#PeletonNews

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Peloton news – Pride and prejudice

Deep breath. 

OK, here goes.

I am prejudice. At times, horrifically so.

There. I’ve said it.

I feel better. Marginally.

Society today is becoming increasingly intolerant of any individual who dares transgress the firming social lines of the protection of the individual. And if the individual is in any kind of minority group, then watch out buster, say nothing or have your very being besmirched for being an out-of-date and contemptible individual. Cast out of the society you circled in and forever damned as being a sinner amongst saints.

Last week a cable TV show announced the annual winner of the ‘Funniest joke at the fringe’ award.

Every year I read through the top 10 and smirk at the inevitable, but usual amusing and witty contenders. 

This year was no different. 

An example of the type of top gaggery comes from the 2017 winner. Topical, as it came at the time of a new release from the Royal mint:

I'm not a fan of the new pound coin, but then again, I hate all change

Nice. A gag that has both a slight play on meaning and it topical. 

This year’s winner was equally gentle in its bending of phrasing.

I keep randomly shouting out 'Broccoli' and 'Cauliflower' - I think I might have florets.

Now I read this at work one morning, and seconds later moved on with other things. A few days later and a casual glance at the BBC website and there was a follow-on story. This time Auntie Beeb has published an article about the annoyance that the Tourettes Society have felt at with this joke.

A prominent lady within the society voiced distinct disapproval;

“Humour is a great way of educating people - but not only is it not funny to poke fun at people with Tourette's, it's not even that funny a joke, is it?”

In the irony of all ironies, the Tourettes society were one week away from launching a campaign aimed at stopping the condition being a punchline in jokes. How d’ya like them fucking apples.

Now I personally think you’re treading a fine line by dictating what you can and can’t make jokes about. Clearly the old days of Chubby Brown and Jim Davidson are well and truly behind us. Humour used to belittle particular groups and minorities. It always left a nasty taste in the mouth. But not being funny because someone is in a minority group? Not such a clean-cut affair.

I find it almost unbearably funny taking the piss out of people who are different. People who don’t conform. Social groups are almost always driven by some sort of common conformity after all. Look at the Peloton. All centred around cycling and conforming to what that social circle deems acceptable.

Let’s look at a few examples of what happens when someone wanders off group alignment.

• JT rode a Cube FFS. And it was a triple! In the fullness of time he was nearly bullied into tears over that little faux pas

• RTA made the best repair he could to a pair of shoes that had given him particularly good value. Merciless haranguing followed

• Has Damo worn the famour winter ‘lobster glove’ since that particularly cold ride on January?

• Macca and the white ‘show the world your penis’ bib shorts. 

Now none of the above makes any difference to the enjoyment of cycling. But they all made a helluva difference to the enjoyment of cycling on that particular day (for 7 out of the 8 riders at any rate).

But this is the thing. Comedic highlighting of group norm differences within the group, gentle isolation, then regular revisiting of past errors affirms group identity. And, it actually re-shapes individual behaviour and brings it back to group behaviour.

An interesting point to ponder is this. Should the individual who made the brave move away from group compliance, continue to do so without giving a merry fuck, would the group then gently steer towards him as a standard? Would his own confidence and ‘don’t-give-a-flying-fuckery’ actually position him as a standard setter…one to follow…? 

It’s difficult to believe that the Peloton could, in some parallel universe all be riding about the place in white penis-flaunting bib-shortery… but you never know.

Thank fuck Macca is a social conformist is all I can think.

This behaviour however is inbred. It’s part of humanity. When it’s one of your own, it’s good natured and mistakes are to be pounced on with glee. They’re funny. And there is nothing quite as satisfying as being the first one to publicy spot a fellow rider’s error.

Outside the social group, the prejudices are all still there, but all sense of warmth evaporates. This is where my inner demons roam. This is where my critical and saintly eye turns on humanity from the comfort of my own stately glass house.

I have a broad expansive set of prejudices and as part of recognising who I am, I feel the need to unburden myself. Think of it as detoxing. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll be a better person. More accepting. Happier, dare I say it.

