I have been recovering from a slight cough of late. It kept me off the bike for a week or so, and the only saving grace was I’d cleaned my bike immediately before being struck down so it had been sitting in my bike store spotless for a whole seven days, which is a victory of sorts.
But last week I felt like it was time for a reasonably gentle reintroduction to riding. So I decided I’d ride to Hertfordshire and visit a friend. It was about 20 miles each way, with a ready-made excuse to take it nice and easy, a tailwind for the trip home, and free coffee and snacks at the midway point. I’m betting you could not look me in the eye and say you’ve ever wanted more from life.
It was a pleasant ride. I got there and rang the doorbell. My friend suggested I take my bike round to the back. She let me in through the garden door. “I’ve put down some old sheets for you,” she said, gesturing at some bedsheets spread out on the floor leading to the kitchen.
“You… what?”
“Well, you know.”
I thought about it for a few seconds, and said that I could say in all honesty that I didn’t know at all. “I expect you’ll be a bit sweaty,” she said. “Although you don’t seem too bad.”
I noticed that the chair she directed me to at her kitchen table was the only one with a bath towel draped over it. I didn’t comment. She started making coffee. “You must be exhausted,” she said.
“Not really – it’s only 20 miles, and I didn’t hurry.”
“And you’re going to ride all the way back too – why don’t you let me give you a lift?”
“That’s kind, but I want to ride.”
“You are brave, aren’t you.”
She didn’t mean brave. She meant “weird”. I’ve noticed this sort of thing before. I hate to say this, but some non-cyclists think there’s something wrong with us. Bear in mind this is someone I’ve known for a long time, who knows I’m a bike rider, who even knows that, historically at least, I’m not terrible at it. If I’m not cycling or dressed for cycling, she’s impressed with my palmares. When I actually look like a bike rider, suddenly she’s not.
She set a plate with about 50 Jaffa Cakes on it in front of me. You’ll perhaps appreciate the problem. I’d very happily eat 50 Jaffa Cakes with a cup of coffee. But the only reason there were so many being offered was the expectation that the bicycling weirdo would eat all of them, probably three or four at a time, and spray crumbs over the kitchen.
To make a point about my own normality, I took just one. It was such a strange thing to do that it took me several seconds to decide exactly which one. (It’s possible that the resulting prolonged deliberation, as if I hoped one of them was the Jackpot Jaffa Cake, undermined my plan to look normal.)
Still, there’s always a bright side. I look at it this way – in non-cyclist land I was able to demonstrate a degree of physical fitness and stamina that was genuinely impressive. I managed to sit neatly on a towel and not make a mess of my friend’s nice chair. I did not drip bodily liquids over her floor, and she was able to put the sheets away without having to wash them. When faced with a whole plate of Jaffa Cakes I displayed self restraint and didn’t spray half the room with crumbs.
Of course, that’s only a royal flush of personal achievements if you’re a middle-aged Labrador. But I decided to take it.
And yes, I found my way home all on my own.
