As my bike had drawn attention to itself by being nicked, abandoned and found, I decided to renew our old friendship by taking it out for a ride. On Sunday afternoon I slung my leg over it and took it for an hour-long, 15-mile circuit that goes up hill and down dale and ends with an exhilarating three-mile freewheel down to the sea, followed by a final killer hill that normally finishes me off completely.
I am currently not fit. Tendonitis in my heels means I’ve taken no exercise for two months. During this time I’ve been further enervated by drink and some rotten, highly adulterated drugs. Worse still, I’ve become fat. And when I arrived at the foot of that final killer hill, I felt too out of condition to face it.
Rather than selecting the highest gear and pedalling dementedly up the hill, I got off, choosing instead to walk the bike up the cliff path. This shorter route is in places even steeper than the road. It is usually muddy and overgrown. But it is just possible to push a bike up it.
Dismounting and pushing the bike up that final hill is, of course, cheating. It is also absurd because pushing the bike up the cliff path can only be marginally less taxing than riding it up the road. As I set off up this path, pushing the bike in front of me, I was deeply ashamed of myself, and hoped that nobody would see me.
Of course somebody saw me almost immediately. Somebody from the village, too, worst luck. I hadn’t gone far when Ron Tranter, walking with his wife in a field above me, hailed me from a distance of about 70 yards.
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