So, in no particular order, here is a summarised list of some of the things that really hack me off about people whom I don’t know who have the temerity to be different to me.

• People who ride bicycles with the seat too low. Every time of see one of these hapless fuckers I think exactly the same thing. ‘Not very efficient on the quads that…. And you could do with dropping a gear or two. That slow cadence is making is harder that it should be.’ My gaze lingers for a few seconds whilst I mentally shake my head. Now what difference does it make to me that ‘random station commuter’ is going to spend exactly 8 mins not being as absolutely efficient as he could be? Answer? No difference whatsoever. So why do I feel slightly annoyed by it? How is this man’s seat height affecting my life in anyway whatsoever?

• People who ride by pushing the pedals with the middle of their feet as opposed to with the ball of their foot. When I see this, I want to see justice delivered instantly, preferably by the police using a taser gun to stop the offender in their tracks before then shouting at the quivering and prone floor-bound body to ‘pedal that fucking bike properly’ and then going about lesser police priorities. An overreaction? I think not. If I’m with the kids and I see this social travesty I point it out them. Seriously. It absolutely boils my piss.

• Now this one is perhaps my all time, most heinous of heinous crimes against civilised society. I mean, when exactly did some people revert to living with the apes in that great troop on the savanna? Have we forgotten millennia of tool-making and using skills? One of the very few things I might add, that genuinely separates us from nearly all living creatures on earth. When sitting in a restaurant or pub for that matter, and I see a mature homo sapien, who can seeming talk. Seemingly dress themselves in a manner compliant with social norms. Who can order food. Who can pay for food. Who can interact with waiting staff with courtesy and conviviality. But, who can’t hold a fucking fork like you are supposed to…! I mean for the love of sweet baby Jesus… you’re holding the thing with thumb and three fingers (pinky redundant)…jabbing it down like a fucking chop stick…. What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Why aren’t your parents at this very second, beating you to within an inch of your worthless life at your inability to grasp and use the most basic of tools in not just the right way, but the ONLY fucking way to use a fork!!! When I see this, I just want to shout ‘WANKER’ across the table and over my salmon and quinoa salad. 

I had my annual BUPA health-check last week and no ulcer was detected, but I’m telling ya, it’s fucking coming.

This weekend I’ve been mountain biking with my eldest. I bloody love it. He bloody loves it. He’s new to it and the activity is nothing short of joyous. 

Yesterday we went over to Holmbury St Mary and into some of the well-established MTB trails. Second time round I had a proper go at ‘Barry knows best’, a long swopping bermy 3 or so minutes which is just fabulous for the 2 beginners alike. This time though, whilst absolutely caning it and trying to set a time which my son wouldn’t beat (he did), I properly stacked it. Half way down. Came down hard and narrowly missed a tree. Very lucky really to only have a hurty shoulder today. After the event we went to the local pub and had chips and a pint. (Well, I did. Jnr had chips and a couple of glasses of coke. It’s like the Tenants super for the young generation.)

Outside there were scores of pretty serious looking bikes and bikers. They all looked different, but oddly the same. They all conformed to this particular group norm. I could tell my eldest was a little wary of being seen as a beginner. Neither of us where particularly dressed to ‘shred the gnar’ or whatever the fuck it is Macca says when he’s talking MTB mumbo jumbo. 

I sat there and munched a chip. ‘Don’t worry about it son… I don’t care about them, we’re doing this and enjoying it. I don’t care what we look like. We have as much right to be here doing this as they do’.

Off we went, back to the car. I felt bruised. Jnr felt good following the Strava analysis. He’d come out on top. As we walked past a table of fellow diners I noticed the husband holding his fork the wrong way. Our eyes crossed. As I walked past I felt a sense of calm solidarity. He had every right to be there. Just as much as me. And if he insists on eating like a wanker, that’s his call. 

Celebrate the commonalities, not the differences. 

Hold that thought as the rag-tag peloton makes its way to France this year. Perhaps we will see more tolerance? (I bloody hope not).

