A week and a half ago you climbed off your bike. 35 miles in the saddle. You had spent the last 26 promising yourself two things, the second you got home you would raise your seatpost a couple of centremetres and the instant you’d put the allen key back in the fruitbowl you would stick your kit, ALL of your kit, on a boil wash.
You have promised yourself these two things on every ride for the last two years.
It is now 9am on Sunday morning; you are in the shed in your socks. You dig through the still-damp lycra sending mould spores billowing into the air. The bike leans dejectedly where you abandoned it.
You kid yourself that it doesn’t smell too bad.
It smells terrible, like a carrier bag in a long-forgotten school locker. A testament to human endeavour. Not one natural fibre. Generations of scientific study. NASA research. All to ensure that every odour molecule your underarms have ever produced is captured, stored, and magnified for future generations to behold. It smells like someone has covered a dog turd in blue cheese and human hair, set it on fire and then extinguished the flames with a pile of damp pensioners’ clothes
You put it on and swing your leg over the bike.
Your front tyre is flat.
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