Just back from four days in the Alps, ski-ing with a testosterone-fuelled Dads' Army from my youngest son's school. It revealed one unfortunate truth -- despite all the miles of pedalling, my legs aren't quite as strong as I hoped they were. At least one flat out, top-to-bottom run had my thighs screaming for mercy long before the final turn.
We spent one day gloriously off-piste, far away from the crowds and the lifts but some of the time we were faced with one of the great hazards of modern ski-ing -- high-speed motorway madness. It was like London rush-hour with rubbish brakes, and at the end of the first day I went and bought a -- rather cool -- Giro helmet to ease my shredded nerves.
Back to work today and the madness of the real London rush hour. I pulled up to the lights in Sloane Square and a black cab driver rolled down his side window to speak to me. I feared the worst, but his intentions were good.
"Watch out for the bloke behind," he said "He's on the 'phone and not looking where he's going -- nearly had a cyclist off back there".
I thanked him and pointed out that, in the past twenty minutes, I'd seen three people texting as they drove along. We grumbled together about the deteriorating standards of London driving for a couple of minutes until the lights changed.
Need to get training again soon. Ski-ing's alright -- but you don't get big legs sitting at a computer.
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