Asymetrics are a bastard. Generally I can get Little One stripped, cleaned, new nappy, clean vest and clean gro-suit on, all in the length of an early Bruce Springsteen song. But not if gro-suit is 'asymetric'in design. These play havoc with my oestrogen-rich, sleep-poor brain at 3:00 am and can de-rail the project for another two songs or so.
Rewind a couple of weeks and Jules invites me down his house in Hythe to pick up a cot his own little ones have grown out of. The ride we have together through South-East London is the only time (except Trek Fitting Course in Milton Keynes) that we have ridden together this year. Bad form. The late night ride to Jules car - parked somewhere hellish near Blue Water - is fun, if a little long (1 hour 20). But also sets me thinking - more of that later.
In the morning I join in the Wall family chaos and busy myself helping Jules's son Zac make an England World Cup piggy-bank for a school project. I later hear a that little Zac won a prize for our efforts. England apparently were not so fortunate?
Jules loads the beautiful white cot into his ancient Ford Mondeo Estate and gives me the whole lot as a present! I drive off humble and speechless. I don't like cars and have mostly avoided owning one my whole life. But this old Mondeo moves me for some reason. Maybe it is the sticky child finger-prints over every visible surface, or the baby vomit slowly fermenting in the central console like aged Parmesan? But I associate this monolithic old car with Jules and his family - it is like a big faithful old family dog Jules has given me. Rich in all their trips and memories over the decade.
And that sets me think two things.1. I will look after this big old car as long as I can. So far it has four new tyres, a couple of litre of engine oil (it was almost totally dry), a cursory wash and new road-tax. The car is convinced there has been some mix-up after 12 years of abuse.
2. I will try Jules secret plan of driving to outskirts of London and then ride in the rest of the way.
Two weeks after the birth of my daughter I start my new regime. Drive to Iver Heath (Stepford) and leave the hearse down a quiet street. Then I ride along the Uxbridge Road into Central London. What could be simpler? Well the images should show that I start my commute in a week that I would have been better deployed building an ark. I don't mind riding in the wet but I hate getting wet - does that make sense? By the time I get to the Mondigo Noir the rain is bouncing off the suburban streets. Under the giant tailgate of the Mondigo I can dry off and change in relative comfort. It takes me straight back to the end of so many road-races decades ago when all you wanted to do was get home and get warm. Funny that you never felt the cold if you won. I felt cold alot. I remember a race around Essex where it started to snow halfway through and Jules and Mark had to prise my duck-egg blue fingers off the bars at the end. I digress.
For now my riding horizon has narrowed to Iver-to-London Via Uxbridge. But I don't mind and get a genuine little lift when I come around the corner and see this beaten up old car waiting for me. Because therein lies, a towel, dry trackie bottoms, a couple of digestive biscuits and half an hour of Radio 4. Rock and roll.
