My plan for this past weekend involved a good deal of 'pootling' on the bike, culminating with a big 20 mile ride over to my sister's house on Sunday for a barbeque, in honour of which my husband was aiming to fix the bike carrier to the car.
As we have a tow bar for a boat, and the car's alteady ridiculously long (Rover 600) I admit to some trepidation over parking in our rather narrow office car park with the4 extra appendage. As it was, we have avoided the stress altogether. Didn't happen!
On Friday after work I went for about an hours cycle with the kids in tow, still in skirt and high heels. Before you laugh, the solid base on my heeled shoes made for a far better base than trainers. However, you do have permission to laugh at my foolishness for cycling with a skirt on. Having left the boys at a football match with their father, I cycled into Reading for a 7 pm meet. By the time I got there, the inside of my right leg was rubbed raw. I had been warned that I would need vaseline and sudacreme if I was going to become a real cyclist. they weren't kidding. Two hours and this happens.
Unfortunately the saga doesn't end there. I had been presenting to a group of very friendly - very lovely - complementary health therapists about their PR, and they forced me (well, OK, invited me) to have a few drinks with them. At this point I make usual excuses about not having eaten, and you know what's coming. At the end of the evening, I get onto my bike after three beers, which, in the normal course of things I swear would not banjax me. Especially as the first was at 6.30 the last at somewhere around 11pm.
At this point I realised that my bike has no lights. And that my leg was VERY sore. And that cycling over 'sleeping policemen' jolts. And that whilst my saddle may declare that it's 'gel' it's nothing like a gel saddle in the 2006 sense of the word.
And whilst I'm quietly grumbling to myself, mounting the pavement before I get mowed down by some poor unsuspecting motorist, I take a tumble. Which, in a long straight skirt hitched over a bar, is even more undignified than cycling in, well, a long straight skirt hitched over a bar.
Having picked myself - and the bike - up off the pavement where we were unceremoniously dumped, I bravely jumped back in that saddle - a small tumble was never going to deter me - I'm made of sterner stuff than that, I thought to myself, and boldly set off again, pedalling firmly and newly sobered up.
Perhaps not as soberly as I thought though. I bravely cycled through the pain in my shoulder and back, rounding the corner by the University and straight into the arms of the law: almost.
A marked squad car had pulled over a cycle, apparently for having no lights. I was on the pavement and in a highly visible white top, but I wasn't taking any chances. I pedalled like the fugitive that my poor tired brain had me believe I was. And although I still couldn't make the speed camera at the end of our road flsh up '30mph, slow down', I made a mighty fine effort.
As a result of which I spent the weekend walking like John Wayne, creaking and groaning, and have now purchased both a very sensible pair of riding shorts which make my legs look like rugby player's and a bike light.
And yes, my bum does look big in this.
My poor husband was convulsed with laughter and has been doing his best not to blunder, making statements such as' well when they're toned they won't look quite so bumpy...', 'it's a great incentive to slim' and 'you know I love squishy bums'.
Sometimes, guys, just sometimes, silence really is the only way forwards.
