Vicar of Ridley

Following July's burst of activity on the cycling front, August and September have been meagre in road miles. It would have helped of course if I hadn't stripped down my road bike and butchered the stand-by frame. But the real work can now start in earnest as long as Earnest doesn't mind. I have dragged myself into the 21st century and rummaged around the piggy bank to bag a 2009 Crossbow frame. Bargain. The nice chap at the bike shop even put a chain set on and suggested he might see me at the cyclocross events this winter. Yes, maybe, but only if he's as cringe-worthily slow as me.

Its been an oil and grease caked morning with the aromatic smell of thick glupy hydrocarbon and WD40 lubricants pervading the lounge where I go about my new trade of bikie quietly and efficiently. There's only a few spots of oil on the carpet. Still, early days. I haven't got half the tools I need and some of the new fangled fittings are headscratchingly devious for an old skool lad like me.

I am the new vicar of Ridley; Ridley in the Alien, the lead singer in the Boo Ridleys and Vin D. in the Chronicles of Ridley. With needing a few new parts, its dawning on me just how cheap a sport running is. I think I'll end up blowing 1 or 2 years worth of trainer money on various pieces of shiny aluminium, only to take them into soft, mud splattered bogs and fields.

Meanwhile, as I recall passing a couple of the lads in the car as they tore through the streets yesterday in the pouring rain, I see the gnarled wraith of guilt leaning against the door, dangling the Salomons by their laces and pointing with her scrawy finger toward the front door. Best get out for some miles.