Hugh Middity

It's been very humid in Londres for a the last week, and the strain is starting to show.  I woke up this morning more tired than when I turned in last night.  And the missus was complaining of a headache when she slid out of the nuptial bed too.  All of this I think can be ascribed to humidity.

It's a funny thing, the aitch-word.  Yes, it's vaguely uncomfortable, but nothing insurmountable - at least that's what one thinks.  Actually, the water vapour is waging a subliminal war of attrition against your mental resolve the whole time.  

I was in Valencia on holiday a couple of years ago.  Valencia is famed for its high humidity.  We'd arrived straight from Madrid, which was plenty hot, and assumed we'd be acclimatised.  No chance.  Although the nominal temperature in Valencia was lower, and it's on the coast, the humidity made the simplest task take on a Herculean dimension.  You literally couldn't walk 150 yards without wanting to stop for a coffee.  It was draining.  It's just as well I was wearing flip-flops because had I bent over to tie up a shoe lace, I'd have finished the holiday inside an iron lung.  We spent our entire stay there either in the air-conditioned apartment or nostrils-deep in the Med.

The situation isn't quite so pronounced here in England, but the combined effects of a calendar week of humid restless nights and full-time employment has laid everyone low.  One of my young colleagues was bemoaning his fatigued state earlier.  I set him straight.  I dare say it'll snow or something next week, and normal service will be resumed.

All this damage from tiny drops of water - whoddahfunkitt eh?

Ride On Time

Another Tuesday, another '10'.  Last night was the first I'd ridden in a fortnight, what with holidays an' sheet.  I didn't know what to expect.  Also the weather was bobbins for the first time this racing season.  I hate riding in the wet.  I don't mind the discomfort or the cold; it's the fear of crashing that I could live without.

 As it happens, I needn't have worried on either score.  I don't know what they surface road race tracks with these days, but it's amazing stuff - fast and yet grippy.  In days of yore, we raced on concrete, and cattle-class concrete at that.  It was as smooth and attractive as cellulite.  In the rain, it was like trying to ride on a bouncy castle made of engine oil.  I still used to race though.  I was young then and as thick as shite.  I have more respect for my neck these days.  If it looks dodgy out, I'll give it a miss.

And, rather delightfully, in spite of my non-conformist preparations, I rode pretty well and posted a season's best.  Hurrah!   It may be my last ride for a while though.  Next week is a "two-up"; that's a 10 mile time-trial but for pairs of riders.  The trouble is I don't have any mates.  I'm too cool and aloof.

I'll be off then.

And that is of course is how they get you

I'm fairly disciplined about what I hurl into my mouth in the name of nutrition.  I've always been like this, but am even more so when I'm racing bikes.  A pound of fat on the chassis really hurts at the end of a hilly time-trial.  The secret I've discovered over the years is to eschew sweet things.  This is easy for me as I don't have a naturally sweet tooth anyhoo.  But occasionally I find sugar trying to storm the citadel in a secretive and highly mediated form.  It tries to weasel aboard basically.  I think I may discovered another one of late: the flat white.

The flat white was devised (well, reborn really) in Australia.  Aussies are notoriously suspicious of ornamentation and bullshit, and it didn't take long before their collective jaundiced eye spied it in abundance in coffee shop bills of fare.  Froth, squirty cream, flakes, smarties - you name it, it's available in high street coffee chains, dressed up as sophisticated adult mid-morning libation 'solutions'.  Stick a cock-headed and meaningless Italian-sounding name on what is essentially a cup of trifle and that's the job done.  The great unwashed down under got fed up with this, and demanded an alternative, a cup of straightforward 'Joe' with no froth on it.  That's why it's called 'flat'.  It's coffee with a dash of milk.

It took off.  Sadly by the time it reached these shores, it had be marketed to death and therefore transformed utterly.  I've started drinking flat whites in London recently as they're the only thing on the menu that runs to less than 29 fluid ounces.  They do still have the virtue of being small.  However, they are short on flat and big on froth.  I initially thought the froth was just that: excited milk.  But now I'm not so sure.  I think there might be sugar in there too.  This of course is why they're so moreish.  I must investigate further.

Beware my froth.

Pathetic fallacies etc

The weather's gone to cock in London.  The rot set in yesterday.  Yesterday was Sunday, so it wasn't too bad.  The gardens of the capital were parched and needed a drop anyway, and there's something mildly romantic and pleasing about watching a lawn slake its thirst from behind double-glazed patio doors.  Today, though, is Monday, which means work.  And work under slate-grey skies and drizzle is miserable.  I woke up in great spirits too, which is doubly annoying.  The elements have put me on the mood back foot.

There's no inspiration abroad when it's like this.  Objectively, I've got a lot to be positive about: we've got some exciting stuff in the diary chez-nous, loads of travel and excitement, right there, on the horizon.  And yet, I cannot get myself motivated.

Perhaps a fizzy drink would help?

Spin spin spin the wheel of injustice

It's budget time here in the Kingdom of United, although we might need to revise that title if the chancellor carries on in his current vane.  The apparent driving philosophy behind the budget seems to be to punish those who dare to rely on benefits.  At least George Osborne hasn't fallen into the normal politician's trap of corralling the poor into two opposing camps, deserving and undeserving.  And for this he rightly merits praise.  No, he hates all poor people.  And why not?  They're a drain on resources.  Their homes are ugly and they tend not to vote Conservative.

Still, that's what you get for voting in a majority new-right government.  The market is left to its own egregious devices.

Starsky and Dutch

Well, what a trip that was!  I'm back from a joyous week-long sojourn in The Netherlands.  The weather was spectacular for once - 35 degrees plus for a couple of days.  The last time we cycled in the low countries, it's was unspeakably cold.  Almost literally so.  I remember one low point especially well.  We were huddled in a bus shelter in Arctic conditions, eating freezing cold cheese.  I tried to speak (planning to question the wisdom of the whole endeavour, no doubt) but could not form a coherent word.  I was too fatigued and too cold.  Still, onwards and upwards.  That's all forgotten now.  I suppose on a subliminal level, I'll expect it always to be subtropical in Utrecht now.  That could lead to disappointment.

Brian Ferry

I didn't get a chance to post yesterday, for which I unreservedly apologise.  I was under some pressure at work, a combination of short-staffedness and the serial shortcomings of several other colleagues.  Also, a horse died, which caused some consternation.  I should qualify this: It didn't keel over in the office.  I work for a periodical thats primary interest is equestrianism.  And the horse in question was a famous steeplechaser, not any old nag.

If it's any compensation, I didn't get to race last night.  The heat in London yesterday was phenomenal.  It was so hot that I genuinely feared I might do myself a mischief if I overdid it at the track.  I've managed to get myself quite fit of late, which is great.  But with great power and all that.  When one is fit, it's possible to go into the red in a medically contraindicated and damaging way.  A combination of this and my Celtic inability of deal with proper heat persuaded me it would be wise to back away this week.

And just as well - for in a couple of hours I head off on a cycling holiday.  I wouldn't fancy that with heatstroke.