Monday July 7th

As you know Monday is usually my favourite day of the week, as yet unsullied by the week ahead, a clean slate and that. This Monday, not so much. I hurtled into it without so much as a bye your leave and now I’m finished before the week has even got going.

My bike
My bike

I had a fasting blood test this morning. Now the hospital isn’t far away (4.1 miles to be precise) but there isn’t really a direct route on public transport from my house, so I decided, apparently rather unwisely, to cycle. Firstly I haven’t been on my bike at all this year and secondly that was a FASTING blood test, yes I really am that stupid.

On the way there I was all, ooh look at me cycling along the seafront, not a care in the world and oh this is lovely, I do like living by the sea. Until I tried to dismount, my legs were not up for the challenge and slowly, oh so slowly I crumpled, sideways, off my bike! Oh the humiliation. Of course no-one rushed to help me because obviously it is not actually possible to hurt anything but ones pride when falling in slow motion. Instead the small crowd of onlookers chose to snigger, chortle and shout wittily “that’s one way to get off love”

I picked myself up, dusted myself off and then realised I had cycled exactly the right distance along but the only way to the hospital was up. First steep, steep steps followed by a final ascent on the pavement that looked, in my starved and somewhat woozy state, like Kilimanjaro.

I puffed, and heaved and crawled up the steps then the hill, I made it to outpatients and collapsed in a heap. They let me recover from my rather startling shade of beetroot, helpfully waiting until I was closer to puce before sticking me with a “sharp scratch” and I was done and out, 5 mins tops. Then it hit me…I still had to get home and the final stretch from the sea up to my house was, well, up, because that is the way the land goes away from the sea…

so. unhappy.

I staggered back down the hill, then down the steps hoping against hope that my bike had been stolen. Nope, that fucker was still there, in all it’s purple glory, smug and somehow mocking me. It took me an unfeasibly long time to unchain it and scramble on, my vision blurred by salty tears at the very thought of the torture that lay ahead. Of course the wind had picked up and was blowing directly onto my face which dried the tears sharpish and made the impending journey just a little bit more impossible.

I set off very slowly, I dropped a gear and then another until I was one of those cyclists whose legs are clearly pedalling but there is no forward motion. I changed gears upward, that was worse, elderly folk with zimmer frames cantered past me. I swear at one point my legs were pedalling so slowly I was actually going backwards. It took me an hour and a half to get home. I’ll say that again an HOUR & A HALF to do a 4.1 mile journey! Surely that is some sort of record.

Next time if someone would be kind enough to remind me the No. 1 bus goes from Church Road and stops directly outside outpatients, thank you.