We treated ourselves to a new garden last winter. One of the casualties of the beautiful new arrangement was the rather scabby old shed. So far so, good but the lack of the shed (and my failure to erect the proposed new one - the story gets even longer if I expand on that subject) has meant the precious mower sharing garage space with the precious Jag. Pushed into the background and shamefully neglected has been the precious bike. So today I girded the old metaphoricals and cleared out the garage thus liberating the bike. Now I can store all three of my preciouses and have ready access to each. I spent an oily hour changing a tyre and gave the bike an overdue clean and polish. She sits resplendent and tomorrow morning I plan to give her a gentle outing, judging this to be more tolerable for the calf injury.
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| All buffed up and beautiful |
As I toiled inefficiently at the tyre I listened to the Alpe d'Huez denouement of the Tour de France. Brilliant and spoiled only by the infantile French tossers whose response to another British victory is to make wholly unfounded accusations of drug abuse and to gob on the toiling members of the ultra-efficient (and I grant thereby hard to love) Team Sky. The French have been waiting a long time for a Tour winner, though they might like to reflect that we waited a damn sight longer for a Wimbledon winner without feeling the need to start expectorating in the direction of the victors. Allez Froome. And chapeau to Nairo Quintana who attacked heroically on the Alpe but came up just short.
Au revoir one and all.
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