Cycling

I cycle because I have a bike and it costs nothing to get from A to B. I don’t massively enjoy it or anything.

Having almost been run off the road earlier in the week as I rode home in the dark, balancing a light that barely worked on my handlebars, I didn’t think the week could get any worse, bike-wise.

I was wrong.

Today was a windy day and I enjoyed a brief break from the feeling of cycling on the spot to freewheel down a hill.

As I gathered speed, I noticed something was stuck to my front tyre. I stopped halfway up the next hill and saw it was a small twig.

I attempted to remove the offending article, but it wouldn’t budge. This is because a thorn far bigger than the twig to which it was attached was firmly embedded in the tyre.

It was like the wisdom tooth root of thorns. As I pulled it from the between the grips – yes, of course it had managed to sneak between them – it felt like it would never end. I stood by the roadside performing what must have looked to passing motorists like a magician’s Flags of All Nations trick.

I finally held the twig and megathorn aloft and declared “got you, you fucker!” before discarding it on to the cycle path so it could get me again on my way home.

The sense of achievement at having managed to remove it without the aid of powertools soon evaporated as I realised that it could have given me a puncture.

I squeezed the tyre and it felt ok, so I set off on my way once more.

When I arrived at work a little bit of air seemed to have gone from it, but I wasn’t too concerned.

Two hours later I checked again and it was as flat as a pancake that had been steamrollered repeatedly by an incredibly obese man.

I had my pump with me, so I wasn’t too worried about this either. It was obviously only a slow puncture, so I should be able to get home alright.

When I left work I inflated the tyre and set off. It clearly wasn’t in good shape.

Describing the puncture as “slow” was like describing Usain Bolt running the 100 metres in 10 seconds as “the speed of continental drift”.

I was wondering if I could somehow attach the pump and continuously inflate it as I rode home. The idea was quickly abandoned as ludicrous.

I could push it, but that would mean taking forty minutes to get home instead of fifteen and my hunger level was already at critical.

No, I decided I’d just ride home with a flat tyre, risking whatever the handlebar equivalent of vibration white finger is called.

Every corner I turned felt like I was cycling through a huge bowl of jelly, I could feel every minor bump in the road and I was conscious of the fact that I was probably tearing the inner tube to shreds as I did it.

The wind had thoughtfully changed direction from earlier and was blasting into my face just to make it even more challenging.

If only I had a puncture repair kit I could have knocked on a stranger’s door and asked if I could borrow a bowl of water.

Luckily the “I’ll be late. Got a puncture” text which I’d sent was to save me as a familiar-looking car approached and the driver flashed the headlights at me.

The bike was hastily shoved in the boot and I travelled home sitting on a seat that didn’t make it feel like I was being repeatedly punched in the sphincter.

I might skip the Tour de Yorkshire.