Quicker than the human eye
EER were back at the Alma again last night as we continue to see out the final nights (
) of Step 3. At least we managed to pick a venue that was open.
I was very late following a km/miles mix up. For someone who has passed his Ocean Yachtmaster astral navigation exam, I really do make an awful navigator
Huggy, the Hustler and Carlos were sitting talking to a young person who may or may not have been at the wrong table. They were identifying as a cyclist despite having clearly arrived by motorbike. They were also claiming to be from Essex despite sporting a large tattoo of the Sudbury CC mileage trophy and an accent from the deep welsh valleys. All this stuff is a minefield - where were our masters of tact, OD and BFC, when we needed them, (although the Hustler did make a futile attempt to audition for the role of OD). The venue itself was hoaching with cyclists but mainly of the deep sectioned wheels and slim physique flavour. Those of us who braved the icy nights of May (May !) could sit with a feeling of moral superiority as we viewed our fair-weather and home by 8.15 colleagues. The main business for this conclave was an evening class for Carlos in "trucker bants". Who better to school him in the dark arts than three blokes who had never driven a truck much less shouted lewd comments out of an open window. He is in the actual cab next week but we hope to cover lorry driver pop disposal the week after and Carlos has promised to practise whilst out on his bike - think of the time "Carlos, King of the hedge stop" could save on an average audax if he didn't have to slow down never mind stop. We also witnessed the unveiling of a surprising new member of the infamous Ti Circle. Finally, there was just time for a brief meeting of 70's children's tv club before it was time to convene the judging panel.
Our choice of judges was as limited as the cholce of ale. It has really come to something when you are comparing GK IPA to St Austell Tribute and Carlos has been co-opted onto the QCC. The Tribute was pretty drinkable to be fair but none of us could bring ourselves to make any award. I am not sure any of us were that bothered. It is hard to be grumpy when you are sitting in a warm beer garden, in good company with a drink in your hand.
Looking back, I realise I may have been too relaxed. The signs were all there; Carlos moaning about his unfit legs, Carlos doing a warm-up lap before the pub, Carlos dressed in a skintight Rapha top, Carlos offering to ride in the opposite direction to his way home in order to accompany me part of the way back, Carlos sitting astride his white sooty dream machine with a glint in his eye as I saddled up to leave the pub... It was all there, I just missed it. He had been sandbagging for a few weeks and now it was time for him to show me some of his true speed and leave me for dust in a sweaty, humiliated heap. What's worse is that he slowed down to encourage me to take a turn that took me off my chosen route home and across the notorious Layer de la Haye massif. It was only as he sped off to his lair that I remembered the other reason why I wanted to go the flat way via the reservoir - there were road closed signs being laid out during my journey to the venue. "Mind the fire" shouted a helpful road operative as I picked my way past a truck with an actual fire at the back and avoided the people painting lines and doing all manner of road works. At least it looked like they might be sealing some of the loose chippings at last. I didn't even need an actual fire to stay warm for last night's homecoming. It was the first return of the year in shorts and short sleeves, how I cursed as I noted the missed sandal opportunity. All that and home just after 11.30, roll on Step 4 now that we don't even need to be inside.