The following admission may cause a stir in the office on Monday, but so be it! After all, one more item on the list of reasons for my work colleagues to rib me about isn’t going to make that much difference…
I’ve been thinking about shaving my legs for a few weeks. When the weather’s bad, the tights come on and I don’t look too bad. However, once the sun (eventually) breaks through the clouds, my overly hairy legs make me look like a yeti in lycra shorts. So, despite protests from “her indoors” and the risk of being mocked at work, I set about my legs with the hair trimmer. Half way through shearing off the initial fuzz, it was clear this had been a mistake. Despite having a reasonable amount of muscle bulk, what I imagined my legs would look like shaven was somewhat different to the reality. Short of collecting up the shavings and gluing them back onto my leg, there was no turning back. So, half a can of shaving foam and 2 disposables later, my legs were smooth enough to go down the big market in a mini skirt (and probably look better than half of the women down there…)
So why was it such a mistake? Well firstly, they are a sort of pale blue colour. To quote Billy Conolly, they’ll take “a week of sun bathing to get white”. Second, they just don’t cut the shape of a cyclist’s legs. Now smooth and hairless, they look more like what I would imagine the legs of a prop forward of a woman’s rugby team would look like. Of course, my good lady’s reaction of “chicken legs” didn’t really help. Too hot for tights, no fake tan in the cupboard, and the clock ever approaching 10am, it was clear I’d have to swallow my pride and hope for the best.
My pre-ride ablutions meant I didn’t have time to ride to Ponteland, so once again Luigi (my FIAT 500) would have bikes and gear crammed in the glove box (or “boot” as FIAT refers to it) and skittle down to Pont. With the Chilli Peppers blasting from the stereo (unfortunatey the not-so-red-hot newer stuff, as I can’t find my copy of the brilliant “Blood Sugar Sex Magic” CD) and the sun beating down in very un-North East like fashion, I felt great. Pulling into Anna’s car park, the huge pile of bikes leant against the wall meant the good weather had brought everyone out. There would surely be more than one group.
Sure enough, Simon Gibbs (he’s the one who picks the hilly routes) was splitting us into 3 groups and setting us off in a staggered start. Steve and I were in the second group - which was to be the intermediate speed group. For some reason, Steve and I missed our group going off. I’m still slightly confused as to how that actually happened! Our reward/punishment (delete as appropriate) would be to ride in the fast group. We hung on for a few minutes to allow the first 2 groups to get some distance, and we set off.
We set off out of Ponteland on the A696, with a route that would see us ending up at Capheaton. I wouldn’t say we set off fast, but I was right at the back and it took a few minutes to get used to the pace and get the “chicken legs” up to operating temperature. By the first turning on the A696, we had caught the second group, right around the time it was catching the first group. Right about then, I should have eased off and discreetly positioned myself in the second group. But… I didn’t. Caught up in the pace of things (and aware Steve wasn’t slowing down) I pushed on.
The ride to Capheaton went surprisingly quick, and I felt good. However, I have no idea how far it was. Last week Steve killed his computer, this week my computer’s sensor had moved a full 90 degrees to the wheel. It’s the fastest “0mph” I’ve ever done. To top it off, Lucy hadn’t charged up her horse’s heart rate monitor so we were all screwed.
As we hit the cafe, it appeared everyone with a bike had the same idea. Even as the first group there, we struggled to find somewhere to sit. As I tucked into a tuna salad and mineral water (or chocolate cake and can of coke as it is called on the cafe menu) I took the time to stare at the eye candy on offer (bikes, not women - but more on that subject later). My personal favourites were a stunning blue Trek Madone, a Van Nicholas, a Specialized Roubaix and of course the Giant and Cannondale belonging to two of our female Vagabonds.
Speaking of female Vagabonds, unfortunately (and somewhat ironically for someone is considered to be extremely camp at work) it appears I have earned a reputation as a being bit of a flirt. Now, this I could understand if either a) I looked Mario Cipolini, b) had a stream of female cyclists hanging off my every word, c) didn’t have chicken legs. In all 3 cases (unfortunately), this just isn’t the case! All I can say is it isn’t on purpose and my intentions are all innocent! And even if they weren’t - have you seen my in lycra?!
For the ride back we were to split into 2 groups. I thought I’d heard someone suggest the first group would be for juniors and slower riders and would head straight back to Ponteland, and the second group would put in an extra loop. Within the first few minutes of leaving Capheaton, our group had shrunk to 8 (I believe) - and I wondered where everyone had gone! Our loop took us to Stamfordham (twice) but I have no clue as to the route we took, as a lot of the time I was just trying to hang in there. I spent the ride home talking to white Giant lady (I’m sorry - I can’t remember her name) and the conversation was mainly about bikes, pro cyclists and team strips. Listening in to our conversation, Cannondale lady (again sorry - I can’t remember her name either!) shouted back, “Are you sure you’re not gay?” At least they seemed to appreciate I am not a womanizer. Giant lady put it best - most of us are more interested in what the bikes look like rather than the people on them!
Back in Ponteland, Steve and I headed out for some extra miles, taking on the 18 mile TT course. It started out quite quickly, but by Gubeon both us had started to run out of steam and the ride back was a bit of a slog. By the A696, Steve and I took turns to draft, to get us home in one piece. We’ll definitely be doing the 18 mile 2up next year. The computer read 47 miles - this didn’t include the miles from Ponteland to Capheaton of course. To the lady in the silver Audi who pipped and waved frantically as she overtook Steve and I, if I know you - sorry for not waving back. If I don’t know you, you know what you can go and do for pipping at us…
Going back to the chicken legs - no one noticed (or if they did, they were polite enough to not ridicule me). At least I had shaved my legs, unlike a certain Vag! As I sit here typing this, I am aware that my thighs are no longer pale blue, more a sort of reddish pink, as is my nose. I’m also aware that I can’t ever leave the house in shorts for work again. It’s not a huge problem though, as I’m going to borrow some stilettos and a mini skirt and head into town…