Finally, for the first time in 5 years I rode with Clemo today. The Peloton’s favourite chippy and the most upright tax-paying citizen this country has seen has rediscovered his cycling mojo and is out on his bike.

Clemo and Amesy in Majorca fo G20?  For the fist time in this edition, I’m not taking the piss.

Ride safely mon fuckerettes.

Hoppo

[gaudeixcc]

Peleton news – Butter knife.

This week, RTA and Moley went off to enjoy the cycling somewhere. We were all invited (eventually) and what an evening it was. JT, like a foreign benefactor blessing his adoring public with little leather pouches containing silver coins, sent £7 to our hapless duo for them to buy some fizzy lager. It’s not all champagne and strawberries in his Munich Penthouse you know. The fact that he can risk his children’s breakfast by dipping into the pension pot to pull out 7 whole pounds just to buy Bert and Ernie a beer speaks volumes.

JT has changed. I remember years back on a drunken night out, James threw 10p at my head after I had suggested his Golf (2.3V5) was not quite in the same league as my BMW 635 Csi (shark-nose). The shot caused a small dimple on my temple. Later that night in my taxi ride home, I spotted him shining a torch in the gutter in a lame attempt to locate the said coin.

He never did find it…. But the story doth not endeth there… many many years later, last year in fact, when JT paid for coffee one morning on our Malaga trip and shared the bill with the Peleton, the eagle eyed amongst you will have noticed that everyone got charged £3.20….. everyone except me… my bill was £3.30….. I looked at my screen… I looked up at JT… I looked at my screen again…… I didn’t move my head this time, instead slowly raised my eyes to his. There was much hub-ub at the time with the rest of the group teasing RTA about careless bicycle leaning (bike on wall.. bike off wall… bike on floor…. Damo summoned to fix)…..but JT met my eyes with his icy stare. We said nothing….. JT tapped his temple….. and we both knew…. That 10p was lost no more. The Trusler balance sheet was restored.

Half an hour later I glanced over JT’s shoulder as he was texting the lovely Mrs JT…. All I could read of JT’s message was;

‘Close the 2004 accounts. Balance now received. Nobody makes a monkey outta……’ and that was all I glimpsed….(although I later saw Karen’s reply ping through…’Well done love, nobody out-cunts the cuntmaster general…ps. Bring home some schnitzel x’…)

So in summary my advice to RTA and Moley is…. Send the money back…. You might as well…. And probably before the 2018 accounting period is over.

Sunday came this week and for a change some of the Peleton managed to ride together.

There has been much press speculation of late concerning G19. The big fight in town being DripHop….. a little less Wiggins v Froome.. a little more Fury v Wilder.

This was the first press conference Drip and I have done since James ‘Frank Warren’ Trusler had the contracts drawn up. It could have been a frosty affair, but luckily, we had Macca ringside to keep things on the straight and narrow.

Macca, not one for riding off ahead and leaving every other fucker in his wake, rode off ahead and left every other fucker in his wake.

Drip and I made a sufficient meal of riding in mud and also managed to embarrass ourselves with many a stranger before the day had concluded.

It didn’t start well.

We rocked up in Cricketers close in my second-hand bargain Range Rover (blacked out windows, natch).

I wound down the passenger window when we saw a cyclist and immediately struck up a conversation with the fellow rider as he was Macca’s mate and was due to join us on our ride. Being Macca’s mate, he was dressed in hugely expensive gear, had an expensive (but sensible) car and spoke with an accent that has probably had money thrown at it at some point. (He really was grammatically flawless). Drip and I were dressed in trackies and trainers and looked like a couple of pikies who had lucked-out and found a brace of bikes outside the local newsagents.

Anyhoo…. After much jolly banter, our riding partner disappears and Macca arrives on the scene.

‘Who was that?’ asks Cricketers favourite pilot (there are 14 of them on the close).

Turns out the fella had fuck all to do with Macca and us….. ffs…. Sometimes I do feel a complete pillock.

