Prologue Part 4: WHERE IT IS MADE CLEAR I AM IN NO WAY WHATSOEVER – AN ATHLETE.

Replace the flat tire. Drag the bike off the deck (again), stop briefly to tell my wife that she should come and look for me if I’m not back from the front gate in 30 no make that 35 minutes, and off I go.
I should point out at this point that 35 minutes to the gate is in no way as lame as it sounds. It’s 2.5kms of dirt road (a dirt road that has led several of our friends and family to include a car shuttle service in their ‘Conditions To Visit’ riders) there and back and while it’s almost all downhill on the way out, this of course means it’s decidedly not, on the way back.

As a test of my wife’s ability to follow (possibly life saving) instructions the activity is a complete failure, as when I drag myself back up the stairs gasping and wheezing like a 60 year old picture of obese decrepitude (as opposed to the 44 year old picture of obese decrepitude that I actually am) 45 minutes later she is sitting on the deck finishing off a cup of tea. When I am able to put words together in sufficient numbers to point out her seeming lack of care for my well being, she claims (possibly with some validity) that she could hear me coming as of about 10 minutes ago on account of my loud and persistent wheezing cough and was therefore aware that I was still alive.

If I’m going to be honest I’m not exactly filled with confidence by the whole affair. While I made it out to the gate in relative comfort, I was forced to dismount and push on three occasions on the way back despite liberal use of the Granny Gear (the easiest gears on a bike. In short - a lot of pretty easy peddling for not much forward motion with an accompanying hit to your manhood ). Admittedly, I’m still suffering from the chest infection that brought my totally crap state of well being to my attention in the first place but still – My frank self assessment at this point is - Spineless Joke Of A Weak As Piss Couldn’t Exercise My Way Out Of A Soggy Bag Farce.

But the next day I get back on again. And the day after that. While the really big hill at the beginning of the ride back continues to kick my arse three ways from Sunday, I make it up the one closer to home (on account I suspect, of the psychological boost given to me by the fact that it’s, um, closer to home) on at least one occasion. Just as I’m feeling pretty chipper about the whole thing however I get another flat tyre. And 2 more immediately following that before I realise there is a thorn stuck in my tyre that is happily puncturing each new tube I throw in there.

All of which is totally arse. The bike goes back on the deck.

But wait....

NEXT: PLAN B