My crotch is fucked, but not in a way I'd like it to be. I'm talking about riding a bike. No, not that type of bike, but a push bike, as I tried to get to grips with a journey that perhaps, in hindsight, I could've done without.
It's a journey that has been succesfully completed a few times before, perhaps a couple of years ago but using a bike with a heavier steel frame and those clunky, knobbly, thick tyres that are often found on mountain bikes. The Shimano eight speed twist grip gear system was hardly used to its full extent, settling on just three settings that I referred to as 'uphill', 'downhill' and 'flat'. Carrying that beast up a flight of stairs at railway stations after a long slog - which resulted in "jellied legs syndrome" - proved tough going, although still better than feeling nauseous after a punishing session of physical exercise. But as I said before, all that happened a while ago. 
Yesterday, after a few minutes of car-less journey planning (in which the main challenge was to get home after doing the twilight shift at work), I checked the weather forecast, which appeared favourable for cycling conditions and decided to pedal home. I kept reassuring myself that it would be easier than previous efforts, what with a different bike that had a lighter aluminium frame, a three speed hub and skinnier tyres - ideal for on-road handling.
Being very much the anti-athlete that I am with a weight problem that has more ups and downs than a whore's drawers, I welcomed the fresh mid-morning air at the start of the journey, it's nature's own cooling system. Decked out only in combat cargo pants, an Adidas polo shirt and Converse high tops, this would be a decent combination of clobber that would make me sweat less and avoid any premature physical burn-out. Or so I thought.
3.40am
I leave work with a resigned determination in the knowledge that what lies ahead can be done but will take some time to achieve. A ride of this calibre is a walk in the park for the likes of Lance Armstrong, but to me it's just a timely inconvenience. I've completed this trip in one hour and fifteen minutes in the past (including stopping for a 10 minute break around the half way point), but I wanted to see how my present heavier human frame would cope this time round. So off I go at a leisurely pace, making my way towards Teddington through the back roads. The only thing that helps me overcome the thought of the mammoth task ahead lies in the stillness of the streets, the relative quietness of minimal motorised traffic which is only spoiled by the boy racers that occasionally roar and charge down Sandy Lane. They be worryin' the deer in Bushey Park, the bastards.
4.00am
I'm feeling fine as I sail through the pedestrianised high street of Kingston-upon-Thames. Late night revellers haggle over prices with unlicensed minicab drivers as I weave around lone drunkards staggering home or trying to find a public bench to crash out on, whichever is the nearest. After passing a colleague cycling the other way into work, I smile and climb the slight hill of Cambridge Road that runs alongside the dodgy estate of the same name towards The Peel. The air is cruelly fresh, and I haven't even warmed myself up. I pass a gang of youths that seem to be pretend-fighting each other on the pavement and give them a wide berth, my advancing years automatically giving me a sense of self-preservation as I avoid anything that looks like dangerous confrontation. One of them looks at me and smirks.
4.20am
I arrive at New Malden roundabout and head straight for the A3 along Burlington Rd. There's an enormous new B&Q that has been erected, all three floors catering for the inner cowboy that is sometimes found within us. I zip under the A3's flyover at Beverley Way, pass what I think is a 24 hour Dunkin' Donuts shop. The smell of fresh donuts hits the cold air and tempts me to make a stop for a little snack-i-poo, which in the end is resisted as it would defeat the purpose. At West Barnes Lane, I get off the saddle, that bastard saddle, the one that remindes my forty year old arse that it's being laughed at by other road users. My bones creak with every step that I take as I carry the bike up a flight of stairs leading towards Bushey Road in Raynes Park. I get to the top and I'm rudely woken out of cycle mode by the flashing blue lights of an ambulance on its way to an important call out. Or maybe the paramedics are making their way to Dunkin' Donuts for a tea break? God knows.
4.30am
I still haven't warmed up, the bitter night air with its vice-like grip refuses to let go and the blubber around my stomach is of no help whatsoever. How do whales do it? My attention is soon diverted by a familiar landmark: Morden underground station, the southern most tip on the Northern line and I start to feel at home. I turn into Morden Hall Road where a motorist is routinely pulled over by a police patrol van. There are three coppers in the van and I start to wonder where they were on April 1st. I decide against a crafty shortcut towards Middleton Road that runs parallel to Tooting and Mitcham United's football ground (c'mon you Terrors!) and along the Wandle river's towpath because of the total absence of lighting. I choose Peterborough Road instead, much safer and probably much drier too. It's a road that's longer than it looks on the map, but soon I arrive at its end and glide into the Hackbridge morning mist.
4.50am
On passing Hackbridge station, I walk the bike up the railway bridge and once I reach the top, I sorely clamber back onto that unforgiving saddle and lazily coast my way into Beddington Park where the air gets spitefully colder. I glance at my watch and decide to set myself a deadline arrival of 5.00am. Fortunately I'm not too far from home and I start pedalling like a possessed maniac through the thick mist that has eerily settled in the park, floating menacingly above the grass like it does in any Hammer House of Horror film. The old graveyard surrounding St Mary's church looks equally as spooky but also welcoming as I hit the last 50 yards and suddenley I'm home, dead on five o'clock.
