Friday, March 21, 2008
The British 10K
I've now signed up for the Asics British 10K on 6 July - See! That Tattie Run's again!!!!
Well, obviously not right now - it's a bank holiday weekend and as usual I'm sitting in my pants smoking fags, but soon I'll start back into training. I'm wondering what two years will have done in terms of affecting my time, especially given that I'm now on the wrong side of 30 - which seems to be widely accepted as the age where everythig starts to break down irreparably. I'm slowly coming to terms with the fact that, even given the current state of Irish rugby, I might never play for the national side. Obviously I need to get into training again and try to remember the rules - I'm sure what they're lacking is an 11 stone, slow running, tactically inept player who hasn't so much as kicked a ball in anger since 1996.
But that is for next season - at the moment all my focus is on getting into shape for July. I have almost four months so hopefully I will be able to better my first time. Despite the furore that surrounded the original attempt, I didn't really train a huge amount - maybe twice a week, and I was smoking fags and drinking beer up until the day before the race. The whole focus was just getting round, but now I'd quite like to get under 50 minutes (i.e. a whole 1 minute improvement on my last time). The whole thing looks a bit shambolic if the registration process and web site is anything to go by, plus it looks like everyone leaves at the same time - so it'll probably take me 20 minutes to cross the starting line. I don't think they have anything as fancy as the chip in your shoe that Nike had to accurately measure each runners time.
What they do have is an obsession with all things British (well, it is the British 10K I suppose) - from the red, white and blue race shirt that we all receive, to the massive union jacks fluttering around the course, to the bands around the route playing rousing classics such as "Rule Britannia" and, erm, "True Colours".... Not sure I like all this "proud to be British" thing, so I'm gonna pretend to be proper Irish for the day I think.
I'm gonna buy a new phone over the weekend with a camera, so you'll be treated to lots of lovely pics of me looking sweaty - or sitting in the pub lamenting how badly my training is going.
Bring it on.
Well, obviously not right now - it's a bank holiday weekend and as usual I'm sitting in my pants smoking fags, but soon I'll start back into training. I'm wondering what two years will have done in terms of affecting my time, especially given that I'm now on the wrong side of 30 - which seems to be widely accepted as the age where everythig starts to break down irreparably. I'm slowly coming to terms with the fact that, even given the current state of Irish rugby, I might never play for the national side. Obviously I need to get into training again and try to remember the rules - I'm sure what they're lacking is an 11 stone, slow running, tactically inept player who hasn't so much as kicked a ball in anger since 1996.
But that is for next season - at the moment all my focus is on getting into shape for July. I have almost four months so hopefully I will be able to better my first time. Despite the furore that surrounded the original attempt, I didn't really train a huge amount - maybe twice a week, and I was smoking fags and drinking beer up until the day before the race. The whole focus was just getting round, but now I'd quite like to get under 50 minutes (i.e. a whole 1 minute improvement on my last time). The whole thing looks a bit shambolic if the registration process and web site is anything to go by, plus it looks like everyone leaves at the same time - so it'll probably take me 20 minutes to cross the starting line. I don't think they have anything as fancy as the chip in your shoe that Nike had to accurately measure each runners time.
What they do have is an obsession with all things British (well, it is the British 10K I suppose) - from the red, white and blue race shirt that we all receive, to the massive union jacks fluttering around the course, to the bands around the route playing rousing classics such as "Rule Britannia" and, erm, "True Colours".... Not sure I like all this "proud to be British" thing, so I'm gonna pretend to be proper Irish for the day I think.
I'm gonna buy a new phone over the weekend with a camera, so you'll be treated to lots of lovely pics of me looking sweaty - or sitting in the pub lamenting how badly my training is going.
Bring it on.
Monday, March 17, 2008
'mon the daylight....
I left work just after 5 this evening, having survived the day on a diet of caffeine and water - J went back to Poland for a visit last night, and - having escorted her to the bus in Brixton at 2.30 - I only got about 4 hours sleep. Not enough for a lazy bastard like me.
Anyway, my point being..... I go the whole way home before it got dark! Woohoo! Bring on the summer.....
Anyway, my point being..... I go the whole way home before it got dark! Woohoo! Bring on the summer.....
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
My new run
awful website, terrible name but get registering and join me!
