The truce is over; war has resumed. The schools are back and the Mums with their Jeeps and Chelsea Tractors are once more on the road ferrying their little dears to school, sweeping all before them including the humble cyclist. So I'm extra cautious today, also because yesterday L told me about an incident she saw where a car almost wiped a jogger out because one driver stopped to let the jogger and a cyclist cross the road but didn't tell the motorists in the other lane. I hate is when people let me in for exactly that reason, other drivers don’t realise what’s happening and can attempt to wipe you out.
Our boiler, that is less than two years old, has packed up. I telephone the manufacturer, Glowworm, on an 0870 number. After 30 minutes at 8p a minute and 5 minutes at 50p per minute to their technical line, they quote me £210 to fix it. So I tell then where to go and ring someone else instead.
I cycle home and run into a professional looking chap from Long Eaton Velo Club. I see him coming out of a side street, and then seconds later I see his shadow looming behind me. I'm not going to play 'silly' games with him, so I start to free-wheel, so that he has to pass me. Tactics. He falls into the trap and comes past me. You see once he's in front he then has to make sure he stays there. I stick with him for a while but bloody hell he's quick. Then he jumps the lights. Cunning swine but also a soon to be dead swine if he keeps that up. At which point I get bored and drop back or perhaps I just can't keep up with him. Anyhow he has a positive effect on my pace. Despite the fact that I extend my route by a kilometre or so around Bramcote, I still do it in my usual time.
In the evening, I go out for a few beers with a friend who is desperately running out of excuses to not let him girlfriend move in. I can sympathise but I feel he's fighting a losing battle; these things are inevitable. Luckily I had no such dilemma about letting L move in (Pheew, think I dug my way out of that one). I offer him a few tips but I don't think I'm much help. So instead I tell him to think of the sex on tap. We feast on unhealthy pizza and have two bottle of Stella, a Titanic that I'm sure got mixed up with the Spitfire and an Everards Tiger.
Finally today, I feel that I should pay tribute to Jane Tomlinson who died last night at the age of 43, following a seven-year battle with cancer. I sometimes call myself an athlete, as do many sports people, probably even some footballers think of themselves as athletes but not many of these have run three London Marathons, the Great North Run, completed a Half Ironman triathlon, a full Ironman triathlon (that’s a 2.4 mile swim, a 112 mile cycle ride and a 26 mile marathon), cycled the 1,060 miles from John O'Groats to Land's End stopping en route to receive chemotherapy, cycled from Rome to Leeds and the 3,700 miles across the United States, from San Francisco to New York City, a total of 63 days on the bike.
A CV of achievements that I can only dream about. Even though her cancer was incurable, she refused to give in. No sitting in front of the TV watching Big Brother and feeling sorry for herself. That wasn't her style. She has shown us that such amazing feats are possible, even when you are as ill as she was. She was an example to us all, fit or otherwise. Some athlete. I am not worthy.
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