Soggy bottoms

Ya wouldn't want to get your hopes up these days. The forecast on TV seems to have bad news even when its good news. Any chance of sun is laughed off as though we are stupid for getting our hopes up. 9.30 every evening I see more isobars than before, the lows seem to have lows and if I see more fronts I'll think I've woken up at Spring break in Miami. My opportunities for escape [sorry, I mean windows for training] are tighter than Cavendish's stem bolts and whatever the weather is firing down I have to get out. Use it or lose it. Train or go insane. Athlete or fatlete. But this time-management nonsense needs planning. My house is a combination of a Fire Station and Wallace and Grommit's "The Wrong Trousers". Five minutes from work I'm in the door. The bike is ready from 7A.M. with a full bidon, kit is waiting turned right-side out and ready to put on. Puncture canister, gel and glasses are all in the helmet in the bag, beside the shoes. Shut the door, turn on Nespresso, dress, wheel bike to door, drink espresso, instantly stoked and gone down the road. And today was no different. Muck, leaves, wind, rain. How I love being Belgian. Well, I must be, revelling in what most people think is a sh**e day. Up to the Sky-road through farmyards, scutter, clay, branches and silence. I wouldn't change it for anything. Except that the sun came out as I returned over by Listerlin and I'm sure I heard a laugh, or a scoff coming from the fading, low-lying clouds. But I don't have the luxury of waiting for the better part of the day as Tony Ryan once did. Gotta make do. An 80km/h descent off the BallyMartin ridge in the rain isn't as cool as the dry but it still rocks. Sliding on off-camber bends is a seasonal bonus, Moorhens and gurgling water a better soundtrack than sticky tar. Each to their own. And hosing the bike white again, filling the washing machine with some of the days labour and some farmer's soil is cathartic. Shower faster than a Gypsy's card trick and back in work on time, blood flowing, stronger, faster, smarter. Of course that all sounds like a Bollywood production...perfect choreography, colour, smoothness and a little magic. What actually happens is a discombobulated clusterf**k of mayhem behind closed doors. CCTV would reveal a struggling idiot fighting with every sleeve, leg, ratchet and piece of Velcro until he resembles a lycra-clad tumbleweed rolling towards and out through the front door and down the hill. My bottle probably empty, chain a forgotten amalgam of ginger rust, odd socks or inside outs, time already running so low I may as well just return to the house and hose the bike already. Who needs an espresso when your heart rate is already 185 from the lunatic escape routine you just performed while getting your Velotoze wrong again? Seriously, if my neighbours only knew! Although they might,considering I live in a semi-detached and I regularly curse the world and it's mother in a high-pitched whine while desperately trying to dress myself mimicking a break-dancer. Ah yes,I look good out there, flick through town like the local pro, giving off the vibes of a winner. Just look closer and you'll see a chamois on in reverse, left overshoe on right foot and you'll hear a squeeking chain and the wheeze of an old, overwhelmed git on borrowed time....