British 10K London Run 2008
oh, and err, I haven't signed up yet cos I can't til pay day, so don't all go rushing at once or else there'll be no room left for me....
British 10K London Run 2008
oh, and err, I haven't signed up yet cos I can't til pay day, so don't all go rushing at once or else there'll be no room left for me....
I'm in shock
I've just watched an episode of the Simpsons on Channel 4 that I hadn't seen before. Wonders will never cease.
Monday, March 10, 2008
I think the Tattie gutties might be back out again
I seem to have inadvertently signed up for another 10K - about time some might say, given the fact that the run that inspired this little wedge of the web is now 18 months in the past.
J is running/walking in a charity 10K round Hyde Park in the summer as part of her company's team - a noble endeavour and one that I intended to fully support her in. However, my plans to only be a spectator were potentially nobbled by a conversation down the pub where I discovered that my friend Imogen is also doing it, as is my erstwhile non-training partner and fellow Run Londoner, Craig. An ill-advised bit of cheek later, and I find myself at the centre of a bet which will, in all probability, end up stinging me for £50. Whilst suggesting I run in the race alongside Craig again, I took the opportunity to gloat over my 15 minute winning margin last time out. Cue a brief beer- and testosterone-fuelled debate over whether the gap would be more or less this time out, and a wager was formed. I should, of course, know that Craig does not generally enter into pub bets he doesn't have at least a 75% chance of winning.
So, if the gap is less than 15 minutes, I owe Craig a tenner for every minute inside the 15. If it's more than 15 minutes, he owes me a tenner for every minute past the 15.
I managed to save a bit of dignity and cash by setting a £50 limit either way and insisting that the winnings are donated to the charity. Let the tattie mashing commence.
J is running/walking in a charity 10K round Hyde Park in the summer as part of her company's team - a noble endeavour and one that I intended to fully support her in. However, my plans to only be a spectator were potentially nobbled by a conversation down the pub where I discovered that my friend Imogen is also doing it, as is my erstwhile non-training partner and fellow Run Londoner, Craig. An ill-advised bit of cheek later, and I find myself at the centre of a bet which will, in all probability, end up stinging me for £50. Whilst suggesting I run in the race alongside Craig again, I took the opportunity to gloat over my 15 minute winning margin last time out. Cue a brief beer- and testosterone-fuelled debate over whether the gap would be more or less this time out, and a wager was formed. I should, of course, know that Craig does not generally enter into pub bets he doesn't have at least a 75% chance of winning.
So, if the gap is less than 15 minutes, I owe Craig a tenner for every minute inside the 15. If it's more than 15 minutes, he owes me a tenner for every minute past the 15.
I managed to save a bit of dignity and cash by setting a £50 limit either way and insisting that the winnings are donated to the charity. Let the tattie mashing commence.
The world's 50 most powerful blogs
The Observer had a piece in their magazine yesterday on the world's 50 most powerful blogs. I was caught a little by surprise, as I had not been contacted by the editorial team prior to them compiling the article. As you know, whilst I am without doubt blazing a trail for irrelevant, dull, non-story diary blogging, I am very protective of my privacy and take great steps to ensure the secret doesn't get out and thrust me, blinking, into the spotlight of celebrity. I worry I might do a Britney or an Amy once the snowball effect took hold and I found myself unable to cope with being labeled "the future of mundane commentary on nothing whatsoever". Plus, I still get spots at the age of 30, and would hate to see myself lampooned by Heat for not wearing enough concealer of a morning.
So, a couple of phone calls and some hasty editing of the blog later to remove any semblance of wit or wisdom, I avoided catastrophe and ensured that STTR remains in the hands of you, my loyal inner circle of readers.
Don't say I never do anything for you.
If you're interested, the 2nd-51st most powerful blogs in the world can be read about here
So, a couple of phone calls and some hasty editing of the blog later to remove any semblance of wit or wisdom, I avoided catastrophe and ensured that STTR remains in the hands of you, my loyal inner circle of readers.
Don't say I never do anything for you.
If you're interested, the 2nd-51st most powerful blogs in the world can be read about here
Tuesday, March 04, 2008
Kwality proof reading
After trying to watch Celtic lose in Barcelona tonight on the STV website (it kept crashing), I had a quick browse at Rangers' section to see if I can watch the game on Thursday in the UEFA Cup. This story caught my eye:
"Kris Boyd says having fellow striker Daniel Cousin at Ibrox at least until the end of the season can give Rangers the impotace to compete for trophies on four fronts."
