The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2311 by Angharad Copyright© 2014 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

Another day dawned and with it the usual struggle to get a car load of girls ready and to school in time for their brains to be expanded. Apparently because Easter was late this year the schools would all be breaking up a couple of weeks before and most would be returning a day or so after the Easter Monday bank holiday. We’d had a few fine days, one or two had got quite warm for the time of year, it was still March and although the equinox had come and gone, so theoretically the days were longer than the nights—by a handful of minutes. What made this more apparent was the bi-annual messing with the clock.

In north America they call it daylight saving, here they call it British Summer Time or even European Summer Time because all the clocks go forward across western Europe. I know it’s coming because it happens on the last weekend of March and the reverse will happen during the final weekend of October. Unfortunately, I needed the hour’s sleep back before then, I was shattered.

I tried to work out quite why. The weekend had been good—dry and largely sunny although accompanied by a cool breeze. I was told to go for a bike ride by my hubby as he and the older girls would look after the younger ones for a couple of hours on the Sunday.

Once I’d dealt with the surprise, my next thoughts were gift-horse and mouth. After breakfast, I changed into my cycling kit and while Si kept the others distracted, I slipped away. I was out for two hours—two hours of muscle aching bliss as I climbed up the Ridgeway and onto the edge of the Downs, the chalk escarpment that runs across much of Southern England petering out eventually in Dorset.

By the top of the rise I was blowing hard, feeling as hot as a new baked loaf and sweating like a navvy—sorry, glowing like an ember. Stella keeps trying to tell me that horses sweat, men perspire and ladies glow. Well somehow I could feel the glow occasionally trickling down my back and my vest was sticking to me. My face was probably glowing like a stoplight and the sun beat down on me with no mercy. It was wonderful. Perhaps it’s the boy in me still, but just now and again I thoroughly enjoy getting physical, pushing my body to its limits—which because I hadn’t ridden too often recently—were lower than they used to be. I used to be able to cruise at fifteen or more miles an hour, now that really was an effort and climbing was something else.

The best climbers are like stick insects with lots of long fibre muscle built for endurance. I was sort of in between, I could climb reasonably but not compared to the real hill specialists and one passed me half way up the hill, even managing to encourage me as he glided past me, so maybe the Team Sky on his shirt was real and not just a wannabe copy like my replica team kit, this time HTC High Road, yeah Cav’s old team who were disbanded while they were about the best in the world. That’s pro cycling, always at the mercy of the sponsors.

I crested the hill and took a long drink from my bidon or water bottle, mine wasn’t a French bottle but a good ol’ Tour of Britain one, I’d bought a few years ago when I was marshalling. I’d heard they wanted marshals for the TdF in this country but I didn’t have the time to spare although I might see if any of the girls wanted to watch it and we might escape for a day or two. I’d love to see the finish in Harrogate, they reckon it could be a bunch sprint and that Cav could be in the running for the maillot jeune if he pulled it off. It’s probably the best chance he’ll ever have and in front of a home crowd, too.

As I dreamt of seeing the Le Tour again I turned towards home and began the descent back to Portsmouth, against the wind—boy it was cooler coming down the gradient than it had struggling up it, even so I was reaching forty then forty five miles an hour and the wind was becoming a cross one—cross winds are dangerous.

I dipped below the hedgerow and the wind eased but my velocity increased, then as the road seemed to rise a fraction the shelter was gone and the vicious wind returned determined to have me off the bike, while I was equally intent on remaining on my trusty yellow steed.

With eyes that were filled with tears caused by the cool breeze I failed to see the pothole and for a split second I lost control of the bike wobbling out into the road just as a large car came past me sounding his displeasure with a loud blast on his horn. That nearly had me off as well as I wobbled nearly into the hedgerow. The panic only lasted a matter of a couple of seconds but that’s about as long as it takes to get yourself killed and I managed to regain control of the bike and then myself, the elation of my ride palling as I realised it could have been my last sojourn on two wheels.

Ask anyone who uses the roads their opinion of the state of them and most will tell you they are dreadful. Some potholes are measured in metres across—hit one of those on a bike, especially on a wet road and you’ll come off. Even at low speeds that can be dangerous, at forty miles an hour, it may well be fatal.

I stopped at the crossroads and threw up my legs were like jelly and my whole body was shivering and it wasn’t due to the cold. I was tempted to call home and get someone to come and collect me in the car but that could mean I might lose my nerve and never ride again. The way I felt at that moment, it wouldn’t have bothered me. I was still trembling when a familiar voice sounded. “Cathy—you all right?”

I turned and saw Anne Summers, her of the triathlons, perched on her bike, one foot on the road. “You okay?”

I shook my head and vomited again.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Pothole,” I said before the final part of my breakfast flew into the hedgerow.

“Is the bike okay?” she asked leaning her own against a hawthorn bush and looking at my front wheel. “Looks okay.” She felt the tyre and nodded, “Hasn’t punctured.” I suspect as a nurse she’d also given me a quick once over as well. I briefly explained what had happened and she nodded knowingly—most cyclists experience it at some point—the lucky ones live to tell the tale.

After I’d had another drink to try and rinse my mouth, she offered to escort me home. I felt such a wimp but was glad of her company, my confidence had been shattered and needed reassurance. By the time we got home I felt much better and I thanked her profusely. We hugged and she rode off not even accepting a cuppa—she was on a training schedule so I really appreciated her breaking it to rescue me.

The rest of the day was quiet and I recovered from my fright, and here it was Monday morning again and I was disgorging my daughters at their school, my legs still stiff from their exertions the day before and my fear not entirely allayed as I waved to them and set off towards the university and my biology group—yeah, that was even more frightening than my bike ride—their ignorance, that is.