Wednesday, 21 October 2009

I've stopped wanting to ride my bicycle

Well, I did it. I went out on the bike. 8 miles into Pateley, and 8 miles back.

10 years ago I'd have ripped up the road. It'd have taken an hour at most. Bradley Wiggins, Lance Armstrong, Graham Obree, they'd have been left in my wake as I flew through the roads of Upper Nidderdale at phenomenal speed, arcing through the corners, stood on the pedals up the hills.

Back in the real world, 40 minutes there and 50 minutes back is what it actually took. Every single muscle in my body is now screaming at me to go to bed until tomorrow morning. Muscles I had genuinely forgotten I had. Legs. Arms. Back. Even my stomach is complaining.

I'm actually quite depressed at how unfit I've become in a year and a half, and I'm clearly going to have to do something about this. 8 miles a night for the next week at least.

But not tomorrow. Looks like the bus again, for a week or so at least!


  1. How's your arse? Last summer I cycled 18 miles home after my train was turned back early due to a broken swing bridge. I couldn't sit down comfortably for a fortnight.

  2. Bizarrely, my backside is the only bit that doesn't hurt. Yet!