ON THE DAY OF ATONEMENT

I’ve always found the senior citizens cinema show on Wednesday mornings to be an ideal venue for widow-shopping. It’s a cheap morning out for an elderly widower, £3.50 for a top feature film plus coffee and biscuits, and is generally patronised by that better class of widow who seems to be particularly susceptible to my old-fashioned charms. One needs to be alive to one’s opportunities, of course, and it was my quick thinking, watching a screening of ’Atonement’, that enabled me to pull Daphne Murgatroyd.

            The situation arose during that scene in which a lucky fellow was tangling steamily in the library with Keira Knightley. The audience was engaged in a tense bout of communal heavy breathing when the moment was shattered by a loud embarrassed giggle from the woman next to me which elicited much foot shuffling and self-righteous ‘shushing’ and ‘tutting’, causing my unfortunate neighbour to attempt to fold herself up inside her tip-up seat. I seized my opportunity and patted her arm comfortingly. “Please don’t distress yourself, my dear” I whispered, “you are obviously a lady of some refinement, so please don’t let the reactions of these uncultured people distress you.”

             Daphne, as she later introduced herself, smiled at me gratefully through the gloom, and I followed up my first advance at intervals throughout the film, so that afterwards she enthusiastically accepted my offer of a two-for-one pub lunch, a speculative investment on my part of £12.30, (plus tip) and afterwards she agreed to come back to my room at the Happy Haven Retirement Home for coffee and cake. I smuggled her in through the side door to avoid confrontation with my close friend, Miss Lashley, (room 10) who for reasons I do not understand,is under the misapprehension that she exercises proprietorial rights over me.

            I should explain that I have harboured unrequited fantasies regarding Veronica Lashley since she took up residence two years ago but, disappointingly, she sees herself as the Happy Haven’s Virgin Queen. with me as some sort of Walter Raleigh figure. Sadly, I have realised  that my ship has no chance of dropping anchor in Miss Lashley’s harbour which is why I occasionally indulge in a little buccaneering on my own account, hence lunch with Daphne. We reached my room undetected and I put the kettle on.

            My lack of progress with Miss Lashley has persuaded me that at eighty three I have neither the time nor the attention span to faff around with the niceties of wooing, or whatever they call it now. I also had my lunch investment of £12.30 (plus tip) to protect, plus the £3.50 outlay for the cinema, so I made my move even before the kettle had boiled, tentatively embracing Daphne as she stood gazing through my window.

            To my surprise, her response to my embrace was so positive that the passion of her kiss dislodged my upper denture at the very moment that I was gulping for air. The denture shot to the back of my throat, temporarily choking me, and Daphne, alarmed by the discovery of an unrestrained foreign body in my mouth, sprang away from me with a frightened cry and toppled backwards over my footstool.

            Our cries of distress attracted the attention of Polish Petra, one of the carers, who burst into my room followed by a furious Miss Lashley and a twittering gaggle of rubbernecking residents.

“Ohmygod, Granpa Georgie,” said Petra, as she surveyed the carnage, “you’ve really done it this time haven’t you?”

            I had

            The paramedics put Daphne in a surgical collar and carried her to the ambulance on a board. Although she had by now regained consciousness, she didn’t wish me goodbye, so I assumed that our brief relationship was at an end, as was my association with Miss Lashley. That’s another £15.80 (plus tip) down to experience, I suppose.

            Miss Starkey, the Happy Haven manager, now has me on 24 hour lockdown, only leaving my room for escorted toilet breaks.My case has been referred to the local council and social services, but they couldn't find anywhere else to take me after the last incident and I guess they won't have any better luck this time so Starkey is stuck with me, like it or not. I'll lay low for a while until the dust settles or at least until I get a better-fitting denture.

