I’m up on the eleventh floor
and I’m watchin’ the cruisers below…
Watched the Tour of Ireland go through Limerick and Westport and all the other picturesque bits and I for one was mulling it over. I bet none of you remember Sean Kelly. The great Irish Champion? Thought not.
For a shallow man, I run pretty deep sometimes. It was obviously A Sign.
Time to get riding!
I’ve got an official Benesto jersey and padded cycling pants which are most flattering. I should post a picture. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve stopped at the other pub to the admiration of their womenfolk. Sluts so they are. They ALWAYS make some comment and come over to look at the bike. It’s the saddle. They can’t keep their mitts off it. It’s a gel-filled masterpiece of the erotic saddler’s art. I always feel funny watching them handle it, pinching the gel through the neoprene with their firm competent hands and long fingernails…
Anyway, I couldn’t stop on Sunday night because I was red and wheezing like a set of old bagpipes. I was Humpty Dumpty, in fact his fat ugly brother. The lycra was squeezing my stomach to death. And anyway I wasn’t sure I could get my feet free of the cleats (oh yes friends, I ride with cleated shoes) without falling over because my legs had gone all that jelly way and my bottom was very hot and slippy. Too much information? I agree.
Stick to the facts.
15 miles (24 km) dead flat, no wind, perfect evening, 49 minutes.
That’s 18.36 mph or 29.38 kmph in new money.
Oh God, I could do better than that.
Late sports update: see below