Andy Burrows was just a name and a tune I heard on the radio last week. So was Artmagic. Now I'm listening to both, (though not at the same time) as I drag my meagre musical collection into the decade. A1. 
Came across a bike race yesterday. I, myself, have been working the cycling in with the running of late. The result is a drop in pavement pounding mileage and an increase in pot hole hell riding. Gordon Bennett; the roads are sh**te. My Council tax bill landed with a thud this morning. I really wonder what I'm paying for (except for the repair of tyres and bent wheels). The road miles are up now to about 80 or 90 a week which is no small feet in this boreal, nipple-numbing cold. Can't believe I'm bothering to keep the fridge and freezer plugged in. Saturday's 40 miles was a lonely affair, brightened only by a trip to the Cafe'd Capheaton, a favourite bikers haunt in the middle of nowhere (or in the middle of Capheaton if you happen to be one of the nine villagers from thereabouts). I think it can be found just at the back of the wardrobe and just a little way ahead of Mister Tumnas's pad. When I think about it, I think my ears are getting abit Mr Tumnas. Its the cold you know. Best start checking my hooves. Not easy cycling when you've got goats legs, believe me.
Yesterday was a wobbly 15 mile run through the lanes. It was hard work. I took my bumbag, just in case I got caught in a squall. I wish I had filled it with a small entertainment centre, a copy of the 1954 Eagle and some mince and carrot sandwiches. I might have had a modest gravy filled picnic at the top of the hill as the sleet kept trying to get some momentum. It looks likely that the next few races might be up north, so I'm shaking out my passport and can't wait to see how the tram's coming on in auld reekie. Aye that'll be right! What a good idea that was....
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