching
the hundred and ten milers whizz past, while he waits for a lift back to the
start, his bike will follow later.
The Devon
Classic, was generally agreed to be “Brutal”, this is deemed by Nick to be a small
fillip to a generally humiliating day.
The next day
he goes home, the cycle to the Station down the Exe is generally, and
surprisingly all right, the trip over Waterloo Bridge is surprisingly not, for,
you see, there is a rise as the span tends to its zenith, if he wanted he could
chat to the tourists keeping pace with him, he does not want.
