Regular readers will know that after my marathon ride through to Barbezieux I fancy myself as a bit of a Lance Armstrong.
Well, yesterday morning was my chance to settle a few old scores.
I was out cycling with beau pere (the professional) and my old mate Paddy. Historically he's always been much fitter than me and when we go out cycling he tends to chortle a lot whenever I begin to puff, pant and whinge.
He's just got back from a two week, all inclusive, holiday in Cuba and he's piled on the pounds....ten in total. His normally flat'ish stomach is a grand reminder of the good old days of darts when Leighton Rees & Jocky Wilson ruled the roost.
In short he now looks like a sumo wrestler who has a MacDonalds fetish.
Whenever we go out on the bikes we have this childish rule that when we enter a new town or village there's a mad sprint to be first past the signpost and yesterday I devised a cunning plan.
There's no Mont Blanc around here but we do have the devilishly difficult Mont St Preuil. It's a long ascent followed by a kilometre downhill section and then a short, sharp climb up to the village.
I took it easy on the ascent and timed my downhill run to perfection, hurtling past Paddy and gave it a lung bursting, out of the saddle, sprint towards the St Preuil sign.
I might also have turned round and said "eat dirt Sumo" with a sly grin on my face.
You can guess the rest.
Paddy let out a great roar and his chunky legs started going like a steam-piston. I got to about 50m from the sign when I could hear the swish of wheels turning on the wet road. Like a rabbit stuck in the headlights my rhythm went out of the window and I couldn't resist a, fatal, sideways glance.
He took me on the line.
He also didn't stop chortling for the next hour and a half.
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