Took the first ride in what must be a year or so, to buy lunch (souvlaki, if you must) as my wife is doing her girls-who-do-theatre thing. Took a bit of time to rid the Brompton of curious garage fungus, pump up the tyres, make sure the wheels spin, and exorcise the cobwebs. Then longer to find the little seat pack for my phone. Off I went. Should have probably tested the brakes before the steep hill at the bottom of the drive, but fate, I dare you. Had to pedal fast for the train (thanks ASLEF for the hourly service). Took a few moments to remember how the gears worked, but they did work, which was nice for me, probably less so for any lingering spiders. Took a bit longer at the station to remember how the fold worked. Be gentle, I was at a beer festival yesterday evening. Ah, little lever, that's where you are. Another spider.
I opted not to go all the way to Greece for my souvlaki, but it took in 60 km. The gods, as is their will, arranged a nostalgic headwind for the homeward league. I swallowed a mouth of finest Wandle midges. It's the terroir, I tell you. The souvlaki on the other hand wasn't that great, I should have gone to the shawarma place, but the garlic sauce makes me burp, another unnecessary source of headwind.
I had to pedal hard again to get the hourly train home from East Croydon, which worked out fine, and I'm sure a karma I'll have to repay. I was wondering if I'd make it back up the hill to the driveway, but I still got it (to be fair, I do use the exercise bike once a week). My wrists though, oh my wrists. I feel like I've got wankers block. There's not a single road or path in London that isn't templated on the far side of the moon. Beer is god's anaesthetic.