Fat Bloke on a Bike

Whilst I am riding the full length of the UK from John O Groats to Lands End I will not be riding alone at all times. Somehow I've convinced some EX BT'ers, friends right now but perhaps not later, to ride sections with me as follows.  London Alan (Alan Walls) is riding from John O Groats to Carlisle with me and then rejoining for the Bristol to Lands End section.  He has developed falling off bikes and over things into a fine art of 'not hurting oneself' in the process of doing so.  I hate it when he rides close to gutters and kerbs - especially if here is a 400ft drop to his left!  My sphinchter positively grips the saddle in anticipation of a thrilling spill! South Side Mark (Mark Brand) is also riding from John O Groats to Carlisle but significantly faster than a fat bloke could ever do so he will get the trophy for being the one to bag Scotland first.  Somewhat of an outrider he's always the one at the front of the posse and will positively spot the injun...

I'm laid prone in 'the chair' with a huge bright light shining into my face.  The pretty ginger haired dental hygenist was hard at work deep inside Audfrey II's chute trying without much success to remove the caked on remains of the inbound stuff.   You know, like looking at an old hard set chocolate and biscuit Kit Kat production line conveyor belt that's not been cleaned nor serviced for 10 years.  With a garlic and cheese breath.  Bork!  Proper manky... I look up at the upside down hygenist with my head nestled lightly in her buxom... 'Well Mr Tyssen, you're teeth are fine and strong' she says as she scrapes away at the 10 year old plaque.  I try to speak. 'Ga ga gah gu eg ga ga ga gaahh', says I.. What's that Mr Tyssen, you've always fantasised about having sex with a golden haired hygenist in an articulating chair have you?'  'Gah' 'Well funny you should mention that Mr Tyssen, but I've always fantasised about hav...

AARRGGHH!  It's driving me mad!  HELP!  Please make it stop!  It's hurting!  Oh woe is me!  Please!  Make it GO AWAY! AAARGH!! It does not matter what I do.  Whatever I try it's too late.  There's not a vaccine nor an antibiotic out there that can help me now.  I've been infested with a fecking big ear worm that's writhing about on the inside of my head.  Gorging itself on the grey porridge matter that I used to call my brain.  And I canna get rid of it.   I awake every morning with the fat fecker tumbling around inside of my mind.  When I'm sat on the toilet too.  In every quiet moment it raises its ugly head.  When watching the boring non-news.  Whilst cooking tea.  Even whilst writing today's blog.  I scrape at the bare skin atop of my head and down my jowly cheeks leaving reddened finger nail trails as though slugs with razor feet have slid across my head.  I am SO weary of it.  ...

Wow did it rain last night.  Thunderstorms did their best to raise me from the dead but not a fecking chance.  The 58 miles or so into Folkestone had proper done me in.  With jellied eels for legs we wobbled off for dinner last night and with the same legs still attached this morning wobbled away on our bikes at about 10.30am.  A late departure from the guest house whilst we waited for the back edge of the weather front to pass so that we didn't have to suffer the worst of it / get drenched.   I'm always amazed at how good the human body, well, my body is at recovering overnight.  Whatever the opposite of gremlins are for sure surged through my veins whilst I slept.  Packing morsels of energy into each and every muscle fibre and cell.  And whilst I might've wobbled to the toilet like a dalek wearing a new pair of greasy rollerskates when I awoke well, yeah, the legs really didn't feel too bad at all! I can eat enormous quantities of food even...

A late blog entry covering yesterday’s ride from Eastbourne to Folkestone cos whilst this guest house is big and lovely with 5 wifi networks set up for all its guests, the end of it is connected to a wet bit of string.  It is therefore extremely slow and this morning - dead.   Not unlike my legs. Some 58 miles yesterday across a huge swathe of flat lands covered with salty sheep wandering across the salty veldt.  Who knew?  Not me for I thought that Sussex and Kent generally resembled my belly when laid on my back.  You know, after a hard ride on a very warm day.  Huge rolling monstrous hills that erupted with small warm salty rivulets which run down into warm crevasses.  Covered with steep sided valleys, you know, where my leather belt and other elasticated bits had cut into the meaty blubber. Umph!  Bork! So there we were cruising along at speeds that an almost 60 year old and a 63 year young pair of blokes should be proud of.  The road...

I have to apologise to London Alan for a few things.  Firstly, for continuously telling him how to do things.  Which includes but is not limited to: how to ride a bike, how to wash and clean cuts, which way around to eat a sandwich and if I ever saw and so could assess how he did it, how best to wipe his asre!  Its a cross I struggle to bear.  I'm terrible for it.  I cannot help it.  Ask Kathryn.  Ask most of the guys and girls on my old team at BT.  My family and EX-friends.  All of whom at one time or another have fallen out with me.  Big time.  I am an absolute sod for taking control of any, in fact every situation.  Like the jerk of a character created by Harry Enfield back in the 80s.  If I wasn't so big for sure I'd have been strangled by now.  Here I am on today's bike ride from Brighton to Eastbourne telling folk what not to do... Secondly, for picking up the faulty camera remote before leaving home.  Whi...

Well my testicles for sure have gone.  They've been ground up and have frittered out through my leg holes as a fine brown hairy dust which pirouetted in the wind as I cycled along.  Fine stuff like something you might find inside of your vacuum bag if you had a very dusty carpet - and a very hairy dog.  Yes I've been out again on another monstrous ride and having decided to do so I called in at a small convenience store in Stockton on the Forest to stock up.  The shop only has two short aisles lit with dim fluorescent tubes and long life foodstuff on the shelves.  It doesn't get used that often.   The old boy, a rather nice quirky gent who looks to be 90 but is probably nearer 60, sells emergency foodstuffs to the locals who can't be arsed to ride their gas guzzling mopeds the 4 miles or so to ASDA.  We chat a fair bit about his love of vintage motorcycles and about the bicycle scrap heap outside of his shop.  They're all donations that he works o...

How-ist?  Well I hope that you 'ist' good.  Yes, amongst all of the colloquial greetings I was struck by the firm "Ay-up" from the old tweed encased gent given to me the other day outside of Stillington's post office whilst Audrey II was masticating on one of their sandwiches.  As though my mouth was full of cotton or bedsheets, although I cannot remember the last time I had a mouthful of bedsheets, I retorted with a muffled "Now-then" (hello) as I blew bread crumbs all over the old boy.  And no that's not a euphemism for ANYTHING else!   Well in fact I wanted to tell him about the fantastical ride out the previous day.  Oh how I would like to bleat on about my suffering in the Howardian Hills, into a headwind, with a BMI of 38.  C'mon now there must be someone out there who will give me some sympathy.  No - not a fecking chance mate.  You are responsible for both problems in that there is no-one else out there shovelling si ht into your cake...