"Do you miss us?" asked the missus plaintively, on the first evening of a brief sojourn at her parents' place with the lad.
"Not had time to" was the honest answer, hardly surprising since pretty much every waking hour of my life is dominated by bloody cycling at the moment.
And it's her own fault - she was the one who clipped out a competition in The Independent to win a place on the British Cyclosportive, just the 120 miles of timed cycling that traces the route of Stage One of this year's Tour de France, from London to Canterbury (and for the benefit of overseas readers, yes I know that's not in France, but the race has a habit of dipping into neighbouring countries along the way, Britain included).
What a wheeze, I thought, despite not actually owning a road bike or having ridden any notable distance for a decade or more. And never in semi-competitive conditions...
But of course I won, and now, having had a racing machine cobbled together for me by my trusty local bike shop, I'm trying to cram a lifetime of road racing into about six weeks.
It's already taken it's toll - saddle-sore arse and aching knees are just the half of it. I even managed to acquire a kidney infection along the way, which resulted in my first ever trip in an ambulance as The Patient in 40 years on this miserable planet.
I'm crapping myself about my chances of completing the distance. I can foresee a tearful, humiliating exit via the 'broom wagon' (a support vehicle that sweeps up riders who abandon the stage) and I'll never be able to tell the lad "I've ridden a stage of the Tour - it was easy" when trying to encourage him to get off the couch and do some bloody exercise.
Wonder where I could buy some EPO.....
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