The Frogspawn Viking

             The life of a geriatric recluse can sometimes be challenging, and my solitude was recently disrupted by local yobbos shouting abuse and hurling missiles at my windows. I responded defiantly by turning my garden hose on the brain-dead rabble, but with hindsight soaking Fat Kev Blenkinsop was a dumb move. Kev slipped over and knocked himself unconscious on my gatepost, which infuriated his neanderthal mother Toxic Tilly, who shook her gigantic tattooed fists at me and angrily prophesied my imminent death.

            I gave Tilly two fingers and retired triumphantly to my sitting room to partake of something comfortingly alcoholic. The room was in semi-darkness and I had an uncomfortable feeling that there was someone there and peering through the gloom I was alarmed to see a shadowy figure lounging in my best armchair.

          “Who the hell are you?” I yelped, thinking that one of the yobs had gained entry, “and what are you doing here?” 

          “ I’m moving in,” said the figure. “The situation at my current accommodation has become intolerable, so I’m requisitioning this property forthwith. My need are few and will not cause inconvenience."

           I switched the light on and discovered that my intruder was not one of my tormentors, but was some sort of fruitcake. He was bizarrely attired in a long gown worn over chain-mail and sported a peculiar two-pronged beard. Oh, and a helmet encircled by a crown.

         “Who the hell are you?” I repeated. "And what's with the fancy dress?"              

          He puffed his chest out. “I’m Sweyn; Sweyn Forkbeard. King of England. Pleased to meet you."
         This guy was obviously barking, possibly dangerous, so I was wary. “I see," I said, "that's interesting.In all honesty I can't say I've heard of you, Sweyn. King you say? Is the Queen doing a job-share?”

          The fruitcake growled indignantly.“I was declared King of England in 1013, after I’d given Aethelred the Unready a good kicking. It was big news at the time."”
          I thought it best to humour him. " Sorry, Sweyn, a bit before my time."
          "Your loss," he shrugged. "I only reigned for five weeks anyway, so I suppose you might have missed it. But I was a well-hard Viking, and if you'd met me you'd have remembered it, matey."
          I peered closer at Sweyn. He certainly looked well-hard. Also sinister, creepy, and … insubstantial! Not transparent exactly, but undeniably translucent. Spectral, actually.

         “1013?  That‘s a while back, that would make you...?”

         “Dead is the word you're searching for.”

         ”My condolences," I said. "I thought you looked pasty.”

         “Not surprising,” he said, “I’ve been dead since 1014 but I’ve been stuck here ever since over a dispute about my after-life destination.”

          I am often in dispute, so I sympathised.“These things happen, what’s the problem?”

         "Visa trouble.  I was a Christian convert but when I died Heaven denied me entry on account of my pagan roots and the pagans refused me Valhalla because of my Christian connections. My case went to an arbitration tribunal and I’ve been hanging out, invisible, in what's now 64 Acacia Avenue ever since. Invisible, that is, until Toxic Tilly Blenkinsop and Fat Kev moved in.”

        Sweyn shuddered. "It was terrifying.Fighting, drunken parties, drugs, loud music, all day, every day. The stress was unbearable and gave me anxiety attacks which developed in to ectoplasmic eruptions, wisps of vapour at first, increasing in frequency and virulence until I became intermittently visible.”
        “When Tilly first saw me, she put me down to the LSD, before realising that I was a business opportunity. She scammed me a dead man’s National Insurance number, disability allowance, a car on the mobility scheme and she even gets carer’s allowance. I have a social worker.” Sweyn's  insubstantial lip quivered uncontrollably. “A bloody social worker. Toxic Tilly scares me witless and I’ll never de-materialise with her around.”

        Sweyn’s Viking’s bravado had completely dissipated, and I felt a sudden affinity with him, resisting the urge to pat his translucent shoulder. “I know all about Toxic Tilly, Sweyn, I have problems too.”

        Just then we were interrupted by loud bangs and splintering noises, which I correctly judged to be someone kicking my front door in. Then the living room door burst open to reveal the hideous immensity of Toxic Tilly herself.
        “Good grief,” moaned Sweyn, frantically filtering himself through the back of the armchair in an attempt to hide, “it’s her.”

