Fat Bloke on a Bike

Winter is just around the corner and oh woe is me.  My legs.  They've died.  They shuffled off their mortal coils whilst I was sat at the Marston Moor obelisk thinking of the thousands of men who similarly slipped off their coils during the English Civil War in 1644.  A battle where Oliver Cromwell's Parliamentarians had a convincing win; similar to the one the other week when England played San Marino in a World Cup qualifier; and, in the embarrassment of it all, accidentally beat Prince Rupert's Royalists 10 - 0!    Firstly, here's a couple of photos of the pointy monument at Marston Moor on a bright cold shiny day, and the delightful Dawes who didn't mind the cold one little bit!   Bet both the England qualifier and the Civil War games were fun to watch, eh?  Well, both were probably watchable at the kickoff as the early manoeuvres started to play out.  Perhaps you're sat with the children on the muddy terraces and embankments, wearing cav...

There's a harsh SNAP!  Then a crunch, crunch, crunch, intertwined with short sharp cracking and popping sounds as I speed along.  With a repetitive mmmm-mmmm-mmmm somewhere in the mix.  No it's not me riding over a scattering of freshly fallen golden crispy leaves and twigs felled from the majestic canopy of yellow light by yesterdays autumnal storm.  Mixed with the sounds of my derailleur chain spinning around the rear cog on each pedal rotation as I power along...  No, it's not that.  I'm all alone on a bright late afternoon bike ride chomping on a Crunchie bar, wedged side-on in my gob as I ride into the backside of Riccall.  Nobody really likes to ride into the backside of Riccall.  But the chocolate helps. The mobile phone rings.  'Ewow, Wane ere [coff, spit], wooowh issit?', says I as I try my best to swallow the bar sideways at 18mph with the wind in my face and the phone pressed up against the side of my helmet.   'Hi Wayne, Marc...