‘In road racing, you kick him to death’

today i feel compelled to write, for many reasons; because my cat is bullying me, because the answer to ‘why aren’t these chairs hot?’ is not ‘they don’t have electricity running through them’, and because i cycled home. the cycling comes first, by dint of the fact that all other things are metaphors for cycling, including life itself. i didn’t ride this morning, my bike was at work, so i got a lift and had to listen to chris moyles abrasive and unfunny humour seep out of the radio like a linguistic bhopal. perhaps not quite as unpleasant, but near enough. is aw all the cyclists i normally see, but refrained from waving because i was in a small car, and cyclists don’t recognise people in civilian clothes.

the blustery day really raised my spirits, huge gusts could be seen out of the window and i knew that with a little luck, an absolutely enormous tailwind was waiting to propel me home. i was desperate to get away, fearful that over the course of the day nature would conspire against me and suddenly, treachorously reverse the wind direction. but it lasted, and from the minute i pedalled out of the gates i knew i was going to have a fantastic ride home. it barely felt as though i was touching the pedals, turning over 72″ with ease, up and down the inclines and descents. i thought that it must be how mark cavendish feels, that sense of utter supremacy and souplesse, but then again, no cyclist feels this, it is the holy grail, something to be pursued, the mythical ride when everything feels right and good, and i’d bet that most of cavendish’s wins, milan san remo, 6 tdf stages, hurt like buggery. with the possible exception of the champs elysee, where he made several highly paid elite athletes look like wobbly children who’d just shed their stabilisers for the first time. anyway, it felt perfect.

my (cousin’s) cat is bullying me, not in a bad way, just in way that he has reshaped my existence and forced me to compromise my patterns and the order in which i do things. i shall not give in, neither shall i gently wag my finger at him as a mild form of chastisement, because he sees it as something to attack, a fun new game.

other things i recall from today; that the eternal winter has had an apocalyptic effect on the biology experiments in my work place, the infinite blackness and neverending rainfall has destroyed their noble plans. the alagea didn’t bubble; all the locusts died – partly as a result of the cold, but possibly as a result of the plan to give them an energy efficient lightbulb for warmth, when in fact it created a nuclear winter; the photosynthesis produced no starch and the brine shrimps didn’t hatch. not a single sea monkey, not even the deformed ones. it’s a wasteland, devoid of life, and everyone has resorted to showing videos of what life is like elsewhere in the universe, just not in the north somerset tundra.

homage to the sea monkeys:

more rain tomorrow, yay. i shall cook dinner and hide with belle. the world can continue all around.

i think the project must be a hetchins. we shall see. lastly, on the way home i had kept any ire at nasty drivers to a minumum (tejvan’s advice always helps, it must be the buddhist in him) when someone overtook me dangerously. i felt the red mist begin to filter through, when two things completely disarmed me; riding across this bridge in the dark:

and this track:

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