         Toxic Tilly loomed menacingly above me and cuffed both my ears with her huge fists.”That’s for hosing my little boy, arsehole. I was going to smash your furniture and break your legs for that, but I've just received my eviction notice, so me and Fat Kev are moving in here and I’ll need you fully functional to do the skivvying.

        She glanced in surprise at Sweyn. “Not sure why you’re here Whiskers, but get yourself out of that fancy dress and into your jeans and sweat shirt. I want you looking disabled and deserving before the social worker arrives.”
       So the Blenkinsops moved in, partying and fighting and requisitioning my income. I was bullied in to doing all the household chores while the well-hard Viking curled his spineless self in to the foetal position, and whimpered endlessly, too terrified of Tilly to just disappear off out of it.

       Then I had my brilliant idea.

       The plan was to ratchet Sweyen’s stress levels up so high that he would transcend translucency and actually coagulate. Once sufficiently substantial he would behead the Blenkinsops with his newly coagulated sword and I would bury the bodies in the garden. No one would bother to question their disappearance. The police and social services wouldn’t believe their luck, and Sweyn and the murder weapon would fade quietly away.

      But this plan failed.

      Despite our efforts Sweyn didn’t coagulate beyond a state of gross decomposition and the stench was appalling He closely resembled frogspawn, and sometimes bits of him fell off and trod in to the carpet, and neither he nor his sword were capable of delivering anything more lethal than a slimy wet slap.

     Then Sweyn had his brilliant idea.
     He got me to grass Tilly up, anonymously, over claiming for Sweyn using a dead guy’s identity, although I neglected to mention that Sweyn was dead anyway.  The benefits people arrived mob-handed along with the police and Sweyn’s social worker. understandable doubts about Sweyn’s wraith status were soon dispelled when he removed his head and put it under his arm, a cliché, admittedly, but startlingly effective. There followed a brawl involving Tilly and Kev and two transit loads of police, and now the Blenkinsops are doing time for benefit fraud and GBH. Result!

       I now have the respect of our estate as the man that did for Toxic Tilly. Sweyn is still here, but is flickering intermittently and becoming more insubstantial by the day. He hovers in my armchair, droning on about his well-hard Viking days, though I know him for the wimp he really is.

      My book, ‘Sweyn Forkbeard, The Last Viking King of England’, will be on sale at Christmas.

           The ghostwriter won’t get a mention.

Taking the Waters

It’s rare that one is granted a duck’s eye view of the world, and even rarer to experience the simple pleasure of sprawling idly in a babbling stream, contemplating the uncertainties of life, as the waters flow and eddy unconcernedly about one’s buttocks.

It wasn’t a conscious decision that found me and my bicycle prostrate in the depths of  Broughton Green ford, just a too-fast downhill approach and an injudicious touch on the brake, resulting in an involuntary flying header in to the middle of the ford. I landed with a splash and a thud on my left side and lay musing for a while, none too pleased with how the day  was turning out. You silly old fart, I thought, what if you can‘t get up? You must at least have broken your hip and you’ll probably go in to shock and drown where you lie.

I tried looking on the bright side. I was wearing clean underwear, so my widow wouldn’t be shamed in the mortuary when she identified me. And anyway, with luck, a motorist would find me and have sufficient compassion to stop and help, and not to drive round or, more likely, over me. On the other hand, if the driver was some harassed rural mom in her 4 x 4, late for the school run, that would probably be more than an elderly cyclist could expect, so I decided to try and vacate the stream before I was flattened beyond recall.

Surprisingly, tentative limb-waving indicated nothing obviously amiss about my person, so I picked myself and bike from the waters, waded to the shore and examined myself for signs of terminal injury while the water trickled slowly from my shoes and clothing.

I couldn’t believe my luck: not a mark on me, and no bike damage either. I’d got away with it this time, but I’ve had an uncomfortable feeling recently that the Grim Reaper is close by, loitering with intent, just looking for the chance to stuff his scythe through my front spokes. Best be more careful in future

Reflections on my 80th Birthday

21 was better.