Impotace?
It's so badly spelled that it took me a while to work out what they meant - it doesn't even look like a word.
Best not to let the work experience kid write your copy, guys..... You're emplieing us Huns are all illiterate idiots.....
"Kris Boyd says having fellow striker Daniel Cousin at Ibrox at least until the end of the season can give Rangers the impotace to compete for trophies on four fronts."
Impotace?
It's so badly spelled that it took me a while to work out what they meant - it doesn't even look like a word.
Best not to let the work experience kid write your copy, guys..... You're emplieing us Huns are all illiterate idiots.....
Monday, March 03, 2008
posting for the sake of it
I'm in a total creative vacuum at the moment. Can think of nothing exciting to say and have no enthusiasm for saying it anyway. Not helped by the fact that I noticed in the Londonpaper today that the nondescript guy who wrote a couple of columns about Soho now has his own, regular column in the paper. There but for the grace of God, eh? Only difference is, he obviously has stuff to write about, whereas I am as dry as a 90 year old granny.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
See that Tattie grow?
I'm 45% sure I'm going to start preparing the world's greatest little vegetable patch this weekend. Weather, laziness, ambivalence and hangover permitting, of course.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Irlande Douze Points
I so cannot wait for Eurovision this year (even more than usual!)
This is Ireland's entry, and we're going to wipe the floor with the opposition. Sung by Ireland's most famous turkey - Dustin - it is Euro-gold.
Altogether now!
"Eastern Europe, we love you!
Do you like, Irish stew?"
This is Ireland's entry, and we're going to wipe the floor with the opposition. Sung by Ireland's most famous turkey - Dustin - it is Euro-gold.
Altogether now!
"Eastern Europe, we love you!
Do you like, Irish stew?"
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Sowing the seeds of love...
Sometimes I need a good kick up the arse to stop talking about stuff and actually start doing it. Those of you who know me (erm, so everyone reading this then) will testify.
It's happened twice at work, which - despite the fact I moan constantly about it - has got to me to a semi-respectable position within my company (with a found-out-about-today-pay-rise! Mini-woot! It's not much but more than I expected) rather than festering on a helpdesk doing a job an intelligent 12 year old could do.
It's also happened in Glasgow, when Helen first of all persuaded me to get out of call-centre hell and bugger off to NZ for a few months, and then followed it up by finally making me see that my ex wasn't exactly all I was making her out to be (ah, the pathetic mourning of that first proper dumping....)
And it has happened now, with J once again surprising me with a small but perfectly formed spontaneous gift that makes me realise how much she cares. She bought me some seeds.
You may remember from a couple of posts ago that I have grand plans to convert our ramshackle garden into an oasis of vegetables, herbs and finely manicured lawn. Unsurprisingly, I rambled on to people about this a fair bit recently, but had done absolutely jack about starting on it, save for muttering the odd "must start that next weekend" when stumbling to the fridge in the morning.
But now, I have seeds.
They're sitting here, on my table, screaming "give me life!" very quietly in my head....
... and that's what I'm going to do. Rocket, Lettuce, Parsley and Spring Onion, all destined to be sown and tended and ultimately munched. It may be betraying my soppiness to note that all of the choices have meaning to me. Rocket and Parsley are J's favourites, lettuce was my original suggestion about what my be easy to grow, and we had a conversation, very early on in our relationship, around how chives were the bits that grow out of spring onions. Still not sure I buy that, but anyway....
It's true what they say - it's most definitely the thought that counts.
It's happened twice at work, which - despite the fact I moan constantly about it - has got to me to a semi-respectable position within my company (with a found-out-about-today-pay-rise! Mini-woot! It's not much but more than I expected) rather than festering on a helpdesk doing a job an intelligent 12 year old could do.
It's also happened in Glasgow, when Helen first of all persuaded me to get out of call-centre hell and bugger off to NZ for a few months, and then followed it up by finally making me see that my ex wasn't exactly all I was making her out to be (ah, the pathetic mourning of that first proper dumping....)
And it has happened now, with J once again surprising me with a small but perfectly formed spontaneous gift that makes me realise how much she cares. She bought me some seeds.