Anyway, it comes time to trundle off and Dawn waves from the upstairs window… well, it was either a wave or a furious ‘get the hell out of the street with all ya noise and bafoonary, people are trying to sleep’…. I think it was just a wave.

The ride itself was tough. It’s been a while since either of the two Crawley boys have troubled mud on a bicycle and the long, slow climbs took their toll.

Overall though I was quite pleased with the days riding. Macca was like a wheeled London city guide…every hill, climb or manoeuvre was teed-up with an introduction.

‘Slow climb coming up… steepens after the turn….. then steady to the top’

‘Tough climb… looks easy… is surprisingly hard and into the wind’

My favourite of the lot was when we were about to conduct a tricky gnarly and rooty left/right bend.

‘I’ve only every completed this a couple of times without having to walk the bike round’ says Macca… clearly expecting Drip and I to be walking bikes around.

I follow Macca. Macca clears the tricky section without stopping. It’s the first time he’s done it in years. Now it would take a complete twat to show-boat and go around like a hot knife through butter making easy what had been positioned as hard. It would have been like a giant ‘fuckyoumotherfucker’ whilst giving the finger behind poor Macca’s back.

Clearly Drip and I are two proper gentlemen who don’t just rock up at this sort of event looking like Vince and Jules at the end of Pulp Fiction only to embarrass our host by deploying rarely seen cycling talent to cast shadow over his own.

Who do you think we are…? We’re not monsters you know.

Anyway, I went round that corner like a knife though hot fucking butter….. but boy did I pay the price later….

The promised post-ride breakfast was a dish of revenge…. Served piping hot.

Drip, who had the courtesy to put his foot down and pretend that it was too hard, got Avacado with his bacon, two cups of coffee… TWO!!!... double toast…. DOUBLE TOAST…all served up within minutes of his arse touching a McEvoy perching stool.

I had to wait….. a loooong time……. And then……. I got a piece of toast (un-buttered).

‘Er…. ‘ I said.

‘What?’ squawked Macca

‘Butter?’ says I.

Macca pushes it my way…. And adds a ‘would you like a fucking hot knife with that?’

Now I may be seeing shadows, but I think Macca might have had the hump. It was either my wizadary on two-wheels that hacked him off…. or it might have been the fact that on entering the McEvoy kitchen I immediately commented on the picture of Mark and the budgie (now ex-budgie) on the fridge.

On mention of the cheeky chappy Dawn cried for a solid 20 minutes…. How was I to know?

All-in-all though, a successful ride out. Fury vs Wilder looks set to be a thriller. Training has started in both camps and ahead of us lies many a press conference.

So finally, I’d like to end on an unusually positive note. Our 2018 pink cap, RTA, has been shamed by Damo into action and will shortly be sending out invites (printed on heavy-weight fine china-white stationary) to his inaugural 2018 pink cap social.

It will be lovely to see you all. We can expect a contribution from our Munich benefactor no-doubt, in line with the precedence he set last weekend.

So for those in any doubt, I’ll wrap up with this little thought. Never in the history of Gaudeix tours, has training started so early for so many. G19…. As Moley would no doubt say…. This shit just got real. Get on your turbo’s boys…. The Pyrenees are a comin’ and the butter  knifes are being warmed.

[gaudeixcc]

Peloton New – Eiger

The sleepy town of Grindelwald lies at the foot of the Eiger. A Swiss peak with a frankly terrifying North face which is concave and year-round bathed in shadow. As a climbing challenge it’s ferocious.  

Climbing the Eiger the normal route, whilst not for the likes of you and I, is it seems relatively straightforward.

Climbing the North face however is a completely different barrel of monkeys.

So many climbers have died trying that the Germans have a  nickname for it. ‘Murderous wall’. 

Before being successfully climbed in 1938 by Anderl Heckmair, who along with 3 chums made it to the top with many a tale of derring do, many climbers lost their lives trying. 

In 1935 for example, 2 German climbers had to bivouac 5 times over a period of a few days whilst attempting the summit. Fog came down and watched from Grindelwald below the people saw them disappear. 2 days later they were found frozen to death at 3,300 meters in a place now called ‘death bivouac’.