21 was a bloody sight better.

The Gospel Truth

Recent Facebook pictures of a snow-covered Gospel Pass in the Black Mountains of Wales,reminded me that I'd laboured over there in the 120 km (76 miles) Welsh Marches Audax in April 2009.

The route contained 1600 metres of climbing, including some hilly stuff round Herefordshire, before scaling the Gospel Pass and dropping down to Hay on Wye, leaving an easy run in to the finish at Monkland near Leominster.

  I’d upped my mileage before the event but was fully aware that my 72 year old legs were in danger of being ripped off over the climbs and that I wouldn't be able to stay with the younger riders much past the first check at about 30 miles, I knew I could average about 14mph, on reasonably flat terrain, but the group I set off with was averaging 16’s after about 5 miles, uncomfortably fast for me, and I was on my own before the ride had really started.

I pinched this picture of the Gospel Pass off a website. If I remember correctly I took my own camera on the ride but when I came to take my panoramic views I found the battery had expired. 
I understand that the pass is the highest road in Wales. On the day I thought it was a bloody sight higher.

  I experienced an intense period of indignant distress at being shelled out so early and contemplated a return to the headquarters. But I rode on for a while, fantasising about the dreadful retribution that a Just God would wreak upon my erstwhile companions, and eventually reasoned that my early humiliation hadn't altered my plan, I just had to ride further on my own than I had originally calculated.

The ride to the first check was actually hillier than I had anticipated, and I had to walk a couple of short steep stretches, although I caught and passed a couple of stragglers, favouring them with a supercilious nod and a grunted greeting to leave them in no doubt of my superior standing in the cycling hierarchy.. 

  When I reached the first control, a cafe, some of my previous companions were still there, lolling about with coffee and cake and other fripperies, but I just got my card signed,and carried on, knowing full well that I would be overtaken again on the way to the second control at Hay on Wye. I was carrying an energy drink and cereal bars, so that I didn’t need a sit-down stop.The others passed me on a long grinding hill, a few miles after the café, and I was on my own again.This second section was much hillier than the first, several long hills interspersed with some welcome descents, but eventually I reached the start of the Gospel Pass.

          
  The pass is about eight miles long, up a very narrow road, with a drop and a widening valley to the right, giving some stunning views. It's a steady climb at first, but becomes a lot steeper as it approaches the summit. The days's previous climbs had done no favours for my geriatric legs, and I adopted my usual climbing style of sitting back, engaging 28 x29, swearing profusely, and hoping for the best  Eventually, after plodding for what seemed like half the morning,I came out on to open heath land, with a glorious view over the countryside that I’d just ridden through. A few hundred  more yards of steady climbing took me to the summit of the pass where there was a fantastic view towards Hay-on-Wye and across the Wye valley to the west.

 I caught up with the others at the café at Hay who, predictably were just leaving as I arrived. prompting a non-cycling customer to question the extent of my popularity. The ride back to Monkland was fortunately flat and I got through the last miles, pretty well knackered but in reasonable order.

I used this ride as preparation for the Beacon RCC 94 mile Cotswold Journey Audax, later that year, which I completed on my own, and without stops, a tactic that got me to the finish within the time limit..Just because you cant keep up with the kids doesn't mean you can't go out to play.

Shooting One's Mouth Off: The Veteran Cyclist's Occupational Hazard

Me and my stomach trundling round the Beacon RCC 107km Cotswold
Outing Audax in 2011

I've always talked a good bike ride. In my younger days, tucked comfortably behind my pint among a peloton of like-minded associates, I would hint, only half-jokingly, of my potential as world road champion and Tour de France prospect, and aged 17, filled with euphoria following a couple of top six road race placings, briefly believed my own publicity. After my National Service, I reluctantly abandoned my Tour ambitions, but even then, enthusiasm and over confidence for the coming season led me to make some unrealistic pronouncements, and an injudicious assertion, in the presence of the then President's lady, that I would that season destroy the club 100 mile time trial record, cost me a fortune in Green Goddess cocktails twelve months later.