You may remember from a couple of posts ago that I have grand plans to convert our ramshackle garden into an oasis of vegetables, herbs and finely manicured lawn. Unsurprisingly, I rambled on to people about this a fair bit recently, but had done absolutely jack about starting on it, save for muttering the odd "must start that next weekend" when stumbling to the fridge in the morning.
But now, I have seeds.
They're sitting here, on my table, screaming "give me life!" very quietly in my head....
... and that's what I'm going to do. Rocket, Lettuce, Parsley and Spring Onion, all destined to be sown and tended and ultimately munched. It may be betraying my soppiness to note that all of the choices have meaning to me. Rocket and Parsley are J's favourites, lettuce was my original suggestion about what my be easy to grow, and we had a conversation, very early on in our relationship, around how chives were the bits that grow out of spring onions. Still not sure I buy that, but anyway....
It's true what they say - it's most definitely the thought that counts.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
My mug on t'internet
Photos from Saturday night (Craig's birthday) on the club's website, and doesn't everyone look like they're having a lovely time?! Even me, although perhaps that's because it's the first time I've seen myself on one of these random "night out" websites... I'm sure the pages of "Bizarre" are but a stone's throw away.... Lots of shots including me, Craig, Coco, Helen, Euan and Laura, all in glorious mono-colour.....
How Does it Feel to be Loved?
How Does it Feel to be Loved?
Monday, February 18, 2008
Good taste
Having become an amateur journalist (no offence Gav) after getting two rambling anecdotes published in a free local newspaper, I am now referring to myself (at least in my head) as "a photographer". Back in my younger days, when I still thought I was going to become some sort of cool creative arty type rather than festering away in middle management for the rest of my life, I flirted with the notion of trying to leanr how to take photographs properly. You know, thus removing any notion of photography as "art" and instead treating it like it was some kind of skilled trade that I could do an apprenticeship in.No matter, however, because thanks to the power of the internet, I am now just that. Kind of. I was looking at my Flickr account the other day and found an email that I'd been sent before Christmas from a company called Schmap. One of my photos had been shortlisted for their "Belfast Travel Guide" and they wanted my permission to consider it. All very exciting, even if it was a very boring shot of a waterfall and it's not exactly National Geographic.
Unfortunately the deadline for authorising it was the 16th of December, so I narrowly missed the boat on it getting used in the latest edition, but apparently they get updated all the time, so you never know.
My camera died back in July, and I'd sort of resigned myself to not getting another one - just using a combination of J's camera and my mobile phone to cover any notable events. But after the encouragement that someone liked one of my photos, I'm reconsidering.
Pathetic how much I react to the slightest compliment, isn't it?
(oh, and PS, whatever you do, don't search for Glenariff waterfall pictures on the rest of Flickr....)
Sunday, February 17, 2008
New strings to my bow
My evolution into a well-rounded individual continues apace, as I made my first foray into the world of proper cooking this week.
I tried to cook something for the first time on Thursday night which didn't just involve the act of adding jar of sauce to browned meat, and managed to make it taste kind of like it was supposed to and not give either J or me food poisoning into the bargain. Ok, so it was only Cottage Pie, but that's because J likes cottage pie, and I was trying to do something nice for Valentine's day. It wasn't yer standard common-or-garden pie either - it had parsnip and horseradish in the mash and both thyme and a bay leaf in the mincey bit. I'd never really noticed that supermarkets had "herb" section before, and milled around for quite some time looking completely uneasy, reading and re-reading the little labels on the shelves to make sure I was buying the right thing whilst seasoned (like what I did there?) herb purchasers elbowed me out of the way to buy whatever it was they needed for the ad hoc extravaganza they were planning on knocking together when they got home. But I got there in the end, and after 2 and a half hours spent turning the kitchen into a bomb site, I think it proved worth it, if J's reaction was anything to go by. Of course, in the time it had taken me to cook she had demolished half a bottle of red wine, so she may have been a little less critical than Gordon Ramsay.
The knock on effect is that I now have a little bit of confidence that I can actually follow a recipe and make something approaching a half decent meal from fresh ingredients. Today I knew I had mushrooms, a chicken fillet and the remaining thyme in the fridge, so bought some leeks and potatoes, wrapped some bacon and herbs around the chicken, and rustled up something vaguely similar to a Tesco finest ready meal. I somehow feel much fuller and more satisified than if I'd bought the same thing from a shop, despite the fact it probably cost almost exactly the same amount.....