Like many a great Strava segment, the Heckmair route has iconic ‘segments’ named after various heroics in the history pre-summit.

The White spider, the Traverse of the Gods, flat iron and difficult crack (we’ve all been there). 

Probably the most infamous drama to play out on the mountain was in 1936 when 2 Bavarian climbers, Andreas Hinterstoisser and Toni Kurtz and a couple of Asutrians had a crack at the North face.

Stuck on the wall and cut off by bad weather, they made fatal mistakes. They traversed across an area of flat purchase-less mountain face  but instead of leaving the rope behind so they could get back, they took it with them. Now stuck, 3 of the group where swept off by an avalanche with Kurtz left hanging in mid-air on a rope. 3 guides went up the hill to try and rescue him. They used the railway inside the mountain which has a couple of places where you can come out directly on to the North face. They got within shouting distance of Kurtz who relayed the fate of the others.

The guides managed to get a rope to him so he could traverse down, but hands ravaged by frost bite, he spent hours trying to get the rope into his carabiner. In the end he just gave up and died exhausted on the side of the mountain.

Nobody wants that, least of all me….. still… twas nearly my fate this weekend.

A small subset of The Gaudeix Peleton this year visited Kitzbühel in Austria to mark my 50th year on the planet. Of the 5 riders, 2 are good skiers, 2 are good snow-boarders and 1 is 50 and never worn a ski boot outside of Hemel Hempstead. This was going to be interesting.

I had taken this task seriously. I’d had 11 hours-worth of lessons and the boys had bought me two 3 hour sessions of one-on-one tuition from an 8-year old Danish boy called ‘Viktor’. 

He and I had a lot in common. 

1. We are both male

2. We were both spending 6 hours together.

The rapport flowed and we found ourselves chatting away perhaps once or twice. It wasn’t frosty… we just shared little common ground. He asked me what I did. I told him I worked in Insurance…. and that was the end of that little line of enquiry. I then dropped one of my sticks off the ski lift into what looked like a ravine. ‘Couldn’t nip and get that for me could you Viktor?’

Still, in fairness to Viktor, he did treat me gently and didn’t at any point leave me for dead on a steep mountain. Not at any point. Thanks Viktor.

My confidence grew gently. I crashed a couple of times…. Once spectacularly on a very flat and unassuming piece of ground. I felt like I was going maybe 10-15 mph…. just standing up… not doing anything. Exerting no effort. It was like my brain had a sudden moment of ‘hang the fuckety on, what’s going on here. You’re standing still but still moving. Stop this bus immediately’. At this point I did a massive cartwheel on the flat ground and ended up in a heap with a hurty rib and a concerned looking Viktor whose voice said ‘are you ok?’ but whose eyes said ‘how the fuck did you just crash here… it’s flat you complete fucking moron’.

After that ‘lil event though, things kinda progressed well. I did more skiing. Viktor took me on some blue runs. I didn’t die in any meaningful way. All was well.

The big day of the week though was Saturday. Hip flasks packed. Time called fairly early. Everyone drinking hot chocolate with beers and added hip flaskery. We hit the town early. We hit the town hard. Some harder than others.

It’s not fair on those involved to go into too many raw details, so I’m going to deploy the famous ‘summary bullets’ to the evenings events and let others add the names/fill in the blanks. Here goes;

• Snowboarder X…. too drunk to stand un-aided, staggers down road… then runs at a complete stranger shouting… and hugs him. Literally the funniest video I’ve ever seen…. And I have played it to no-one today at work. Noone at all…

• Skier Y…… upstanding pillar of the community. Responsible job in the transport industry…. Never kicked a football in his life. Taped to the bar with electrical tape and broke a hotel wardrobe door.

• Snowboarder Z….Generous purchaser of birthday Champaign… roommate to gentle old man…. Literally left me for dead on a mountain to be eaten by wolves…. Revoluted me for the cost of the wolves whilst I was being eaten.

