You're my wife now....
Things are improving every day.
It's rare to feel cold whilst out on the bike now. I have not been on her indoors, the magnetic trainer, for the last month. So she will be going back in the garage and packed away for next winter sometime next week [no that it not my attempt at next week's weather forecast].
My legs? Wow, a sudden change. It's as though the leg fairy descended on me overnight and took away the mass of weak wobbling jellied eels that I used to ride with and replaced them with Arnold Schwarzenegger's spare bits. As though his parting words to me last October, when he robbed me of my LEJOG legs, were 'I'll be back'. Never thought of it that way before but yes perhaps Arnold Schwarzenegger is the leg fairy? My legs not only feel so much stronger, they look different too. Popeye muscles are returning. Legs starting to feel and look like those I rode atop to the top of Scotland on my Ferris Bueller's Day Off crazy LE-JOG thing last year. They still look like chicken legs though with an uncooked plucked Buxted chicken carcass plonked atop them. Book Book.
I see that Papa Lazarou and his herd of carnies have taken over Parliament. That's an improvement you ask? Yes, TV is so much better. It's hilarious watching a scaffold wrapped cage full of gruesome clowns whipping men dressed as subjugated women wearing black ponchos and wigs into voting lobbies. Shouting at each other 'you're my wife now' as though trying to build the biggest majority in Parliament for something, for anything that will fill their leaders grime covered clawed hands with golden EU rings.
Thinking about the 'you're my wife now' thing. I was riding on the southerly Riccall to Wheldrake route the other day with a detour through Skipwith Common woods. There I was dodging gnarly potholes on a rough nadgery track where upon I spied a cluster of steamy cars in a clearing that I suspect, because of the teardrops on opaque windows, had been driven by members of the Skipwith Common Dogging Society; a group of individuals with no affiliation to Crufts. Woof!
Today I'm gonna have another ride out. In the same direction of Skipwith Common to start off with but I'll avoid all those bored housewives, cut that lead short and head east towards Pocklington. It's a town full of teenagers, members of on line shopping and social media discussion groups in need of skin care products who also have an aversion to cream cheese. I suggest that they quickly grow up and move elsewhere.
I know I'm ready now for regular rides. My short 20 mile bike ride to Riccall and back the other day felt great. I so wish I had taken my crap nav with me to record the jaunt as for sure I flew along, even into the first half headwind with thighs pumping akin to the pistons on the famous steam trains of yore that used to similarly fly along my sustrans route when it was the old LNER east coast railway track. I'm not quite making the same chuffing noises that an old steamer might and as yet I have not taken to making sounds akin to a rocket or a jet take off as does my mate John when he gets a spurt on. Ah to have a sex life eh?
As soon as my shorts are dry and the watchable Parliamentary blood fest is done, I'll be gone.
Choo choo!
It's rare to feel cold whilst out on the bike now. I have not been on her indoors, the magnetic trainer, for the last month. So she will be going back in the garage and packed away for next winter sometime next week [no that it not my attempt at next week's weather forecast].
My legs? Wow, a sudden change. It's as though the leg fairy descended on me overnight and took away the mass of weak wobbling jellied eels that I used to ride with and replaced them with Arnold Schwarzenegger's spare bits. As though his parting words to me last October, when he robbed me of my LEJOG legs, were 'I'll be back'. Never thought of it that way before but yes perhaps Arnold Schwarzenegger is the leg fairy? My legs not only feel so much stronger, they look different too. Popeye muscles are returning. Legs starting to feel and look like those I rode atop to the top of Scotland on my Ferris Bueller's Day Off crazy LE-JOG thing last year. They still look like chicken legs though with an uncooked plucked Buxted chicken carcass plonked atop them. Book Book.
I see that Papa Lazarou and his herd of carnies have taken over Parliament. That's an improvement you ask? Yes, TV is so much better. It's hilarious watching a scaffold wrapped cage full of gruesome clowns whipping men dressed as subjugated women wearing black ponchos and wigs into voting lobbies. Shouting at each other 'you're my wife now' as though trying to build the biggest majority in Parliament for something, for anything that will fill their leaders grime covered clawed hands with golden EU rings.
Thinking about the 'you're my wife now' thing. I was riding on the southerly Riccall to Wheldrake route the other day with a detour through Skipwith Common woods. There I was dodging gnarly potholes on a rough nadgery track where upon I spied a cluster of steamy cars in a clearing that I suspect, because of the teardrops on opaque windows, had been driven by members of the Skipwith Common Dogging Society; a group of individuals with no affiliation to Crufts. Woof!
Today I'm gonna have another ride out. In the same direction of Skipwith Common to start off with but I'll avoid all those bored housewives, cut that lead short and head east towards Pocklington. It's a town full of teenagers, members of on line shopping and social media discussion groups in need of skin care products who also have an aversion to cream cheese. I suggest that they quickly grow up and move elsewhere.
I know I'm ready now for regular rides. My short 20 mile bike ride to Riccall and back the other day felt great. I so wish I had taken my crap nav with me to record the jaunt as for sure I flew along, even into the first half headwind with thighs pumping akin to the pistons on the famous steam trains of yore that used to similarly fly along my sustrans route when it was the old LNER east coast railway track. I'm not quite making the same chuffing noises that an old steamer might and as yet I have not taken to making sounds akin to a rocket or a jet take off as does my mate John when he gets a spurt on. Ah to have a sex life eh?
As soon as my shorts are dry and the watchable Parliamentary blood fest is done, I'll be gone.
Choo choo!
Comments
Post a Comment
I would be very interested in reading your thoughts about my blog entries. Please feel free to comment. But do leave your name so I know who I’m replying to 😊