I've been pondering a return to time-trialing of late. That's bicycle time-trialing, not driving around the alps in a two-seater Bentley with a pair of flying goggles and a silk neckerchief.
I used to do a fair bit of this kind of thing when I was younger, not young, you understand, younGER. I really enjoyed it too. But then I packed-up, for reasons I can't properly fathom. Anyhoos, after a 14 year hiatus (Great Scot - has it really been that long?), I feel increasingly desirous of a return to competition.
I've been trying to analyse the reasons for this change of heart. When you get to a certain point in life, it's important to start scrutinising the motives for your actions carefully, lest ye be acting at the behest of the dread midlife crisis. When this happens, all dignity is lost. It's for this reason, for example, that 20-stone bald hedge fund managers take up snowboarding, or leave their wives and move in with teenage Russian slappers. That, then, must be avoided.
I think, however, I'm mooting this change for the right reasons. I've kept myself fit, and I do enjoy racing bikes. Mind you, it's important I keep an eye on matters in case the mania escalates; otherwise I'll end-up buying a one-piece lycra gimp suit, a yard-long aero helmet the shape of a bidet and a five grand carbon fibre bike. These things, needless to say, are the cycling equivalent of buying Ludmilla a pair of crotchless scanties.
My trouble is that I'm as thin now as I was at 20, and I've kept my hair (nightmare, 'eh?). It's all too easy, then, to fool myself into believing that I look pretty sharp dressed like an adolescent.
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