• Skier Z…. self-employed….. can start his car with an App…. Tired legs…. Also taped to a bar with electrical tape. Broke no doors.

Clearly names have been changed to protect the innocent. 

I can’t however leave this edition of Peloton news without re-living the disaster that was day 3.

I hadn’t seen Viktor that morning. 

I had felt that I held kept my head above the snow. 

Off we all went to the other side of the mountain. 

The fist little sign of trouble was when Moley suggested that we take a quieter, less well travelled route. The trouble with skiing that I have found, is that once you are committed to a route by going down some part of it…. You are committed… there is literally no going back. This particular route was not long…. But very narrow and icy. I instantly panicked and then fell over.

At this point an 80-year old German woman enters the scene. She stands on her skis by the side of my broken body and starts asking if I’m ok…. Moley, ever the gentleman, assures her that there is nothing to see here and that he is ‘taking care of it’.

She literally refuses to move. 

‘He shouldn’t be on this slope’ says Frauline. 

I’m preoccupied looking for my other ski and I think I’ve also lost a stick.

At this point I’m sitting down and looking over the edge of the slope I’m sitting on.

‘He shouldn’t be on this slope’ continues the old bint.

‘He’s fine’ continues Moley. ‘I’ve got him… we’ll be out of your way soon’.

I continue to sit.

Eventually I get cracking again and manage to slide my arse off that particular hill and move on to the next drama. 

I didn’t like that slope. Too narrow and very icy.

My arse hurts.

My rib hurts.

My pride hurts.

Eventually, snowboarder X & Y arrive at the top of a blue (black?) run and fuck the hell off without so much as a backward glance. 

They leave the Hemel Hempstead flyer with Moley and Macca to pursue their own agenda. I’m left wondering what they talk about…. When they do their thing together. I have no idea because I’ve been skiing for 11 hours in total. I don’t know what goes on chat-wise at the front of the Ski-pack. I just know what happens at the back. 

Anyhoo, within minutes, I find myself on the North Face of the Eigar looking down. Fuck me this is a looooong slope. I mean really, really long. And it’s about 40 degrees in angle.

I go down and within seconds I’m travelling at a pace I really don’t like at all. Not one Iota. So I do what I do best. I fall off dramatically and take a German lady with me for good measure.

She said ‘are you ok?’….. her eyes said ‘for the love of fuckery what on earth are you doing here you complete amateur’

I was now sitting in the middle of a mountain on my arse. One ski moving downhill being chased by Macca with Moley up the slope looking for my stick.

I was frightened, confused and angry.

How the fuck was I going to get off this slope. I literally had no idea. I’m on the side of a mountain. I can’t go down 2k’s on my arse for fucksake..!

Both Moley and Macca are trying to gently talk me down. I’m having none of it.

‘What the fuck am I doing here’, I whine.

For those of you present several years ago on Barhatch, when an unnamed cyclist so pissed on my fire that I popped a little wheelie in anger and then spoke to no-one for 30 mins…. you’d recognise this particular version of me. 

I’m getting irrational and angry at how average I am at pretty much every sport I try. Cycling. Average in the pack. Squash… average. Boxing… average…. Football….. yep, pretty shit at that. 

I feel fear. 

Macca is trying to talk to me ‘put the weight on your downhill ski Hoppo and try and press your arse into the mountain. It’ll give you better purchase on the edge and will be a lot easier for you to sustain… come on Hoppo…then you can rest… and we can go down gently’.

All I hear is ‘blah blah blah blah.. Hoppo….blah blah blah… Hoppo….blah blah blah…. Die’

Moley gently slides into view.

‘No worries Hoppo… just traverse…. Just traverse over there Hoppo… you can do it’.

All I hear is ‘Traverse… blah blah blah…. Traverse…. Blah blah blah’.

I am genuinely fearful. I’m sweating and my legs are burning. The slope is 45 degrees and covered in ice.

Literally hundreds of people and gently sweeping down it without a care in the world. I am the only person on the slope going fucking sideways….. slowly. From one side…. to the other…. And then down a few inches.

This takes what feels like hours.

