I'm 58 today don't you know!

Today is my birthday. 

I've recently been dreaming of a day somewhere and sometime in my future.  Of a place that looks like the end scenes in the film 2001 a Space Odyssey.  

I'm sat alone in a bright room.  Perched in a high backed chair nurturing a lukewarm cup of tea.  With coiffured bright white hair to the sides of my pate and a bald shiny sun-blessed top which, other than for a few fine wisps, is bereft of hair.  I'm trapped in a frail body watching TV with a sightless thousand yard stare.  Someone comes into the room.  My now greyed and fading eyes start to twinkle.  A big beamy toothless grin appears and somewhere in the happy realisation that someone has just entered the room I say, "I'm 100 today don't you know". 

Oh dear.  I think I've mentioned it before but my brother once upon a time asked our dad what it was like being over 70.  He said, 'I've still got the mind of a 20 year old but my body is broken'.  Or something like that.  Well, I'm not yet 70 but I think I'm the other way around.  I'm doing lots of cycling so trying [and definitely failing] to have a body of a 20 year old again.  And my mind is broken.  

As a result I'm starting to tell folk how old I am.  Why has that started?  It's like I now think that everyone should be surprised to find me, a 58 year old fat man, doing the cycling things that I do.  I'm proud to say it.  Yes, I feel that the world of young shiny Black Mambas owes me some kudos.  I'm out there with them.  At times in cold wet weather that would stun other reptilian bike riders.  Perhaps I'm not as fast but hey have YOU done Lands End to John O Groats?  How about the North Coast 500?  What?  No?  Hah!  I have!  And I'm 58 don't you know!  Followed by me frogging off at slow speed with wonky knees and a loudly proclaimed sense of superiority ringing in my ears.

Whilst I'm getting good at the 'I'm better than you aren't I?' declaration to the young speed freaks, I'm also noticing my inability to recall and recollect memories from the days ride.  Oooh err..  Did I really do that stupendous ride or was it just a dream?  The number of times I forget what I've just done with things or what I was going to do is becoming a wee bit of a concern for me.  So I revert to my video's and this blog, both of which have been produced to help me in future days with a worsening memory.  

Nonetheless, riding a bike is a good time for mindfulness.  I enjoy my journeys very much, even those on rough bumpy lanes, especially now that I've fettled my Brooks B17 saddle with a minor tilt adjustment.  No more after a long ride do I get off the bike with a squeaky voice which refuses to break until my testicles fall back down.  Ahem.

Anyway like the dreams I have every night, the plethora of thoughts whilst out on the bike spill out in front of me.  Like a dreamcast world projected on a virtual reality screen on the inside of a goldfish bowl.  Images and ideas and plans and of things to do.  And to write about.  Yeah.  That's a good thought I'll say to myself whilst cruising along on some empty back road with the low sun in my eyes.  I park it somewhere and ride on.

Of course when I get back home I have a hot shower.  Hot showers after long sweaty bike rides are absolutely better than sex.  What?  Yep.  Think about it.  Sex with me is probably gruesome.  Imagine a hippo sans lipstick in low gear and with a mouthful of cabbage leaves making mumbling sounds as it crawls through the undergrowth towards the top end of its partner, who if given the alternative would rather face a firing squad!  Yeah, the tingly sensation of hot soapy water flowing from atop a bald brown pate down a sweat blathered pink blubbery body to the hairy bits is bliss.  Ooompf!  Urgh!  I feel sick... You too?  Yeah..

And whilst I'm thinking about it no person in their right mind would as the saying goes shave, shower and then shit in that order.  No, think about it.  Shit comes first cos as hard as one might try you'll never get a clean wipe from a 50 something arsehole.  Then shower to effectively clean up point one and then shave whilst the stubble, which nowadays is as hard as a bastard file's rough bits, has softened a bit ready for the scraping skin shredding fest to come.  Surely it's that way around innit?  Anyway, to then put a clean t-shirt on and... er, what was I talking about?  er..., er...., Oh yes, memories...

The structure of work life is gone.  Structures that helped me order my thoughts which told me when to eat and sleep and when to do the other things.  All driven by immensely tight time-bound demands from the gobby knob heads at the top of the management tree who were doing their best, through me, to prove that their existence was crucial to the success of the company.  

Every day nowadays is a Sunday.  A nice day mixed with DIY tasks, other non DIY jobs and plenty of other things to keep me entertained, like writing into this blog.  However, like my career my memory has gone into long term retirement.  In the quieter moments between DIY bodges my mind occasionally springs into life and shouts, 'Yeah that's a cracking idea, go write about all those fantastical thoughts and ideas from the bike ride the other day.' 

So I go sit down at the desk with pen in mouth, reading glasses perched on the end of my nose, keyboard in front of me, fingers quivering in anticipation and... I ride flat out into a brick wall.  If you could look into my mind all you would see is a black silent empty void.  Turn the lights on and it becomes a bright windswept desert with the occasional tumbleweed rolling in the breeze.  Or something akin to the eroded and airless dark side of the Moon bah t'astronauts.

Feck!  Where have they all gone?  I had loads of stuff pouring out of me yesterday near Alne as though watching a Niagara of thoughts spill into the deep grass walled road canyon in front of me.  They've gone!  Buggered of and left me they have.  I'm thoughtless!  What shall I write about?..

Well there ya go, every cloud has a silver lining.  Someday they will return from their walkabout in my unconsciousness.  No doubt when I'm next out on my bike.  

Hey, I have a solution!  What I need is a dictaphone!!

That reminds me, I've not had a call from the Howardian Pillock for at least 2hrs and 36 minutes.