Reg is now SERIOUSLY filthy.
I have nowhere to clean him and I'm deeply ashamed. Even the muddy MTBs on my commute are cleaner and I feel wretched.
Every time I look at him I'm wracked with guilt but what am I meant to do?
I'm now considering heading down to a petrol station near me armed with my bike stuff. 'A petrol station?!' I hear you cry but yes. Because the one I'm thinking of has a pressure washer. What I need is water with force behind it and I need it now!
In other news I was off on Friday as I felt so unwell so I ended up on the sofa with my darling bebes most of the day.
How wonderful it must be to be one of my cats. Mr Handsome lay sprawled across me most of the day, while The Fat One visited sporadically to rub her head against my hands and mew in a pathetic way while strutting around like she owned the place.
Who am I kidding? She does own the place.
Monday, 8 February 2010
Thursday, 4 February 2010
Men and women are different, enjoy it
I am female. It's a fact and, unless I have very expensive reassignment surgery against my will, it's something that will never change.
Although I rage against my male cycling counterparts who needlessly push me around or assume they're faster than me because I'm a woman, being female does come with some remarkable benefits:
1. Lycra.
No man will ever look good in lycra, no matter how hard they try. Chris Hoy looks bloody ridiculous in it and he's incredibly toned and quite hot. Women, on the other hand, should revel in lycra. It sucks you in in all the right places and the more you cycle, the hotter you will look in it.
Plus, our genitalia are not generally visible while we're in lycra, todgers on the other hand are highly visible, as are testicles. Hello boys indeed.
2. Asking for help.
Perhaps I live among unusual men, but in my experience men are rubbish at asking for advice and/or help. Yesterday I realised my front V-brake needed adjusting. The crap bike shop that did my last service had rounded off the allen key slot and done it up incredibly tightly. I couldn't get it to budge. Therefore, when I saw the lovely N, a colleague who cycles, I asked for his help. We then met in the car park and he sorted the problem for me.
Don't get me wrong, if I have a problem I can sort myself, I'm happy to do it but I am equally happy to ask for help if I cannot do it alone.
3. The 'damsel in distress' response.
Every time I've had a puncture/mech problem somewhere public, someone has stopped and asked if I needed help. Often, it's been more than one person. When I've mentioned this to male friends they've been incredulous.
'In London?', 'Someone actually stopped?!', 'And you didn't know them?!??!?!?!'.
Yes, it would appear that being female in appearance greatly increases your chances of being offered help. Not only that but, in my experience, men are unwilling to accept mine. I have stopped and offered puncture repair help to many stricken cyclists and have been refused every time. This is despite the fact that a few of them admitted they had no repair stuff with them or didn't know what to do.
So this one's a double whammy. Women get extra help if they want it and men won't take up your time if you offer your assistance to them so you can feel all righteous without actually having to do anything.
4. Extra helpings of admiration.
While women remain in the woeful minority among cyclists it means I get extra admiration and praise for cycling. I am extra brave and a little bit naughty. While I always feign nonchalance at being told this, secretly I love it. 'Well, you know, it's only about 100 miles a week.' Inside I'm preening.
I'm sure I'll think of some more but for now I'll sign off...
Although I rage against my male cycling counterparts who needlessly push me around or assume they're faster than me because I'm a woman, being female does come with some remarkable benefits:
1. Lycra.
No man will ever look good in lycra, no matter how hard they try. Chris Hoy looks bloody ridiculous in it and he's incredibly toned and quite hot. Women, on the other hand, should revel in lycra. It sucks you in in all the right places and the more you cycle, the hotter you will look in it.
Plus, our genitalia are not generally visible while we're in lycra, todgers on the other hand are highly visible, as are testicles. Hello boys indeed.
2. Asking for help.
Perhaps I live among unusual men, but in my experience men are rubbish at asking for advice and/or help. Yesterday I realised my front V-brake needed adjusting. The crap bike shop that did my last service had rounded off the allen key slot and done it up incredibly tightly. I couldn't get it to budge. Therefore, when I saw the lovely N, a colleague who cycles, I asked for his help. We then met in the car park and he sorted the problem for me.
Don't get me wrong, if I have a problem I can sort myself, I'm happy to do it but I am equally happy to ask for help if I cannot do it alone.
3. The 'damsel in distress' response.
Every time I've had a puncture/mech problem somewhere public, someone has stopped and asked if I needed help. Often, it's been more than one person. When I've mentioned this to male friends they've been incredulous.
'In London?', 'Someone actually stopped?!', 'And you didn't know them?!??!?!?!'.
Yes, it would appear that being female in appearance greatly increases your chances of being offered help. Not only that but, in my experience, men are unwilling to accept mine. I have stopped and offered puncture repair help to many stricken cyclists and have been refused every time. This is despite the fact that a few of them admitted they had no repair stuff with them or didn't know what to do.
