Horses for courses

I was reading an article in Cycling Weekly earlier, my preferred organ of record on these matters,  about a club cyclist from Rotherham who's just broken the world record for distance cycled in a week.  He covered 1758 miles, this chap.  In a week.  Don't bother; I'm waay ahead of you - that's 252 miles a day.  When asked if he'd experienced any hiccups (sic) during the week, he gave up the following gold-plated quote:

"I had a bad day on Tuesday. I fainted after a massage."

As well one might.  He's not a pro, by-the-way; he does this for a hobby.  He was also riding circuits, not place to place.  So he didn't even have  the satisfaction of reaching a new town each day.  What was he thinking about as he pounded around for hour after hour?  Not much, I'll warrant.

I torn between admiration for the endeavour and horror at its utter futility.  Like darts.

A couple of years ago, I had a bit of a dalliance with distance cycling.  I was getting bored of race training, and I thought I'd have a crack at the Dunwich Dynamo, a 120-mile overnight ride from London to Dunwich in Suffolk.  By way of prep., one Saturday in high summer, I rode from my home in London to Maldon in Essex and back, a distance of 90-something miles.  I immediately vowed never to do another long ride unless there was a valid reason for it - touring, for example, or fleeing toxic fallout.  

These days I like my bike rides like my women: short and sadistic.

T D M

I'm bored today.  It's a much underestimated affliction, boredom.  It really lays one low.  It generally gets short-shrift from high profile head-shrinkers and dramatists because it doesn't come equipped with the usual eye-catching mental and physically flailing normally associated with mental maladies.  But make no mistake - it's a dangerous foe.  It really takes the joy out of life.

I've been a sufferer for as long as I can remember.  Shortly after I learned to speak, I started haranguing my mother.  I would complain incessantly at her about being bored, and demand satisfaction.  I always had this semi-formed notion that they was a clever workaround to avoid it, like paracetamol for the ego.  But apparently there isn't.  That was a lesson hard-learned.

I don't ever remember my little playmates being like this; they all seemed content enough with a combination of Playschool and Fuzzy Felt.  The sufferer becomes an island in situations like this.  You feel divorced from your peers and polite society as a whole.  They seem to be enjoying themselves, which makes them the enemy.  And this just makes the sorry business of getting on with the rotters and with life itself even more tiresome.

The funny thing is I've always held on to that youthful belief that there is a salve for boredom; I just need to continue the quest for it.  I've worked through umpteen hobbies, drugs, careers, body-modifications, religions and esoterica during this fruitless journey through life.  Nothing yet.  If I should happen across something, however, I'll let you know.  Perhaps half a dozen espressos might do it?

What's the biscuit situation?

I'm working from home today, by which I mean of course I'm at home whilst being paid.  For form's sake, I've had to fire off a few emails over the course of the morning.  The joy of WFH is that you can sit in your jimjams and drink tea, but pretend to yourself that you're aiding the country's balance of payments deficit, or something.

I particularly enjoy being at home during the school day because I'm good at it.  I have the mentality of a pensioner.  I fill my day with domestic tasks, and complete them religiously whilst Radio 4 blares in the background.  By lunchtime I always feel as if I've really achieved something, the exact inverse is true of my time in the workplace, which is filled with nebulous meetings and middle-management brouhaha.