Interstellar Overdrive

After last week’s shenanigans involving getting my bongo weapon out in the balmy sunshine and showing it off to all and sundry, this week has been more sedate. There is much talk of the Hollyoaks Late storyline, suffice to see it seems to involve wanton abuse of random animals and a cast of North Africans. One day it’ll be dramatised, featuring Hugh Grant as Joe Hollyoaks and Ben Whishaw as a hapless puppy, down on his luck and down on all fours.

It has been an amazing run of weather, so I’ve been out and about commuting and general riding through the sunny mornings and close evenings. The ride to work is hilly. It makes a perfect hour long training ride, three times a week. But it is tiring. This veteran status isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, recovery times get longer and  weight loss is much harder.

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I have been enjoying the Giro. My mum loves the cycling, that she does. Today I carefully managed to manipulate naptime of a sleeping child, then had two screens running simulataneously, one showing ‘UK Freight Trains at Speed’ and the other showing the Giro Time Trial. With this elaborate set-up I managed to catch 3 hours of the race. My mum came in during the last, pivotal three minutes.

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Granny Hath Arrived

“What’s this?”

The Giro.

Who won yesterday?

No-one won yesterday.

Why didn’t they win yesterday?

It was a rest day.

Why is he in pink?

It’s the pink jersey. It’s like the yellow, jersey, but pink.

So why is it pink? Why isn’t it yellow?

Because they have pink instead of yellow. Like in yorkshire, where it’s blue instead of pink, or Spain where it’s red instead of blue, but pink in Italy.

So this is a hill climb is it?

No.

Oh it’s not a hill climb. (Yates crosses the line) So he’s beaten all the riders?

No he came 22nd. 

But he’s winning the race?

Yes. 

But he came 22nd? And he’s beaten all the other riders? So he’s won the race?

No

It’s like watching Interstellar, being utterly engrossed for three hours and and just prior to the final head-bending elliptical loop of space where everything is resolved in comes Granny to ask why that man is touching a bookshelf  in  space with weird strings and making dust and the world is curved and his daughter is older than his granny and old people are talking about dust-storms and you have to explain it whilst also giving a primer in quantum theory and the nature of time and space and a traditional narrative arc.

Granny did bring an excellent bit of signage though which I have put up on the wall. I don’t think Belle will notice. However, she might accidentally end up in the garden when needing a wee.

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Suddenly I’m lurching off to the right. I can’t work out why.

Lastly, my new shoes have arrived. That’s another tale for another day.

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Tour De Yorkshire

I’ve been watching the Tour de Yorkshire on the terrorbox. I would have liked to have gone up to see it but had to settle for the vicarious thrill of seeing my mum see the race live on the terror box. She loves the bike racings, in fact, it’s her new favourite thing. This is only tempered slightly by the knowledge that she has a burgeoning interest in the triantelopism, which she in turn tempered by saying; “Well Alf did triathlons too you know”. I suspect she has been looking for a riposte to my deep-rooted abhorrence of all things tritardular for some time. She has found it.

Anyway, by way of preparation she asked me what hat to wear.

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She has a lot of good hats which she has ‘acquired’ over the years. Every time I go there I come back with one less hat. These two things may well be linked. I advised the PC one, and sent her an interweb link regarding Macloml Letioll so that she could come across all knowledgeable on the bergs. Second up was the Raphael number, on account of Sowerby Bridge resident Brian Robinson. She went full Piers Plowman. I advised against the carrefour special, there is too much of the recent bike boom convert about it.

She then staked out her place at Haworth, I think near Oxenhope somewhere maybe, Pecket Well, and waited for her moment of glory.

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Top image is native Yorkshire chap and photographer, our Ian. He is in full winter plumage, unwilling to accept that summer hath truly med it t’ top o’ moors. You can tell it’s our Ian by jizz of t’ bird.

Bottom image is our mum rollin’ with the southern power stance, PC cap at a jaunty angle, a little bit artful dodger, with a double hip-hop knee roll. Below is the photo she took.

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It’s pretty goddamn meta isn’t it? I can’t stop looking. It’s a rabbit hole, mum is on TV taking a photo and I took a photo of her on TV and got the photo she took and it put it on the internet next to the photo of her through the lens of the mad eye of terror.

And you’re back in the room. The Tour De Yorkshire was amazing, right down to the ASO approved franconomenclaturated Cols. Day 4 was brutal, beyond brutal, beyond the thunderdome. As oof as it gets. The contrast with the Giro D’Israelitalia could not be more profound, where the best/only shots consisted of a lady showing her breasts at the camera as the peloton rode through a desert for 40 days in quarantine, with accompanying tweets carefully worded to avoid accusations of mysogyny. Most failed. There’s a certain irony to a Grand Tour alledgedly visiting God’s actual country only to be usurped by a Minor Tour’s visit to God’s own country.

I can’t wait to see what the Worlds brings us. I suspect it will be a whole lot of ouch and some rugged Yorkshire beauty.