      The eventual petering-out of my unremarkable racing career resulted in a shift of emphasis from forecasts of future glory to nostalgic accounts of past 'achievements'. Now decades away from reality, bog basic winter Reliability Trials like the Weston and Back and the LLangollen and Back, along with the 'characters' that were my clubmates have become the subject of myth and legend, embellished as they have been with unlikely anecdotes involving fixed-wheel training rides with brick-filled saddlebags and tales of derring-do during Bacchanalian youth hostel weekends. Some of these tales have a basis in fact, but at this distance in time I'm not sure where fact ends and fiction begins.

      Wittering on about the old days, and how bloody good you were, is the prerogative of geriatric cyclists, and although it's invariably accompanied by an attitude of disdain and derision concerning the abilities of the current crop of younger riders, it generally does no one any harm. However, this week, inspired by daughter training for a half-marathon running race, I had a momentary aberration and posted on Facebook my intention of riding the Beacon RCC 107km Cotswold Outing Audax in aid of the Prostate Cancer Charity.

      I'm not exactly regretting it, but...

      I've been round this particular Audax numerous times, and five years ago, aged 72, completed the 160 km (94 mile)Cotswold Journey which actually included hills, thankfully absent from the Cotswold Outing. So doing the Cotswold Outing again seemed like a damn good idea until I realised that I'm now 77, haven't done many miles since my prostate diagnosis in 2011, and no single ride of more than 35 miles in the last two years.

     While I was reflecting on the discrepancy between ambition and ability, and the potential consequences of having shot my mouth off, the till on my Just Giving page was ringing enthusiastically, with £240 donated within hours.  So, like it or not, I'm riding the Cotswold Outing Audax. 

      Fortunately, I'm not such a prat as I sometimes make out. (I'm not!) and have come up with a Training Plan, designed to get me round the course in relatively good order.

     It is foolproof, and based on 63 years of cycling experience, and if nothing else, will get me out on the bike regularly over the next 15 weeks. 

     I know exactly what I'm doing.

     What can possibly go wrong?

f you'd like to donate you;ll find my Just Giving page at:http://t.co/PUhFfH1BfN

      

It's Bloody January, again.

This is what you look like when you know you are about to take your 77
year old self out  on the bike, in to the cold, wet, and an annoying south-westerly,
 for no reason other than you'll have a bad conscience if you don't. Why doesn't
someone tell me I don't have to do it? 

As today there was no appreciable rain, nor gales, nor even the suggestion of an icy patch, I felt honour bound to open my 2014 cycling campaign, the 62nd consecutive year of my Battle of Attrition with the bicycle.
     I am aware that this a battle that I can no longer win, and even as I dragged the Trevor Jarvis from the shed, where it has been lurking with malevolent intent since early December, I was still nurturing an unreasonable hope that the tyres had rotted away and the rest of it had been consumed by rust.
     The worst that had occurred was a soft tyre, which, spitefully, responded to the application of the track pump, and I was soon on my way and immediately aware that my legs had no real inclination to participate in the venture. However, this is a standard reaction for first time out, even for the fitter individuals, so I changed down a gear and pretended to enjoy it.
     It took me about a mile to realise that the route that my brain had planned was inappropriate, inclining far more towards the vertical than my recalcitrant legs considered fair, so I skulked off down a side road and did three laps of a flattish circuit instead There was a nasty south-westerly breeze which tried to knacker me up down one side of the circuit and the tail-wind bits, which would normally have me in paroxysms of delight, I failed to appreciate, being generally in the throes of a near-death experience. However, I'd planned to be out for an hour, live or die, and I ground out an hour and ten minutes, just to show who's boss.
     Noticed that there actually  is some rust, bubbling up on the Trevor Jarvis' top tube. Be interested to see which rusts through first, the frame or me.