The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1479 by Angharad Copyright © 2011 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

I was so enthused by watching the cycle racing that I persuaded Tom and Jenny to babysit while I went out for half an hour’s ride–the problem was if they saw me they’d want to come and I wanted a half hour’s work out. Somehow, I managed to slip away and into the bike shed, where I had to pump the tyres of the Specialized up to the minimum 100psi. Then a quick flurry and I was out on the road and away.

Despite the stiff breeze I was in a state of virtual bliss, and was soon trundling along at a steady fifteen miles per hour. I did manage to find a bit of hill to climb and was half way up it when I realised how unfit I was. At the top my legs were burning and my chest felt tight as I gulped in the air and puffed and panted.

It struck me as wasted life compared to someone like Nicole Cooke’s who at twenty six was Olympic champion, had been world champion road racer, had won everything including junior world titles at road racing, mountain biking and time trialling. Me? I won a gonk in a raffle when I was a kid.

I sped back to the house, having managed about ten miles according to the computer–and that looked as if the battery needed replacement. Apart from being hot and sweaty, stiff legged, sore kneed, stiff necked and tender wristed–I felt great, and managed to re-store the bike and get in without anyone noticing.

Actually, they had so I had to deal with a long list of grumbles and complaints which I resolved by offering to take them all out with me tomorrow–early. Danny decided he still had potatoes to lift but the girls were all up for it–which was why I found myself eating breakfast at seven thirty on a Sunday morning, surrounded by an excited posse of girls–just what I needed.

They finally calmed down enough to eat some cereal, toast and a banana. I managed the toast and banana with two mugs of tea. After clearing this up, we went over to the bike shed and I checked tyre pressures and brakes–this took a further half an hour–so it was nearer nine by the time we actually set off along the bike path.

I don’t think Bonzini has anything to fear from my lot–racing cyclists they are not–with the possible exception of Billie who does seem to have a bit of an idea of what’s involved. She was in the lead most of the way as I sat back with the rest–Livvie and Trish having some convoluted argument about time and space differentials–I think. I must stop them watching Dr Who.

I had some braising steak defrosting for dinner, which I could whack in a casserole and leave in the slow oven of the Aga–which would then leave me free to watch the men’s race, which was on the red button from nine to about four. Sadly, I couldn’t stop for that length of time watching a bike race, but I was certainly going to watch bits, especially the last hour or so.

Back from our ride, it was now ten and the World’s had been on the telly for an hour–get rid of the kids and get the casserole on. I sent them all out to help Simon and Danny in the garden–I nearly locked the doors, but then they’d only ring the battery in the doorbell flat.

I made up a flour and herbs mixture and after trimming the meat rubbed it into the said mix, then fried it with onions and garlic to seal the meat–so this only takes a few minutes–I then took it out and shoved it in the casserole which I filled with a stock, carrots, celeriac, a tin of chopped tomatoes and some mushrooms. Then to get it going I popped it in the microwave to warm it up to simmer then shoved it in the slow oven.

I was rushing to clear up and dropped the remainder of the flour mix which took me ten minutes to clean up, I tried to slow down but was getting more irritated with myself, and rinsing stuff off prior to putting them in the dishwasher, dropped a favourite mug and broke it. If this was an omen for the bike race and Team GB, it wasn’t a good one.

By eleven, I’d finished in the kitchen and was humping a large basket of clean laundry into the lounge, where I set up the ironing board and got the iron and a supply of fresh water to steam iron things. Finally, I switched on the telly and eventually found the bike racing. There was a breakaway group of seven already and I’d only just switched on. Chris Froome and Steve Cummings were leading the Team GB train, which in turn was leading the peloton.

I nearly ironed my hand once, I certainly burnt my fingers a few times–it’s easy to forget that cotton which has just been steam pressed is actually hot–so interesting was the race.

I had to stop at lunch time–I’d actually done all the ironing–to feed the brood. I did scrambled eggs on toast using up half a tray of eggs in the process while Livvie made and buttered the toast. I’d informed them that dinner would be an evening meal because I wanted to watch the world championships. Then Simon accused me of deliberately obscuring the fact that Scotland were playing rugby in the world cup that morning.

We had quite a shouting match because I’d genuinely forgotten–I wasn’t that interested anyway–Wales play more interesting rugby than Scotland–besides they lost to Argentina–who Wales beat in a warm up game–see what I mean.

After clearing up from this meal–I went back to the telly to find Trish watching some film on Sky. I nearly strangled her–it was a wind up–she wasn’t watching it at all, she just bargained for chocolate to go away and give me control of the remote again.

I flopped in the easy chair with a cuppa and discovered there were now two breakaway groups and Team GB were still plugging away with the same train in the peloton much to Hugh Porter’s discomfort, while Chris Boardman made comments or corrected Porter’s mistakes about who was where.

It was so absorbing–it really was–that I closed my eyes–just for a moment–okay, it was half an hour. It was now nearly three o’clock and all hell was breaking loose and I had no idea what was what, except Team GB were still trundling along at the front of the peloton with a couple of Germans helping them and now a lone Yank.

Hugh Porter repeated how they were sticking to their plan despite all that was going on and I began to wonder if he might be right. I made some more tea to wake myself up and offered cups to the other adults and Simon. By the time I got back some sneaky Italians had formed another breakaway–I’d lost count how many there were now–ah this lot were caught–but the first lot and second lot had merged so we had a breakaway of about a dozen, including practically everyone but the British, Germans and USA. I’m sure my blood pressure was higher than when I’d been out on the bike.

Boardman and Porter played a game of spot Cavendish–‘he’s up with the rest of Team GB, no he’s further back with Geraint–his lead out man. Essentially, team GB kept ramping up the pace as we got ever closer to the final lap and they were catching up to the breakaways each time one formed. Brad Wiggins, he who broke his collar bone in the TdF, steamed away like an express train for what seemed like hours, taking the pace of the peloton to speeds from which it was hard to mount attacks or set up a train for sprinters–they had their own to line up–in one Mark Cavendish–the Manx Missile.

As they approached the finish, it became almost a free for all. The Aussies nearly got away, but Stannard was strong enough to bring the Brits back to the front, then as the sprint trains went off–Geraint Thomas lost Cavendish, who’d got himself blocked. Thomas slowed down to try and pick him up again but Cav had other ideas and just as it looked as if he’d missed the boat, the familiar figure emerged up the right hand side accelerating like he was on a motorbike, zooming past Goss and Greipel to take the win.

I was bouncing up and down, shouting and crying at the same time–we’d won it, Cavendish was the new world champion–we’d done it.

“What’s happened?” asked Simon and for a moment I couldn’t say anything except blubber. “We lost again, did we?” I shook my head vigorously, no. “So why are you crying?”

“We won, Cav won it,” I said blubbing some more.

“Women,” said Simon and walked out just as they showed a rerun of the finish from the helicopter and he missed it again. What a finish.