I bottled last night's final time-trial of the series. I did, as promised, show my face at the velodrome, but I felt shite. Also, it was packed and as a solo rider, I would have had to race after the two-ups had done their thang, which would have been late. So I decided discretion (the thinking man's cowardice) was the bee part of vee, and legged it. I did feel sufficiently ashamed to go out on a training ride instead, so I did get some miles in. There's was absolutely no point in this endeavour; I was nailed to the road and certainly didn't improve my fitness or cycling any. Honour must be served at times, however.
Tonight we're off to the flicks. Recently we had a cinema open close to home. When it did, I confidently predicted we'd be in there at least four times a week. We've been once so far. I don't know why this is, but I suspect that it's to do with the lack of spectacle involved in walking ten minutes from one's front door. It takes the drama out of cinema-going. This implies of course that there's some romance attached to going four stops on the Victoria Line. There isn't. Perhaps a retraction is in order?
We're just lazy.
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