The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 989 by Angharad Copyright © 2010 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

Amazingly, it was actually Saturday. Had I known I could have stayed in bed a little longer, but now I was up I boiled the kettle, sorted the washing and started the first load. It was a bank holiday on Monday, so I’d have Simon for a longer weekend and so would the kids. If I play my cards right, I might even be able to wangle an hour or two for a bike ride–hmmm.

Tea and toast consumed, I cracked on with the chores. Trish was the first down. She managed to help herself to some cereal and sat eating it while I switched on the bread machine. She was a little miffed that she didn’t get to do it herself.

Next down was Meems, and Trish helped her get her cereal. The two boys happened after Meems began chomping her way through the milk and oats. “Where’s Livvie?” I asked, surely she wasn’t still asleep?

“She’s cŵtching with Daddy,” Trish finished her cereal, “Can I make some toast?”

“Use the sliced loaf–how come you two aren’t?”

“We were hungry and she said she could talk him into taking us out in the Jaguar.” Trish popped the thick sliced wholemeal into the toaster. “You want one o’ these?” she asked of Meems, who nodded back. “Can I eat mine with some ‘nana?”

“Does Meems want some too?” I asked and she nodded, still chewing her cereal. I cut a banana in half and told Trish to use one part for her and the other for Meems. I watched as she juggled each piece of the hot toast out of the toaster and onto a plate where she buttered it. Then she thinly sliced the banana with the knife and gave one to Meems and took the other herself.

I congratulated her on her effort and explained that the next time she did it, if she used a fork to mash the banana, it was even sweeter. She indicated she understood even though her mouth was full. Then, in a pause before the next mouthful, she explained she’d thought of that, but it would make the plate very messy. She chomped on the next bit of her toastie.

“I think the machine will cope with that, kiddo, and you could always rinse it off while it’s still soft–if it dries, then it could be a problem.” It seems to cope with dried on egg yolk, so it does well, anyway.

I made myself another tea while the boys bickered over which cereal they would eat. I made irritated noises and they quietened down. They asked if they could play on their bikes and as the weather didn’t look too bad, I agreed. This suited the girls because it reduced the competition for their father’s attention. I wondered if I could forsake my solitary ride to escort the boys a bit, so they could go a bit further than they usually did. I knew they were quite happy to zip up and down the bike path near the house, but a ride with a hill and a challenge of distance might make it more interesting for them.

Julie was the last of the youngsters to come down, she followed Livvie, who high fived with Trish and then Meems, and they all giggled. Non verbals for, ‘mission accomplished’ I suspect.

Julie ate some fruit, she’s got this idea in her head that she’s fat. She is rounding out a bit, but that’s the hormones. No matter what I say, she doesn’t believe me. Leon arrived and Daddy came out of his study to tell Leon what they were going to do next. Julie decided she was happy to stay at home and do a few chores, she said this while looking at Leon, and not once at me–to whom she was talking. I suspect the operative word for the chores is few. I suppose I was young once, although I wasn’t in love or even lust, that didn’t happen until Kev the mechanic kissed me that day. Ooh, I’ve gone all goose pimply. Perhaps I will think about joining a cycling club.

I sent the girls up to wash and dress, tried to break into Julie’s libidinous dreams–but she was too far gone, and asked the boys if they’d like me to escort them for a ride. They practically bounced off the table.

“Yay, Mummy’s coming out on the bike with us!” They rushed around the kitchen and out into the garden to tell Leon and Tom. Then they rushed back in again. I sent them up to wash their faces and hands, they were all sticky with jam. I followed them upstairs as far as my own room where I changed while Simon was still in the shower.

“Gee whizz, it’s David Millar,” he joked as he came out and I was dressed in yellow cycling kit.

“David Millar is six feet four, I’m five feet seven on a tall day, besides he rides for Garmin, this is HTC-Columbia-High Road, more Mark Cavendish.”

“He’s not six feet four is he?”

“No, he’s about five seven, too.”

“Oh, you have much in common with him then.”

“I’m not a foul mouthed sprinter of exceptional ability.”

