A right shambles this morning. Realized when wheeling the bike out that an 'orrible rubbing noise was coming from somewhere, and eventually traced it to my nice new 28mm tyre grazing once per rev the upper crosspiece between the seat stays of my supposedly 28mm-rated frame. A frenzied bout of tyre-changing later and I rolled out with El Prez and a scunner against Conti, whose 28mm tyre is more like a young 32. Over the first decent climb & down into the valley, El Prez says "I don't feel too well, I'm going home" and confides that his BP this morning was 98/60 mmHg, which is somewhat bloody low. So we trogged the 10k to his abode at a very sedate speed. After leaving him there, still breathing, I didn't feel like going anywhere else so I turned for home, only to be stricken halfway with a dire attack of the screaming shits. No adequate cover and nowhere with accessible bogs to hand, climbing back over the initial hill was sphincter-cracking agony; and the final clenched-buttocked sprint into the house was probably quite entertaining for any onlookers, especially given the cleats.
24k, last time I looked at the GPS, which is still on the bike in the workshop and probably not switched off.
