A simle game, complicated by idiots

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.

Gathering winter fyoo-oo-ell

Summer in the city (London) is turning out to be a shit quibb this year (I think that's the expression I'm after).  This lamentable assessment extends to both the sporting British summer and the prevailing meterological conditions.  The weather in London yesterday was okay(ish) for a Wednesday in March.  And to top it all, Chris Froome abandoned the Tour after crashing about seventy times in the space of two-hundred yards.  Even his legendary phlegm ran dry at the atrocious conditions, and he looked heartily pissed-on-and-off as he leapt headfirst into the back of the womb-like Sky Jag.

The low cloud base last evening led to the inevitable gloomy speculation about the approach of winter in the nothern hemisphere.  It's coming, isn't it, the absolute bastard?  The evenings are definitely drawing in.  The actualité of winter is nothing compared with the anticipation of its arrival, as with most experiences in life.  We know this, but the brow can't help but furrow when the summer has been as underwhelming as this one.  Even bog-trotters like myself need sunlight.  I'm a surface-dwelling mammal after all.

Mrs O and I had decided initially to head to Israel later in the year as it stays hot and sunny there until at least Boxing Day, but the internecine brouhaha there means that that is not now going to happen.  I could go, but would have to do so sporting a beak and features.  I'm not scared, you understand, just concerned about being shot to ribbons in my prime.

Perhaps I should pop to Oz on me holidays, and get some courage.