Wednesday, March 24, 2010

I did not believe the information

Wednesday, March 24, 2010
I really was ill, you know. I wasn't making it up just to get out of cycling to Galway. I really want to cycle to Galway, honest. No, I do.

I woke up on Patrick's Day feeling nauseous. A burpitudinal volley every ten seconds or so, each one bringing back the memory of the previous night's chicken and sweetcorn soup. I was weak, shaky. Standing was something of an issue. "I know," I thought,"I'll go and ride up a big fucking hill." And so I did. I mentioned to the cycling buddies that I was feeling a little unwell. They nodded sagely and thought "sandbagging pussy". I had done 20k by the time we hit the climb, feeling somewhat otherworldly, having taken only one unusually agonising pull into the wind. So then we hit the climb. Or Norman hit the climb. And Marcin hit the climb. I tried to hit the climb. Then I tried to bitch slap it. To give it a chinese burn. I finally settled for waving limp-wristedly in its direction. It probably wasn't that much more than 3k, this climb, and only very steep in brief sections, but it took me approximately fourteen years to complete. Fourteen years of trying not to vomit, of trying to remember to breathe, of remembering that breathing made it worse, of realising that you can't really ride up a hill without breathing. Norman, who has never reached the top of a climb before me, was a dot in the distance. Marcin, who I consistently drop when I'm not being an idiot smoker, was already home redecorating his kitchen. I got to the top, and that was pretty much it for the moving for the next five days.

Everyone else on the Enterprise got this bug too. Got the bug, threw up, and recovered fully by the next setting of the sun. Poor everyone, right? All I'm saying is, if they wanted five days off work or school then as soon as their tum-tums started to feel a little dicky, they should have made the logical decision to ride up a really big fucking hill.

8 Johns and Janes for the comment whore:

Red Leeroy said...

sandbagging pussy

Twenty Major said...

Beaten by a Norman? Oh dear ...

gimme a minute said...

I was poorly, alright? That's the word the gym manager used when I cancelled my fifth spin.

He thought I was faking too.

He'd beat your ass too, boyo. Despite being 20 years older than I imagine you might be.

Medbh said...

It could have been worse.

You could have generated what a lady friend of mine referred to finding in her husband's riding shorts one day: Bacon Strips.

fatmammycat said...

Medbh wins this one. Bleeeeaugh.

Conan Drumm said...

There, there...

just start earlier

gimme a minute said...

Thanks for that.

I didn't want to win that badly.

Fit and fully functional we'd have to start at 6. Which means I have to get up and eat at 4.30. There is no earlier.

Conan Drumm said...

I was not being serious, but here's an idea.. bring the bike on the train and cycle to the hotel from Eyre Sq.

That way you could cycle back from Galway with your award and be showered with garlands as you traverse the midlands.

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