I reach the bottom a sweating gibbering mess.

I look back up the slope. Fuck me it’s massive. For far too long I felt like Toni Kurtz… desperately trying to get down… but too cold… too frightened… so close… I thought I was going to be stuck on the mountain for ever.

In my wild subconscious I thought I heard two snowboarders overhead chuckling as they were lifted to safety whilst watching the madness below. Couldn’t have been our two.

I was nervous on day 1 as had absolutely no idea what to expect.

I came back alive and un-injured.

Being 50 isn’t about being brilliant at everything you do. It’s about just saying yes to doing brilliant things. 

One day I will ski the murderous wall and overcome the demons.

March 2020? Not sure I’ll be quite ready then… but one day. 

See you there next year. 

In the meantime I shall be retreating to the safety of my bicycle.

Slide away mother fuckers, slide away.

Hoppo

[gaudeixcc]

Peleton News - Shock Value

Shock is an interesting thing to see on a man’s face.

A while ago I recounted the tale of Eric and his missing snake. You’ll remember the family pet had gone walkabouts (well… as much as a snake walks anywhere) and was lost for a couple of days. The sound of a heavy serpent landing on carpet triggered no doubt a look on Eric’s face that could have been described as shocked… if not, at least mildly started. The snake had hidden out on top of the wardrobe and then made a leap for freedom. What prompted this sudden burst of frenetic airborne activity is still unclear to me.

Not long after, Clemo recounted to me a story from his youth (of which there are many).

This one involved him out for a run in Tillgate park, one of West Sussex’s areas of natural beauty. A youthful Clemo was jogging down a track when he felt a sharp bit on his leg. Low and behold he has been bitten… by a snake..in West Sussex..!

He’s very sketchy about the details. I pressed him with a line of questioning that could be described as ‘cynical’. I perhaps proposed that the oft heard about, ner seen large toothed worm of West Sussex may be the culprit.

‘It was a fucking snake.. I’m telling ya’….

You can usually tell when Clemo’s lying..(normally when in conversation with the tax man), and he appeared to me to be telling the story fairly straight.

I still reckon it was a small grass snake and not the anaconda-like serpent that nearly ate him whole as our erstwhile Chippy would have you believe.

Still, when fangs sunk into flesh, I’ll bet his face was a picture.

Over the last couple of weeks, I have been spooked into shock. As you know, I’m a robust individual with few deficiencies and certainly a person you would describe as well able to deal with life’s little curved balls, so these events must have been significant (you’ll be thinking).

In the following text, I’ll highlight the arrival of each ‘shock face’ with a handy ‘shock face’ text (in inverted comma’s). ‘Shock face’…. Just like that bit.

Macca arrived at mine a few weeks ago for a little bash at the old ‘East run’. 34 hilly miles into East Sussex countryside.

As a man of aviation, you know he’s going to arrive on time. I have an unproven theory that he circles the area until exactly the right time and then, just as the committed ETA nears, he takes his final approach into Hoppo close. No ‘Shock Face’ required when he rocked up on the nose of good time.

We set of at what I consider to be a pace the wrong side of comfortable. He leads out…. All the way pretty much…

When we get to the EGCC hill climb, I find myself in front (JT has just made his ‘Shock Face’).

We climb at a reasonable pace… not hanging around…. Then from behind I hear the tinkle of a child’s bicycle bell.

‘Shock Face’.

‘If I get over taken by a child up this fucking hill, I’m going to jack this whole cycling lark in’ thought I.

It was no child though. For some reason, Macca has fitted a tiny bell to his Carbon fibre racing cycle. A bell…. I mean, why!?

Macca looked as pleased as he usually does when he manages to pull one over on me (i.e. pretty fucking pleased).

…. And so the ride continued.

We crested the never-easy Kidds hill at the half way point, and all was still good.

I’d decided (well… been firmly prompted) that I should lead for a while… Priory road is a mile and a half of incline, starting by a pretty church and then leading through the forest.

I pressed on…. As we entered the forested area, I heard a little tinkly bell about 150 yards back….

