A week passes by with my soul staying firmly attached to my body. My bike languishes in the yard at work, the 65 bus seeming a more attractive option to travel to and from my place of employment. On or around the tenth day I decide in true man fashion that the whole 'elastic soul' thing was an isolated incident, and make my mind up to straddle the saddle yet again. At the stroke of 16:00 hours i don my Italian racing costume, pack my sac, check my tyre pressures and off I go. Along the way I praise my decision as its a lovely day with the sun beating down on my helmet. Traffic is heavy, and I see my bus ahead stuck in the rush hour congestion.
As I cross Kew Bridge I'm conscious of two racing bikes tailgating me. Its not long until they 'slipstream' me, and so the race is on. These are serious guys on American machinery wearing jerseys and pants to match their steeds. No way are they getting the lead on Italy's finest, I have a whole racing tradition to uphold. About 500 yards from Richmond circus (strange one that 'circus'. There's no big top, no acrobats and no lion tamers. However, there are plenty of clowns, especially in rush hour. I digress, its not a circus, its a roundabout. Why do Londoners call them circuses?) I pass them flat out turning my head swiftly to take in their surprise. I break off triumphant.
A couple of minutes later I'm locking the bike up in the basement and tearing my ruck sac and cycling top off. Its hot, damned hot. I take the lift up to my apartment, put the key in the door, it opens, and I hit my hallway floor as if a sniper has just executed his contract. "Soul don't leave me now".
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