“That’s true,” Simon agreed then squawked as I pulled his towel away as I stamped out of the bedroom. He was lucky, I could have stepped on his toes in cycling shoes–he wouldn’t have enjoyed that one bit.

To cut a long story short, I checked out the bikes, put some air in mine and after donning arm and leg warmers and my helmet, the boys and I set off for a reasonable ride.

I set them a pace of ten miles an hour for nearly a mile by which time they were starting to flag a little. I rode on and waited for them to catch me up. They were both blowing quite hard and grumbled that it was easy for me with bigger wheels.

They were probably correct, but then I was bigger, too, and presumably as strong if not stronger–so, I had all the advantages. I asked them if they wanted to keep going and they both emphatically agreed they did. I therefore suggested that I rode back a bit and they continued on and I would attempt to catch them before we got to the pub. If they won, I’d buy the lemonades, if I won–they would have to pay.

They asked how far I would go back, and I suggested that I’d go back to the house and turn round and come after them, except I’d be on the road, not the cycle path. Once I’d assured them I’d be careful, they agreed to it.

I was about two miles from home and they had two miles to go to the pub including a short but stiff climb up a hill, which I didn’t mention. Besides they were on mountain bikes with granny gears against my race type compact chain set, admittedly on a carbon fibre bike. I was giving them a four mile start on a six mile race.

I set off away from them and they shot off legs spinning to try and cause me to pay up for the drinks. I gradually built up my speed, I hadn’t even worked up a sweat yet. I did a few minutes later when I was doing nearly twenty five miles on the flat and holding it, albeit with effort. I got to the house and turned round in a big circle and really went for it. I had four miles to cover against what was probably the boy’s one.

I got back to the spot where we’d separated and kept my cadence going–I was still doing over twenty and now riding into a headwind. I consoled myself that they would be too. Three minutes later I spotted them, they were struggling on the hill, Danny was still riding but Billy had dismounted and was in walking gear.

The hill and the wind cut into my speed and despite standing on the pedals, and dropping several gears, I was struggling to make any sort of speed–I’d lost that much fitness, not riding. In days of old, I’d actually flown up this hill at fifteen plus miles an hour–today, I was struggling to achieve ten.

I turned into the pub car park as the boys reached it–it was draw, probably the best result, and from the looks on their faces–one, they felt they could improve on. I had a feeling we’d be doing this again–so I needed to get the turbo out.

I’d have won the race back with ease. They were both so tired, that they struggled to maintain any sort of momentum home. Back there, they both zonked on the couch while I prepared lunch. I took a quick photo while they were asleep.

One episode to report, when I walked into the pub to get the drinks, which we consumed in their garden in the sunshine, one of the wags in the bar said, “Look out, here comes Mark Cavendish.”

His mate said, “Oh yeah, you know why he wins all them sprints?”

“Yeah ‘cos he’s the best.”

“Nah, if you look you can see he’s got tits, so his chest gets there before all the others.”

At this point, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to laugh or hit them, so I removed my helmet and pushed my sunglasses up on to my hair, which was tied back in a ponytail, and the first one said, “Oh, it’s not Cavendish.”

The other laughed, and said to him, “No wonder you can’t get laid, you can’t tell the difference between men and women.”

I decided I would say something to them, as their sexism was irritating me. “Excuse me, but I think I can tell you why your friend can’t get laid.”

“Oh yeah, why’s that then?”

“He won’t find a chicken with a big enough arse.”

The friend and the landlord thought it was hilarious, and I’d intended to suggest that he would be laid like an egg. He obviously thought I was implying he was either gay or into bestiality or something. He got quite angry and implied if I was a bloke he’d be asking me outside.

If he did, he’d get a surprise just before I began breaking his ribs, my biggest danger was my foot sinking up to the knee in his beer belly. However, women don’t fight unless attacked, and certainly not in front of their children.

The landlord and his friend calmed him down and I took my drinks outside to the garden and the children.

Riding home, I did hope they weren’t travelling the same way and in a car. Thankfully, they didn’t seem to be and we got back safely.