I Hate Mountain Bikes

L makes up for last night, when one of us dozed off and I manage to slip in a cycling warm-up.

It's a nice morning and I have a fairly uneventful ride in on the bike.

L goes to the gym again. Just her, eight other girlies and the man in the trilby. I can see why he frequents the place. L reckons he checks out all the girl's bottoms while they are on the treadmill. Of course he does. The women would be the first to complain if he didn't.

L's physio has prescribed her five minutes running by email. This is the modern world. Which she describes as 'only a trot' but she survives it unscathed, which is promising. I'm sure her warm up this morning helped.

I bike home and again take in part of the Erewash Triathlon route that is now less than three weeks away. That went well but then when I was on the last leg home through Bramcote. I unintentionally end up racing a chap on a mountain bike. He keeps up with me with ease. How embarrassing. I hate mountain bikes.

I get home and finish cutting the hedge that I started the other week. Doggo tries to disrupt me as much as possible by dropping his ball at my feet. That job done I cook some pasta for tea.

L has bought Daughter some shoes from Oxfam. Daughter seems to be getting into the second hand clothes lark. Which is good, because it's cheap and most of her clothes end up not getting worn. The only problem with these shoes, are that they seem to be like those romper boots that parents put their under fives in. Fashion eh, must be my age.

I take Doggo to dog class, where he and I are both brilliant. We are the only ones who seem to get the tricky courses right first time. It's just a shame it all goes pear shaped at the weekends.

Get home and L and I take a glass of wine to bed. Where we doze off again and this time it definitely wasn't me who crashed first.