Who are you calling ‘Numbnuts”…?


Friday, 5th September

Chesham – Chesham. 0 miles.

I’d be lying if I said that I find gymnasiums to be interesting places. I don’t. In my opinion, they’re tedious and hot, and usually filled with muscle-bound buffoons with 80’s clothes. The sort you see Schwartzenegger wearing in old black-and-white pictures taken in his heyday. I’m sure you know the sort – big, baggy sweat pants and grey sweatshirts with the sleeves ripped off, probably using their teeth in some exogenous testosterone-fuelled rage. I expect that, one day, I’ll enter a gymnasium to see Sylvester Stallone in the corner, punching the hanging carcass of a frozen cow until his knuckles bleed, whilst bellowing his undying love for “Adddrrrrrrrrriiiiiiiiaaaaannn…!”

I’m sure I’m doing the gym scene an injustice but, quite frankly, this is how I feel about them. I joined with the sole intention of losing some weight and, perhaps, finding something good about gymnasiums. So far, the only good thing is the staff, who are very nice people and, perhaps of importantance to my shallow brain, are not muscle-bound buffoons themselves.

This, then, begs the question, what on earth was I doing inside such an establishment? A sound question, but one with a simple answer. A rather pathetic answer, if the truth be told, but it was weather-related. I’d spent the majority of the day, pottering around the house, doing lots but achieving very little, waiting for that increasingly unlikely patch of average weather, which I’d desperately hoped would be beyond the next cloud. I waited…and waited… I’d waited so long, in fact, that darkness had descended on rural Buckinghamshire, long before any sign of the evil wind and rain had abated.

Now, this would only present a problem in that I don’t have any lights for my bike. Most of the lights on the market are big, bulky and quite heavy, quite similar to my voluminous mass, in fact.  Additionally, every single set of bicycle lights in existence is wholly inadequate.  So inadequate that they would even fail to attract the most desperate or stupid moth. Hence, my trip to the gymnasium.

The ride itself, which is what I’m supposed to be writing about, was utterly uninspiring. In fact, the only news of note was the loss of feeling in the ‘nether regions’ after about ten minutes. So total was the loss, that even a surreptitious rearrangement of the ‘wedding vegetables’ failed to relive the loss of sensation. In fact, there was little sensation of the surreptitious rearrangement, other than that felt in the tips of my fingers – there was little feeling whatsoever in my pants. A wave of fear swept over me that my nuts may have been somehow been teleported from my body by some lazy alien, wishing to conduct tests on the human male member, but keen to avoid gathering ‘waste’ material, in this case being the rest of my sweating, heaving carcass.

Needless to say, the whole experience was, after forty minutes, cut decidedly short, before the longevity of my testicles was.

The Nutcracker.  Not so sweet.

The Nutcracker. Not so sweet.

Todays bike: Schwinn Evolution SR (or something very similar)


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