In preparation for the upcoming time trial season (bikes, that it), I have fallen into the same trap that all men of a certain age do when faced with a perceived challenge to one's sense of self worth, and started throwing money and technology at the problem. The problem in this case, of course, being my feeble engine and unwillingness to train properly.
In classic avoidance style, I've taken to getting the tube to a nearby cycle superstore to buy shoes, handlebars, heart-rate monitors - anything really to offset my feelings of worthlessness. All these fine consumer durables are part of a transparent attempt by my personality to dig out the essential "me" - the me that fears nothing and no-one; the me that works hard and treats the twin impostors of success and failure with haughty disregard. Just like the unfortunate scarecrow in The Wizard Of Oz, I need a symbol to fool myself into believing in me a bit more. Had I had access to a faux potentate and a clockwork heart, I could have saved myself an awful lot of time and money.
What's more, my back is hurting, which means I can't train today even if I wanted to. Back down Halfords tomorrow then. Perhaps I'll buy a bell. A titanium one.
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