Most people are very safe with them and this is one of those cases where everything went together in the wrong way.


It’s just one of those things that happens where everything lined up the wrong way


Yeah. Everything just lined up the wrong way.

Is this the official approved line from people who don’t want to acknowledge there may be a problem with having guns?


I suppose there should be some sort of “review” or “audit”.

It won’t take long. I was in a meeting last week and my mind turned to what I’ve achieved and what I haven’t achieved and what I want to achieve. There was a lot of achieving going on. It was that kind of meeting.

The huge numbers of people who read this will be shocked, shocked, to find out that I don’t think I fell off last year. I think.

I await correction.

Anyway. Here’s a quick summary:

  1. I actually did some racing in the London X League
  2. I raced in two cyclocross races, Herne Hill and Frylands.
  3. I finished 1.
  4. I DNF’d the other.
  5. I clearly need to do some actual training, especially if I’m going to continue with the vanity of single speeding it.
  6. Moving house (three times) is disruptive.
  7. Getting Miriam started into two new childcare systems was also disruptive.
  8. Running should feature more in my life. (see 5).
  9. My family are incredibly supportive.
  10. My daughter has skewed expectations of my abilities, “you better win Dad”.
  11. Given 5, 8,9, and 10, I should really make “racing” more of a thing.
  12. I get ill. A LOT. I can’t work out if it’s more than average, if I’m a big fanny, or if it’s got something to do with being on methotrexate for my psoriasis.

What I would like to do for 2015:

  1. Ride more of the UK. I think this means more Wales.
  2. And some South West stuff.
  3. And Derbyshire.
  4. And possibly Lancashire.
  5. And maybe Yorkshire.
  6. And the North East.
  7. I think I’ll do Hill Climbs again, but will want to pick something other than my usual suspects.
  8. ‘Cross (again! still!)
  9. Forrin riding. France. Mebbe. Belgium. Mebbe.
  10. Swim more.
  11. This doesn’t mean triathlon.
  12. Do more fixed riding.
  13. Football.
  14. Not to get ill.
  15. World peace.
  16. A unicorn.
  17. New job.
  18. To lose the extra mass I appear to have gained.
  19. Weights.
  20. Stretching.
  21. Podcasting and records.

That’s a substantial list, and no doubt by the time January 2016 rolls around I’ll have completed them all and be able to say “what a great year 2015 was”.

It’s amazing how easy I find “sacking it all off” is. We moved house for the first time in December 2013. This was supposed to be my introduction to crossing, I did a bit. But then everything was in storage for more than we thought. Then there was the move to the mansion. Then there were massive upheavals at work, with approval for new work patterns proving difficult to agree. Getting out, doing some turbo sessions. Well they all felt kind of pointless and useless. That and the decision to not bother trying any of the usual hill climbs, well, it became easier and easier to reach for the biscuits.

I think the nadir, ooh, of 2014 was riding with the usual gang of people on a Saturday and actually struggling to get over Beddlestead. That or the Tuesday night session where I kept getting dropped on the hills. I know the bike I’d migrated to by this time in 2014 was heavier, but not by much.  This contrasts well with the early part of 2014 where I was “big ringing” Cudhams.

Such a big fall….






I suppose there should be some sort of “review” or “audit”.

140. The Bay.

Always keen to get more readers reading this. Especially when it ends so well.

Repro Man - stories from a reluctant reprographer.

Reading the tide times by lamplight in the caravan, waiting for the sea to leech out into the darkness, exposing rock and pool and weed.
“You’ll be careful, won’t you, love?” she says for the fifth time.
“I will.”
I kiss her and the kids and step out into the quiet night.
The clunk of the closing door breaks the spell of the caravan as a warm, safe refuge, exposes it as a tin box sitting in a field.
I pull the bucket of gear from beneath the caravan, wet grass glistening in the weak moonlight, and I set off.
Across fields, the bulky oblong silhouettes of ruminating cattle shift uneasily as I walk past, boots swishing through longer grass and thistles, bucket clunking against my leg.
Over a gate another field, pitching downwards, shallow to begin with but growing steeper, funneling into gorse and swathes of bracken, now birch…

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140. The Bay.