I looked behind… and there was Macca in the middle distance… dropped….(‘Shock face’).

There are few things more pleasurable in life than seeing the McEvoy cycling robot have an off-day. I mean they don’t come very often, but when they do, they should be savored and talked about loudly.

A previous day mountain biking, a touch flu, explosive diarrhea, they were all cited as reasons. Macca pulled up short of blaming a snake bite…. But I reckon he considered it.

Last week I was in Turkey on annual vacation. On arrival at the airport I didn’t see any ‘Wanted’ posters with a picture of my ears large and centre. Not one.

It was a little uncomfortable being in a county that borders Syria, has got the right hump with the Kurdish rebels and plays hosts to many a frequent bombing event

Not ingredients for your normal holiday, granted, but our little ‘all inclusive’ place was more than a grenade throw from the madness, so all was well.

At about the half-way point, I decided that a haircut was in order. They had a man on site for very such an eventuality, so off I went and purchased myself a trim.

I’m a man who is not unused to a haircut. I’ve been having them for years now. I know the score. He asks what I want…. I go with boring predictability… he says ‘of course sir’.. I say ‘can you cut the grey out’… we both chuckle and then settle into the matter at hand.. relaxed as old pros in each others company. Experienced barber…. Experienced customer. It works a treat.

Haircut finished with, I await the usual tour with the hand mirror…. I’ve got my line prepped and ready (‘great.. perfect…that’ll do for another coupla weeks’).

Instead of the tour though, the barber tries to set fire to my ears with what looks like a tiny petrol-soaked rag on a stick. (‘Shock face’).

The next minute is spent in terror as he goes about my (some say) interesting features with fire.

Not content with the flame assault, he also goes after my nose with his scissors and has a go at my eyebrows for good measure.

Who gave him the order to attack my ears?

Is this some new government crackdown of which I am blissfully unaware?

Were my ears marked men?

Who knows.

All I know is… they are now particularly tidy.

A reliable source informs me that once cut, ear-hair grows back at a frightening pace… longer…thicker…

I don’t know about that, but I have been having to do the old comb-over trick on the stuff since my return.

Today’s ride saw JT, Moley and I attack the Surrey Hills.

I’d been drinking quite heavily with Clements yesterday so it was painful. Very painful.

Lovely ride though. Moley dressed all in black (think ‘Burt Kwouk’ from the Pink Panther films and you’d be about right). JT back from his ‘claimed holiday’ in Greece, sporting skin whiter than a sheltered albino.

News on the street for JT is a potential imminent spell in Germany for his paymasters at Sky TV.

He tells me ‘it’s all a bit shit over there… I go over… I discover that shit aint done proper… I go again the next week… new shit emerges… I go again.. more shit… different shit to last time…. I need to go and sort it’.

Now, if you’re a German senior HR-type bod, the last thing you need on your tail is JT sniffin about your patch…. But he’s a coming…

During the course of the ride I got JT to confirm his list of top 5 sayings at work… Here we go, in reverse order;

5- ‘Shit’s gone down here.. I aint happy’

4- ‘This shit aint right…Klaus… what the fuck?’

3- ‘I’ve lifted the pebble…look.. there’s shit under there….Klaus.. are you looking?… at the pebble?… look… the shit’

2- ‘Klaus… you can’t see the shit for the shit… I mean it’s fucking everywhere’

1-    ‘I’d like a schnitzel and a pack of those peanuts you do….’

Whilst Moley was busy being Burt Kwouk, his feet were busy being Jospeh and the Technicolour raincoat. Socks of outrageous hue, worn for shock value I am convinced. Have a look at his ride on Strava… he was good enough to post 2 pics on me looking a) knackered and b) fat… so he followed it up with a final snap of Joseph feet.

It’s late. I’m tired. I’ve got work tomorrow. What was the biggest shock?

Ears attacked by fire?

Clements bitten by a snake?

JT cross at somebody for something?

I think you know the answer.

‘ding ding… wait for meeee’

Happy riding my little fuckerettes.

Hoppo