For the last week now I’ve had to turn my back to my black bitch and head off to work on my bicycle. I say ‘had,’ I don’t have to. I just should, perhaps, must.
Here’s the logic. I smoke and drink. I like to smoke and drink, particularly drink because you don’t have to go outside to do it, yet. These days it’s more socially acceptable to be seen wobbling outside a school with piss trickling down your leg screaming the theme to Miami Vice than lighting a Benson 500 yards from a bus stop.
So to stave of the icy hand of death without spurning my vices, I’ve come to realise that some form of exercise is in order, even if it hurts and is stultifying dull. Cycling isn’t for me, it requires so much effort for so little gain. Of course, when I was a kid a bicycle was the last word in freedom but these days I’m used to moving my right hand half an inch and hitting 100mph in 5 seconds, a bicycle no longer has that magic for obvious reasons.
Nonetheless, there I am sweating up yet another hill, gasping down the other side, fighting off cars, swerving around buggies… it’s horrific. It has to be done though, I’m fucking 40 and if I wish to maintain some aspect of my hedonistic 20’s I’m required to pay it off with some form of bloody exercise.
The bicycle journey home hangs over my head like a sword of Damocles. I hope my Black Bitch is okay; she must be well pissed off. I LOVE YOU BLACK BITCH.