Early on Sunday morning, a friend - knowing all too well that I would have been up with the larks - called to ask if I fancied joining him and his partner on a bike ride on what turned out to be one of the hottest days of the year so far. "We'll cycle for a bit," were his exact words, "stop in a pub for lunch, and then make our way back home". Knowing that the London Marathon was going to be on, and that the streets would be clear of traffic, I thought to myself "what a good idea!" It would be the perfect opportunity for me to spruce up my minimal cycling skills - and seeing as I've not been doing any exercise of late, I thought, well, you know... a bit of movement never did anybody any harm.
Little did I know what I was letting myself in for. The "cycle for a bit" turned into a seven-hour marathon (and by seven hours, I mean seven hours actually cycling. I'm excluding lunch - which came with a glass of wine - and several fag breaks for the smokers among us). What I - for some strange reason - thought would be a short ride up from Elelphant & Castle, where my friend lives, to Gabriel's Wharf on the South Bank, where we often have Sunday lunch, became a cross-country event that cut through East London and headed north, towards Hackney Marshes and the Lea Valley, where the Olympics will be held. The cyclists calculated that in all we had covered something like 35 kilometres. Given that I have only had two short cycling experiences (one of which lasted all of three seconds) in the last 26 years, I had every right to feel like I had won the Tour de France while going over Tower Bridge on the way back.
Cycling through the English countryside on a beautiful Sunday afternoon is - for an urbanite like myself - a bit like landing on another planet. Everything works differently. People are slower, calmer, cleaner - and more polite than they are in the city. Whole families - including grandparents - sit together and enjoy the day. Not something that you see very often in the inner city.
There were a few hair-raising moments. Riding along the Regents Canal - which goes on forever and ever - was particularly bumpy. The narrow footpath and the amount of cyclists going in both directions didn't make things easy for the novice in the group - and my nervousness at not being able to control the situation increased slightly when my friend's partner - who I've decided has a bit of a sadist streak in him - told me to go carefully since I really didn't want to end up in the canal. The water, he said - in all seriousness (he could have been pulling my leg, but at that point there was a sense of humour failure from my end) - contains some deadly virus. It didn't help that at this point, we were somewhere along the fifth hour of our ride, with not much of an idea of where we were going, and with the space between my legs where the saddle fits in feeling like somebody had had a go at me with a table tennis racket.
Still, I am proud to say that I made it back home in one piece. Traffic in the city was calm on the return, so I could go at my own pace. I eventually got to my flat at 9 p.m., and went straight to bed, exhausted. Contrary to everyone's predictions - all of which forecast a variety of ailments ranging from stiffness to temporary paralysis - I woke up on Monday morning feeling as fit as a fiddle - with only a slight bruising left by the saddle. Seeing as the sun had shone through most of the day, I even managed a sun tan, which is perfect, since it means that when I hit the beach in Almeria this weekend, I won't be the pasty one who's not been in the sun.
Oh, and I could swear my stomach is a bit flatter than it was before my adventure.
Little did I know what I was letting myself in for. The "cycle for a bit" turned into a seven-hour marathon (and by seven hours, I mean seven hours actually cycling. I'm excluding lunch - which came with a glass of wine - and several fag breaks for the smokers among us). What I - for some strange reason - thought would be a short ride up from Elelphant & Castle, where my friend lives, to Gabriel's Wharf on the South Bank, where we often have Sunday lunch, became a cross-country event that cut through East London and headed north, towards Hackney Marshes and the Lea Valley, where the Olympics will be held. The cyclists calculated that in all we had covered something like 35 kilometres. Given that I have only had two short cycling experiences (one of which lasted all of three seconds) in the last 26 years, I had every right to feel like I had won the Tour de France while going over Tower Bridge on the way back.
Cycling through the English countryside on a beautiful Sunday afternoon is - for an urbanite like myself - a bit like landing on another planet. Everything works differently. People are slower, calmer, cleaner - and more polite than they are in the city. Whole families - including grandparents - sit together and enjoy the day. Not something that you see very often in the inner city.
There were a few hair-raising moments. Riding along the Regents Canal - which goes on forever and ever - was particularly bumpy. The narrow footpath and the amount of cyclists going in both directions didn't make things easy for the novice in the group - and my nervousness at not being able to control the situation increased slightly when my friend's partner - who I've decided has a bit of a sadist streak in him - told me to go carefully since I really didn't want to end up in the canal. The water, he said - in all seriousness (he could have been pulling my leg, but at that point there was a sense of humour failure from my end) - contains some deadly virus. It didn't help that at this point, we were somewhere along the fifth hour of our ride, with not much of an idea of where we were going, and with the space between my legs where the saddle fits in feeling like somebody had had a go at me with a table tennis racket.
Still, I am proud to say that I made it back home in one piece. Traffic in the city was calm on the return, so I could go at my own pace. I eventually got to my flat at 9 p.m., and went straight to bed, exhausted. Contrary to everyone's predictions - all of which forecast a variety of ailments ranging from stiffness to temporary paralysis - I woke up on Monday morning feeling as fit as a fiddle - with only a slight bruising left by the saddle. Seeing as the sun had shone through most of the day, I even managed a sun tan, which is perfect, since it means that when I hit the beach in Almeria this weekend, I won't be the pasty one who's not been in the sun.
Oh, and I could swear my stomach is a bit flatter than it was before my adventure.