August

[Sweder]

A couple of two-wheeled adventures to Blackcap have thrown up some interesting stats. Today’s run timed out at 43 minutes 58 seconds – pretty much my average running time for the course over the past year. Allowing for excess poundage and current absence of training times should come down soon enough. Of more import is the lack of fatigue in my redundant legs; this cycling lark seems to be the perfect answer to my delinquent knee. Aerobically I was pretty much knackered after two hundred yards. The free-wheeling kamikaze return run required little pedal power, although the plummet off the Cap (at around twenty mph) proved hair-raising in more ways than one as tears were torn from half-shut eyes. My internal organs tumbled like Wednesday’s washing, the hard-ridged unyielding ground fully testing my bike’s hydraulic forks as well as my ability to hang on for grim death. The sling shot up Mount Harry offered blessed relief, rapid, barely controllable forward motion succumbing to the gravitational pull on my substantial girth, held as surely as the Millenium Falcon gripped in the Death Star's tractor beam. My backside, although currently amply padded, has taken a fearful beating on these rocky trails. I'm hoping the pain will recede with my bulk as the sessions continue. That or I'll be obliged to trade the wicked, razor-sharp saddle in for a miniaturised armchair or a whoopee cushion.

With no running on the immediate horizon I feel it prudent to shelve all race plans until further notice. At least daily peddling should halt the slide into physical decrepitude. The alternative, cutting back on pub visits or – gulp – embracing dietary control is unthinkable.