Sheer Unathletic Decadence

Hurrah, it’s my birthday today. I’m another year older. Booo.

There isn’t a new bike gift wrapped at the bottom of my bed, which is hardly a surprise. Thankfully, L also doesn’t deliver on her threat of an entry into Alp D'Huez Tri instead. I’d have needed a new bike anyway to get up that rather large hill they have there.

Instead she buys me something bright and yellow for my cycling, a new cycling top. I buy myself something bright and blue, new cycling shorts. Together they make me look like a harlequin but hopefully the Chelsea tractors will see me.

I linger too long in bed with L, well it is my birthday and then I’m then late for work because the traffic is horrendous. Why is this always the case when I drive? I should have come on the bike and my knees ache more now all that clutch and brake work, than they did after cycling up Middleton Top on Saturday.

I think the Duathlon must have inspired L a little, although she won’t admit it, because she has accepted my offer of a gift-wrapped Hathersage Triathlon entry for her birthday. I hope there’s a t-shirt otherwise she won’t be a happy bunny. She’s threatened to be straight down River Island with her credit card if they don't hand one out. I shall get the entries in today before she changes her mind.

Even though it’s my birthday I still have to go to dog training, where they threaten to give me the bumps but thankfully don’t. I'd hate someone to put their back out on my account. MD has a good session before the proper training starts, Doggo does even better when it does. We are also promoted to the top group for training. Which is good in one way, but not so good in another, in that we now have to train from 8.30-10.00 on a Monday night, which means getting home around 11.00.

Afterwards we drive to Derby and collect L, who’s been running and drinking there. She offers to buy me a birthday pint and of course, one of the rules of life is never to turn down a girl down if she’s offering to buy you a pint. So we pop into the Victoria.

I also stop for chips on way home, which isn’t much of a treat, just sheer unathletic decadence. A bit like the Belgian Porter nightcap.