5.00am
Mission Accomplished. One hour and twenty minutes later of non-stop physical endurance and not a single bead of sweat has left a pore, I don't even stink of hard earned B.O. My body is still cold from the experience as I clamber under the duvet and thoughts of getting pneumonia fade away as a chirpy dawn chorus helps me fall asleep. Not that I ever needed much help after eleven, shivering miles.
Yesterday, after a few minutes of car-less journey planning (in which the main challenge was to get home after doing the twilight shift at work), I checked the weather forecast, which appeared favourable for cycling conditions and decided to pedal home. I kept reassuring myself that it would be easier than previous efforts, what with a different bike that had a lighter aluminium frame, a three speed hub and skinnier tyres - ideal for on-road handling.
Being very much the anti-athlete that I am with a weight problem that has more ups and downs than a whore's drawers, I welcomed the fresh mid-morning air at the start of the journey, it's nature's own cooling system. Decked out only in combat cargo pants, an Adidas polo shirt and Converse high tops, this would be a decent combination of clobber that would make me sweat less and avoid any premature physical burn-out. Or so I thought.
3.40am
I leave work with a resigned determination in the knowledge that what lies ahead can be done but will take some time to achieve. A ride of this calibre is a walk in the park for the likes of Lance Armstrong, but to me it's just a timely inconvenience. I've completed this trip in one hour and fifteen minutes in the past (including stopping for a 10 minute break around the half way point), but I wanted to see how my present heavier human frame would cope this time round. So off I go at a leisurely pace, making my way towards Teddington through the back roads. The only thing that helps me overcome the thought of the mammoth task ahead lies in the stillness of the streets, the relative quietness of minimal motorised traffic which is only spoiled by the boy racers that occasionally roar and charge down Sandy Lane. They be worryin' the deer in Bushey Park, the bastards.
4.00am
I'm feeling fine as I sail through the pedestrianised high street of Kingston-upon-Thames. Late night revellers haggle over prices with unlicensed minicab drivers as I weave around lone drunkards staggering home or trying to find a public bench to crash out on, whichever is the nearest. After passing a colleague cycling the other way into work, I smile and climb the slight hill of Cambridge Road that runs alongside the dodgy estate of the same name towards The Peel. The air is cruelly fresh, and I haven't even warmed myself up. I pass a gang of youths that seem to be pretend-fighting each other on the pavement and give them a wide berth, my advancing years automatically giving me a sense of self-preservation as I avoid anything that looks like dangerous confrontation. One of them looks at me and smirks.
4.20am
I arrive at New Malden roundabout and head straight for the A3 along Burlington Rd. There's an enormous new B&Q that has been erected, all three floors catering for the inner cowboy that is sometimes found within us. I zip under the A3's flyover at Beverley Way, pass what I think is a 24 hour Dunkin' Donuts shop. The smell of fresh donuts hits the cold air and tempts me to make a stop for a little snack-i-poo, which in the end is resisted as it would defeat the purpose. At West Barnes Lane, I get off the saddle, that bastard saddle, the one that remindes my forty year old arse that it's being laughed at by other road users. My bones creak with every step that I take as I carry the bike up a flight of stairs leading towards Bushey Road in Raynes Park. I get to the top and I'm rudely woken out of cycle mode by the flashing blue lights of an ambulance on its way to an important call out. Or maybe the paramedics are making their way to Dunkin' Donuts for a tea break? God knows.
4.30amI still haven't warmed up, the bitter night air with its vice-like grip refuses to let go and the blubber around my stomach is of no help whatsoever. How do whales do it? My attention is soon diverted by a familiar landmark: Morden underground station, the southern most tip on the Northern line and I start to feel at home. I turn into Morden Hall Road where a motorist is routinely pulled over by a police patrol van. There are three coppers in the van and I start to wonder where they were on April 1st. I decide against a crafty shortcut towards Middleton Road that runs parallel to Tooting and Mitcham United's football ground (c'mon you Terrors!) and along the Wandle river's towpath because of the total absence of lighting. I choose Peterborough Road instead, much safer and probably much drier too. It's a road that's longer than it looks on the map, but soon I arrive at its end and glide into the Hackbridge morning mist.
4.50am
On passing Hackbridge station, I walk the bike up the railway bridge and once I reach the top, I sorely clamber back onto that unforgiving saddle and lazily coast my way into Beddington Park where the air gets spitefully colder. I glance at my watch and decide to set myself a deadline arrival of 5.00am. Fortunately I'm not too far from home and I start pedalling like a possessed maniac through the thick mist that has eerily settled in the park, floating menacingly above the grass like it does in any Hammer House of Horror film. The old graveyard surrounding St Mary's church looks equally as spooky but also welcoming as I hit the last 50 yards and suddenley I'm home, dead on five o'clock.
5.00am
Mission Accomplished. One hour and twenty minutes later of non-stop physical endurance and not a single bead of sweat has left a pore, I don't even stink of hard earned B.O. My body is still cold from the experience as I clamber under the duvet and thoughts of getting pneumonia fade away as a chirpy dawn chorus helps me fall asleep. Not that I ever needed much help after eleven, shivering miles.
