I just got smoked.
Uphill.
Twice.
The first was by two elderly gentlemen in their late 60’s, flying uphill on Hazelmere Road, Creswell (Derbyshire). I didn’t even hear the dudes coming.
I heard the humming car behind me, but not the bikes. Whisper quiet. They must have been on my wheel for a few minutes before the brisk, “Good morning, goodbye” salut, and that was it.
Gone.
Flew uphill on that 3% and left me huffing and puffing like I was standing still. The second failure of the day was orchastrated by another nice gentleman who coasted past my rig near Elmton. Also on a hill, and like the previous two, all three were on vintage, light weight rim brake builds.
Just like my lightweight Vernon Barker.
So no excuses.
Still smoked.
The slowest ride of the year.
It must be my fitness.
I ain’t been in shape since I stopped my morning single speed sprints, and midnight burners on fixed gear. Things just haven’t been the same since I saw that ghost on Markland Lane. The woods haven’t been the same since I saw that cheetah when I rolled back from Welbeck Farm.
Life just hasn’t been the same since I saw those wild cat prints behind the village. Hill climbs just haven’t been the same since that black panther hissed at me as I struggled on a 9% burner on the edge our local Kiveton fields.
Deep down I’m still scared, fearful and now ashamed.
Eating chocolates daily, while boozing on sugar’d up tea like a crazed fiend.
A fat relapse, again.
Fruits be damned.
Overweight again since adopting gears all winter and now dropped on hills by my peers at the dawn of spring.
This needs to change.
Somehow, I need to face my fears again.
Cats, ghosts, chocs, f%@! ’em.
This is as honest as it gets.
Fear shouldn’t make me cry like this.
I gotta kill, then bury this Fear m*therf$%ker somewhere out there in Whitwell Wood.
This has been decided.
Today.
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