Dead Men Left

Thursday, July 29, 2004

Dunwich: a lot further away than Dulwich, unfortuantely

Archives are such fun. They smell nice.

Aside from that, I've stupidly agreed to do the "Dunwich Dynamo" at the weekend - a hapless victim of rampant peer pressure from Mr Staines, who seems to think that cycling 120 miles overnight (9pm-9am or so) will be a merry little escapade with plenty of jolly japes along the way, rather than a grim buttock-clenching teeth-gritting sort of a horrid agonising slow death. In Suffolk. If I get that far.

Things wouldn't be quite so bad if I'd managed to do just slightly more than no training at all, but sadly I haven't, and Ed's macho tales of sweaty lycra-clad exertion did nothing to inspire me to try. It seems better to adopt a fine amatuerish approach to these things: wheel out the old boneshaker, clamp a fine briar pipe betwixt my teeth and pedal off to the Suffolk coast with a fine silk scarf a-fluttering gaily behind me. Total absence of preparation reduces the humiliation of dropping out halfway - it's not as if I was really trying, ha ha - and ensures extra kudos in the unlikely event of completion. It's this sort of attitude that built an empire and I'm damned if I'm going to spoil things with piffling "preparations". God save the queen, Britney rules the waves, hurrah hurrah. And so to bed.

(In passing, Charlotte Street appears to be onto something.)