In Defence Of The Male Honour

I’m back on the bike today. Tuesdays no need longer to be set aside for long runs because I don’t need to do any. I don’t have a half marathon in the pipeline until next year. Which sounds further away than it probably is.

Later, the moment I get on my bike at work and start to ride towards home, the heavens open. This means pulling over and piling on all the wet weather kit I can muster. I had planned on riding straight to the pool and going for a swim but there’s seems little point now. I’ve had my swim on the roads. The prospect of getting out of wet kit and then back into it again after swimming does not appeal. So I skip it.

One thing livens up the damp ride home. I catch and then tuck in behind a nice little bedraggled number on the road down into Sandiacre. Full lycra kit topped off with a waterproof jacket astride a sleek road bike. I know I should go past her in a whirr of testosterone, in defence of the male honour, but there’s always the risk that she might rise to the challenge, fight back and win.

We pull up together at the lights in Sandiacre and exchange the customary pleasantries. An American as it turns out. I wait for her tell me to ‘have a nice day’, which clearly it isn’t, but she doesn’t. Then I realise she’s waiting for the lad on the baby mountain bike that I passed back up the road. He pants up to us in his hoodie and a pair of those heavy cotton tracksuit trousers that have taken on far too much water and are hanging way below the decency line. Only four miles or so to my house he tells her. They do say opposites attract, don’t they.

So no problem defending said honour, as she seems compelled to dawdle along, not exactly with him but just ahead of him, as I push on for home through the rain.

When I arrive in Nottingham it’s barely raining and I don’t think L believes me that we’ve had a monsoon in Derby despite my sodden appearance.

(Tuesday 25th October)