Bright Sun Shiny Days

 Walking with the kids yesterday, I got them to be as quiet as possible in-between skirmishes and giggles. 'Look' I said, 'no trails or clouds in the sky, no noise at all. Isn't it amazing?'. Clearly not, as the younger is too busy wrestling the elder's flint rock out of his hands with the inevitable howls of indignation and belly chortles. I wander off and leave them to their interpretations of enjoying the outdoors and let my thoughts wander – yes there are significant financial repercussions and many hatches, matches and dispatches have been missed, but then should we be such a disparate society? Shouldn't we all just stay put? What utter nonsense ... strains of the youngest's beautiful voice singing '...allll obstaklllls in ma wayyyyy, gooone are the...' remind me of the fact.

I remember desperately trying to get onto Mull for a funeral, but being cast off by the gale force weather, no ferries running. But that wasn't a solo effort, Steve drove me through atrocious conditions from my island. It all swings round and is about. Raasay Rumble was on his trials. It'll happen again. And if we were to live in splendid and very local isolation, my mum and me wouldn't have shared a giggle, only hers perhaps a little more innocent than mine. Drop the 's' and change 'pick' for 'grow'? Ahhhh. 

But then commutes. Now. three weeks into my bi-weekly South Downs/Surrey Hills commute and I'm feeling good. The first week was ok - not happy with form, but ok. The second; double puncture two miles from work. Now that's not fair. A friendly face popped out of his car, 'can I give you a lift somewhere?' After thanking him profusely whilst he pulled away, I unravelled my two short valve tubes that somehow had to fit into the deep section rims. Bugger! Look cleats are plastic and expensive. Visiting the LBS later that day and I'm back in the 80's, in Clarkston - it's wee Alec the framebuilder with roll-up in mouth ... only it's not, same body, similar face and reek of stale tobacco, just no fags on show. 62mm valves x 2. Look cleats. Thanks. 

Since the commute of irritating valve fail, there have been three uneventful rides; other than when the chip shop owner in Horsham bodily grabbed me off my bike and, forcing £1.30 out my hand, replaced it with a bag of chips. The metabolic change keeps on catching me unawares – 'I'm fine, I'm fine, I've hit the wall!'. It feels better immediately after every effort, but with diminishing endorphin returns, sometimes finding myself in the garage – tapping on top tubes and looking for my next fix. There is running and the gym, but they are extreme and not sustainable efforts. Swimming. Hrm. swimming. It's obvious to me that I'm a trail junky and an endorphin fiend. Frankly, you can stuff your adrenaline, It's ok in blasts, but not sustainable for the long, beautiful sensation. I need to be in the outdoors and seeking the thrill of singletrack, the agony, dispair and exuberance of endurance r..rid...rac... ach!

The kids sniff out and run down some local secret singletrack, in perfect condition. Momentarily I regret not having a bike, but it is the briefest of moments - they have devised a stop, go, weeeee! ... crunch ... game and I'm being reprimanded for not joining in. 

Quite early the next morning, I get time to head out and over to that secret single track. The long way of course and let it all out. Amen. Riding back home, there is a comical and quite rude (grim stare forward, FSR Carbon) overtake. Now I wasn't pushing it, only just ambling along. Obviously, I take his wheel. I mean he's a great windbreak (stop it!). Then a shambles of metal and garish rugby shirts thunder past at the roundabout. Grr. All around there is the grinding of big Ullrich-esque gearing, Rugby shirts and grim-faced man-men. This is just plain silly and annoying. I slip the Launch Control on ... or is it off? Not sure, turn shock to pro-pedal and pounce like a coiled python (in the right gear of course). My break is a good'n. Grim-faced FSR man catches me in a while, but not so quick as to induce utter despair. Darn. More commutes and Tuesday night rides required. I may even get my racing socks out soon to receive a truly massive drubbing. But I like that too - one drubbing = massive gain in form. What am I saying! I just want to be fast ... er.

I suppose I'm feeding my faith, but that is about much more and will become obvious soon. As soon as I can create something that makes sense. Another good outdoor person has just been diagnosed. Similar and unhelpful prognosis. If only the same effort that went into nuclear fusion and space exploration, went into cancer research and treatment. But even breast can't sex it up enough, apparently. Heaven forbid we should talk about men wobbly bits.

What was meant to be a charitable (thank Christ he's going to be ok/thanks NHS for your accurate early diagnosis) charity Land's End to John O'Groats has drifted by one year and will be on dad's birthday - May 7th 2011, only I recon 50 hours now, not 60. So those who have donated will not be disappointed, just I'll be a year late.