I tried to cook something for the first time on Thursday night which didn't just involve the act of adding jar of sauce to browned meat, and managed to make it taste kind of like it was supposed to and not give either J or me food poisoning into the bargain. Ok, so it was only Cottage Pie, but that's because J likes cottage pie, and I was trying to do something nice for Valentine's day. It wasn't yer standard common-or-garden pie either - it had parsnip and horseradish in the mash and both thyme and a bay leaf in the mincey bit. I'd never really noticed that supermarkets had "herb" section before, and milled around for quite some time looking completely uneasy, reading and re-reading the little labels on the shelves to make sure I was buying the right thing whilst seasoned (like what I did there?) herb purchasers elbowed me out of the way to buy whatever it was they needed for the ad hoc extravaganza they were planning on knocking together when they got home. But I got there in the end, and after 2 and a half hours spent turning the kitchen into a bomb site, I think it proved worth it, if J's reaction was anything to go by. Of course, in the time it had taken me to cook she had demolished half a bottle of red wine, so she may have been a little less critical than Gordon Ramsay.
The knock on effect is that I now have a little bit of confidence that I can actually follow a recipe and make something approaching a half decent meal from fresh ingredients. Today I knew I had mushrooms, a chicken fillet and the remaining thyme in the fridge, so bought some leeks and potatoes, wrapped some bacon and herbs around the chicken, and rustled up something vaguely similar to a Tesco finest ready meal. I somehow feel much fuller and more satisified than if I'd bought the same thing from a shop, despite the fact it probably cost almost exactly the same amount.....
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Six letters, P something D something U something
At a loose end whilst having a cig in the conservatory a few minutes ago, I decided to have a crack at the Guardian crossword from a few days ago. Don't normally partake in such pastimes, but what can I say - I was feeling a bit crazy.
I surprised myself by getting every single clue with a minimum of fuss, even showing off by filling in all the across clues first, and then all the down ones, in chronological order.
All, that is, except one.
The clue for it is "Dais". I have absolutely no idea what this word is, and suspect it isn't even English. For a brief moment I triumphantly thought that my heritage had made a mockery of the paper's feeble attempts to confuse me with linguistics - "of course! It's the Irish word for parliament!" It was only as I tried to get a coherent word to fit the spaces that it sank in that the word I was thinking of is actually "Dail" (pronounced "Doyle"). Bah.
My next idea was that Dais is actually a reference to a group of similarly named Welsh men, but this proved no more successful. Then I thought it might be something to do with a festival or something - probably again based in the Valleys and involving strange costumes and folk songs.
My final, desperate ploy was that it was, in fact, referring to four-fifths of a daisy, which given the relative easiness of the other clues was perhaps a little off the mark. Nevertheless, I spent a good, ooh, 30 seconds, trying to come up with some sort of incomplete plant reference before - mercifully - finishing my fag and retreating to the monosyllabic world of my bedroom.
I know I could access the majesty of the world wide web on which I currently sit to find out the answer, but that would be admitting defeat to the puzzle - unthinkable given the ease with which I breezed through the clue's comrades. Instead, I chose to wander off, muttering something along the lines of "not bothered anyway" (to myself), seeing myself less as a failure at the Quick Crossword, more as a vicious yet merciful overlord, who has just battered the thing into submission but decided to leave it with dignity intact.
So those of you who are wondering, I have decided on my own word to fill the gaps, and expect it to be available in the next edition of the Oxford English dictionary.
Dais (n,v,adj,whatever): Pudnut.
I surprised myself by getting every single clue with a minimum of fuss, even showing off by filling in all the across clues first, and then all the down ones, in chronological order.
All, that is, except one.
The clue for it is "Dais". I have absolutely no idea what this word is, and suspect it isn't even English. For a brief moment I triumphantly thought that my heritage had made a mockery of the paper's feeble attempts to confuse me with linguistics - "of course! It's the Irish word for parliament!" It was only as I tried to get a coherent word to fit the spaces that it sank in that the word I was thinking of is actually "Dail" (pronounced "Doyle"). Bah.
My next idea was that Dais is actually a reference to a group of similarly named Welsh men, but this proved no more successful. Then I thought it might be something to do with a festival or something - probably again based in the Valleys and involving strange costumes and folk songs.
