Who gave us pride followed by a fall, come on identify yourself. Come up here now; tell us again why you make fools of us and why particularly, you delight in poking fun at fat middle-aged fuckers who should know better then to buy a second bike. Vanity gets me every time, especially in Summer, and when the nice bottoms who play Tennis at Wimbledon go home, le Tour arrives with a swagger, kingfisher brilliant colours, flashing white teeth and lean muscled thighs. It’s the sprinting, the gut busting, teeth clenching, crowd encroaching, bike falling, climaxing sprint, and then the healthy calvita cheesy girls with flowers and garlands for the victor. Oh the sexiness of the thing makes me forget about my second-row legs and bad back, and I want to be there, doing it, giving it my all for the girls with the flowers and the garlands, holding the bouquet aloft with special bike racer sexy sun-glasses sitting on sweat drenched hair. So what if I’m seventeen stone, stiff in the wrong places and grumpy? I can do this shit, I can cycle a hundred miles in four hours, no fucking problem.
And now, I can’t get away from her, she’s there every time, leaning seductively against the shed wall, flashing me her gears, her lithe and winsome frame goading me while I’m getting the lawnmower or the 3-in-one oil. Always there, waiting , staring, burning dark holes deep into my arthritic back, reminding me of my fucking vanity, reminding me that I‘d dreamed of possessing her, of riding her hard all along the dock road to the Glin watchtower, and back again on a lusty craven Saturday morning. You see, I’d developed a two bike habit, I craved a faster leaner machine and she lured me when I was still innocent in the pursuit of happiness, but on another more mature mare of a mountain bike. But I wanted speed, needed speed, I wanted excitement and the first time I saw her sumptuous curved handle bars, I caved.
So, the bike winks at me every time I pass and whispers throatily how she’s still available, still ready, stills wants me on her, wrapping my thighs around her tight little saddle, thrusting and pumping and taking her to heights never reached before. And like the harlot she most definitively is, she smiles indulgently and stretches her full length across the shed wall when I shift her to get the watering can. She pouts up at me, goading me knowingly, knowing that I can never ride here again cause she’s just too damm fast for me, the bitch,