Man, Devizes, Plan. (Saturday 05/05/2018)

It is probably not a gross generalisation to say that many middle aged men do not prepare properly before significant bouts of exertion.

Not Me!
I am not alone in this but few can compete with my preparatory neglect.

Acquiring a suitable bike is a start but squeezing into lycra is not a substitute for training.

Take my first triathlon.

This was a formidable commitment for any man on the wrong side of forty-five and should have been approached with a good deal more rigour. Instead, I consigned the training plan to a pile of dog eared papers on the counter top, filed it as a 'job for later' and unsurprisingly, never saw it again.

No matter how far ahead I plan, there is still never enough time. Once I have outlined the sketchiest of plans, the motivation always ebbs until I reach the point where it is too late to pull out but too early to begin weeping.

I undertook the triathlon in some tennis shorts that last saw the light of day during Tim Henman's brief but dazzling zenith. That I completed it on a bike more accustomed to a work suit than a wetsuit might explain why I limped across the finish line as dusk was setting in.

If, twenty years ago the ego was writing cheques that my body couldn't cash, then at least there was a chance I could buy some time with the fitness equivalent of 'the cheque is in the post'. Nowadays, when confronted with a steep hill, the card machine simply declines my request.

This is but the latest in a long line of similar episodes. There have been plasterless half marathons afflicted by the dreaded stigmata nipple and days of rural meandering spent bubbling like an over grilled sausage.

Which brings me to the 77.1 miles between Bristol and Reading. Google assured me that this was only a 1 hour and 24 minute drive or a mere 25 hours by foot. The Met Office guaranteed sunshine.

Could I really be blamed for expecting to cover the distance on two wheels over a leisurely bank holiday weekend, with time to spare?

My vision was one of short hops between bucolic market towns punctuated by frequent cake stops. My schedule provided for copious comfort breaks and perhaps even a little nocturnal diversion in the fleshpots of Devizes and Newbury.

The credit for completing the endeavour lies squarely with my wife. But then again, so does the blame. With her unflinching support, the opportunities for quietly parking the whole project diminished rapidly as time passed. With a mind like a steel trap and a tenacious grip on the wall calendar, she gently but firmly saw me to the start line with no opportunity for sloping off.

It was she who did the route planning; she who saved me from sleeping on the steps of a Wiltshire war memorial; she who even provided the map. Had this been a crime caper, it would have made an open and shut case.

At first I thought these were acts of altruism and later, enlightened self interest. Now I am not so sure. Is she joking when she reminds me that I am worth more to her alive than dead?

What happens to me when she stops?

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