My final, desperate ploy was that it was, in fact, referring to four-fifths of a daisy, which given the relative easiness of the other clues was perhaps a little off the mark. Nevertheless, I spent a good, ooh, 30 seconds, trying to come up with some sort of incomplete plant reference before - mercifully - finishing my fag and retreating to the monosyllabic world of my bedroom.
I know I could access the majesty of the world wide web on which I currently sit to find out the answer, but that would be admitting defeat to the puzzle - unthinkable given the ease with which I breezed through the clue's comrades. Instead, I chose to wander off, muttering something along the lines of "not bothered anyway" (to myself), seeing myself less as a failure at the Quick Crossword, more as a vicious yet merciful overlord, who has just battered the thing into submission but decided to leave it with dignity intact.
So those of you who are wondering, I have decided on my own word to fill the gaps, and expect it to be available in the next edition of the Oxford English dictionary.
Dais (n,v,adj,whatever): Pudnut.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
農曆新年!!
Gad. Hungover to feck today after crashing and burning at an unseemly hour yesterday following the rugby...
Just been round for some delicious Chinese food, courtesy of the Putney massive, to celebrate Chinese New Year. Just what the doctor ordered - am almost not feeling like utter crap now. Had a whole massive platter of stuff for starters - none of which I can remember the names but involved lots of prawns and pork and ricey-type stuff, followed by two massive vats of curry, and some nice custard tart things and a fortune cookie for afters - it was magic.
Am now back and aimlessly surfing the net and wasting what remains of my Sunday.
The bike wasn't ridden
The garden wasn't gardened
Bet you're shocked.
Just been round for some delicious Chinese food, courtesy of the Putney massive, to celebrate Chinese New Year. Just what the doctor ordered - am almost not feeling like utter crap now. Had a whole massive platter of stuff for starters - none of which I can remember the names but involved lots of prawns and pork and ricey-type stuff, followed by two massive vats of curry, and some nice custard tart things and a fortune cookie for afters - it was magic.
Am now back and aimlessly surfing the net and wasting what remains of my Sunday.
The bike wasn't ridden
The garden wasn't gardened
Bet you're shocked.
Sunday, February 03, 2008
Out in the suburbs, no one can hear you scream....
This is the slightly disturbing sight that greeted me when I left the flat this afternoon. A massive leg bone lying in the middle of our garden path. I have no idea what kind of creature it used to belong to, but it's fairly stripped of flesh.Either the local foxes have turned quite nasty and started leaving us the remains of their prey, or one of my flatmates is actually a werewolf. Given the hours that some of them keep it wouldn't be surprising.
The other theory, of course, is that it's merely the leftovers from someone's drunken Fried Chicken purchase last night - the new Chicken Cottage family bucket perhaps?
See that Tattie Ride!
Finally got my bike yesterday - all shiny and new and already splattered in mud. I had to ride it back from the shop to my house - only about 5km but a bit of a mission, given my lack of riding experience in the last two decades.God knows what the bus drivers etc thought as they went past me as I wobbled my way out of the car park onto the main road. I assumed that, even if I was out of shape, I would at least still be able to ride the thing. As it was, I couldn't keep it in a straight line - never a good idea with the Number 3 bearing down on you. Thankfully I made it to the park and found my bike legs, even attempting a bit of off road (hence the mud). I say off road - I actually just went onto the grass to go past a few people, not remembering the recent heavy rain, and found myself trying to ride through a bog. Luckily I didn't fall off and end up covered in shit from head to toe.
I also managed my first run in with a car on the way back, as I went to pull out round a parked car and the traffic behind me didn't stop. I slammed ont he brakes, he did as well, then i wobbled a bit before moving off again. Would have been quite exciting but for the fact we were pretty much stopped at traffic lights at the time. As it was I just looked like a guy who couldn't ride in a shiny and unflattering helmet.
When I got off the bike outside my house, my legs buckled beneath me, and I fell over trying to walk down the two steps from our hall to our living room - lunging forward and grabbing hold of the armchair to stop myself looking like Tom Cruise in Born on the Fourth of July. I was a bit shocked at just how emaciated my leg muscles obviously were - until Scot pointed out I had ridden the whole way back in the hardest gear. Guess that actually means I'm hard as nails....
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