So this one's a double whammy. Women get extra help if they want it and men won't take up your time if you offer your assistance to them so you can feel all righteous without actually having to do anything.
4. Extra helpings of admiration.
While women remain in the woeful minority among cyclists it means I get extra admiration and praise for cycling. I am extra brave and a little bit naughty. While I always feign nonchalance at being told this, secretly I love it. 'Well, you know, it's only about 100 miles a week.' Inside I'm preening.
I'm sure I'll think of some more but for now I'll sign off...
Wednesday, 3 February 2010
The bing is BACK
Last night I was back with a bell and I was determined to use it.
I cruised through the night daring pedestrians to step out and let me let loose. It took a couple of miles but I got lucky with a ninja pedestrian on her mobile. She started to step out....
Bing! Bing! Bing! Bing!
Yeah, that's right baby, I'm coming down the road fast and you're not on a crossing. I'll attempt not to hit you if you do end up stepping out there but this is to let you know that I exist and am painful when met at high speed.
She started a bit, gave me a filthy look and her Ugg boot retreated back to the kerb from whence it came.
I felt victorious. The bing is BACK!
I cruised through the night daring pedestrians to step out and let me let loose. It took a couple of miles but I got lucky with a ninja pedestrian on her mobile. She started to step out....
Bing! Bing! Bing! Bing!
Yeah, that's right baby, I'm coming down the road fast and you're not on a crossing. I'll attempt not to hit you if you do end up stepping out there but this is to let you know that I exist and am painful when met at high speed.
She started a bit, gave me a filthy look and her Ugg boot retreated back to the kerb from whence it came.
I felt victorious. The bing is BACK!
Tuesday, 2 February 2010
Carb-heavy equals fast cycling
Mr Weenie has an addiction. We rarely talk about it and, if I'm honest, I'm an enabler.
Unable to prepare his fix himself I often find myself doing it for him and I often end up indulging myself. Yes, Mr Weenie and I are pancake fanatics. There, I said it.
Last night we had a light supper of baked potatoes before moving onto pancakes and this morning I flew to work. I'm talking nearly 20mph on average, having to screech to a halt at traffic lights, overtaking any other cyclists and generally whizzing around like a banshee.
I left slightly late this morning and arrived at work earlier than usual.
Pancakes, food of the cycling Gods?
Unable to prepare his fix himself I often find myself doing it for him and I often end up indulging myself. Yes, Mr Weenie and I are pancake fanatics. There, I said it.
Last night we had a light supper of baked potatoes before moving onto pancakes and this morning I flew to work. I'm talking nearly 20mph on average, having to screech to a halt at traffic lights, overtaking any other cyclists and generally whizzing around like a banshee.
I left slightly late this morning and arrived at work earlier than usual.
Pancakes, food of the cycling Gods?
Monday, 1 February 2010
Lost without my binger
Over the weekend an awful thing happened.
I was merrily binging away at some pedestrians as I approached a junction at which I had a green light but they clearly hadn't seen me as they were dashing across when suddenly silence descended.
I know many cyclists who do not use their bells but so vigorous am I in using mine that on Friday night the binger flew off into the night mid-flow. The bell itself remained but is a sad shadow of its former self as it can't make any sound unless tapped sharply, an impossible task when its rider is in fleece gloves.
I have been left bereft. I had no idea just how much I depended on that tiny piece of plastic to make me happy. I have even been forced to shout 'Oi!' as a short-term measure at those who attempt to throw themselves under the wheels of my bike.
On Saturday, therefore, moomin and I popped into the local bike shop to replace my binger.
Having tried all the bells on offer and the squeezy horn (oh so tempting), we decided on one that was not only pink but has a penetrating quality. The shopkeep seemed somewhat amused at our criteria but, frankly, I know what I like in a binger and am not afraid to demand the best.
Now all I have to do is get it on my handlebars and order will be restored..
I was merrily binging away at some pedestrians as I approached a junction at which I had a green light but they clearly hadn't seen me as they were dashing across when suddenly silence descended.
I know many cyclists who do not use their bells but so vigorous am I in using mine that on Friday night the binger flew off into the night mid-flow. The bell itself remained but is a sad shadow of its former self as it can't make any sound unless tapped sharply, an impossible task when its rider is in fleece gloves.
I have been left bereft. I had no idea just how much I depended on that tiny piece of plastic to make me happy. I have even been forced to shout 'Oi!' as a short-term measure at those who attempt to throw themselves under the wheels of my bike.
On Saturday, therefore, moomin and I popped into the local bike shop to replace my binger.
Having tried all the bells on offer and the squeezy horn (oh so tempting), we decided on one that was not only pink but has a penetrating quality. The shopkeep seemed somewhat amused at our criteria but, frankly, I know what I like in a binger and am not afraid to demand the best.
Now all I have to do is get it on my handlebars and order will be restored..
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