I woke in the early hours to a performance of operatic magnitude outside the bedroom window. I can’t recall the wind ever putting on such an impressive show. During the daytime I would have listened with a smile on my face (and probably worried about roof tiles vanishing) - at 3am I wasn’t quite so appreciative.
The local radio station burst into life at 7, and caused the expected Karate chop - which roughly translates to any or all of the following;
Turn that bloody row off right now. Go get the kids up then. Go make a cup of tea.
As it happened, this morning we had not made packed lunches in advance, and I needed a shave. When I saw a photo of Lance Armstrong a couple of days ago, showing of his “Movember” moustache, I frowned. His month long effort to grow a moustache equated to about 3 days worth of what my face subjects me to. I guess this means I’m better than Lance Armstrong at something at least.
Mornings in our house usually run on rails. They have to. Myself and W play a bizarre relay race around the house, taking over from each other while simultaneously barking orders at the children;
“Eat your breakfast!”, “Stop messing around”, “put your lunch in your bag”, “brush you hair!”, “Shoes! Coat! Bag!”, “Put the cat down!”
By hook or by crook, we left the house on time this morning, and I set out into the fresh morning air - and discovered the remnants of the previous night’s storm. A strong headwind. All the way to work. I think I know what those hill-climbing championships must be like now.
Actually, I nearly only made it 50 yards towards work. As I pulled out of our road end (in a quiet maze of suburban streets), a car was turning from a junction 100 yards away. He floored it, and just missed me as I crossed in front of him. I would estimate he was doing perhaps 45 by the time he hit the brakes for the next corner. He must have heard the obscenities I shouted at him.
As is usual, I pedalled on, fighting the wind, and the moment of madness evolved in my head to an argument in the middle of the road, Billy Liar style. In the fictional version of events I became Benedict Cumberbatch in “Starter for Ten”, except in this case I was screaming at him “DO YOU KNOW WHAT A DICK YOU ARE?” instead of informing him I was going to be on University Challenge.
I often do that… act out what might have happened in my head in the moments after something patently ridiculous has come to pass in front of me - which happens all too often riding a bike on the road. To be honest, most of the madness involves other cyclists. You know; the ones on the path, without helmets, without lights, or displaying scant regard for the rules of the road. They are almost always over 50.
I of course arrived at work in one piece, and instantly forgot the drama of the journey in as soon as I dumped my bag, hit the power button on the laptop, and started dreading the arrival of email from the cloud.