Recedite, plebes

I went out riding today, upping the mileage considerably to a whopping thirty miles. It may or may not have been fully thirty and it might have not happened at all because it wasn’t a digitised ride. I have yet to switch the garmin back on. It was a pre-christmas loosener, aimed at salving my conscience ahead of ongoing food and wine imbibement.

On the way back I stopped off at Strada Cycles, Bedminster Chapter. They don’t have a concierge. Instead, the appointed minion offered me a cup of tea in a SRAM mug. It was the proprietor’s cup of tea, but I was encouraged to drink it because he was outside being molested by a dog. This is the kind of service i’d expect for £200 a year. Nothing less than a reckless hot beverage gazumping and a floor show involving the Strada “Brand Manager” and an over-excited, wantonly salivating canine.

Dan wonders where the concierge has got to and why he's left riding a bike ill-equipped for winter
Dan wonders where the concierge has got to and why he’s left riding a bike ill-equipped for winter instead of the promised bongo-rocket. 
The Old Church. Not as good as the New Church.
The Old Church. Not as good as the New Church. The Nailsea (West End) is a hotbed of showtunes. 

It was a windy day. A buzzard flew alongside in silent contemplation. herons circled drunkenly, their movements both laboured and graceful.

It’s good to be back on the bike and out in the countryside.

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