The last time I moved house, most of my belongings came with me -- on the back of my motorbike. The remainder -- a Colnago, three pairs of skis and an Amstrad PCW 9512 -- arrived in a borrowed estate car three days later.
This time -- moving house over the Easter weekend, it took a team of five Kiwis four days to load and unload two giant pantechnicons and our world now consists almost entirely of several hundred identical cardboard boxes.
In a link with the past, however, my Casati came separately -- ridden the half-mile between old and new.
We have moved into a rambling Gothic monstrosity which a colleague likened to something out of ScoobyDoo but the essentials of modern living -- broadband, digital TV, dishwasher etc., have slowly been reconnected.
Training opportunities have been limited, not helped by the unpredictable weather -- apart from one early morning blast down to Richmond Park. Half an hour rummaging in the boxes turned up wildly inappropriate summer shorts and jersey, but the addition of leg-warmers and an Assos climajet made it bearable.
Once again, it demonstrated cycling's ability to revive -- dare I say resurrect -- flagging body and spirit. Workmen are digging up Sawyer's Hill, so the long drag up to Richmond Gate has been reclaimed by cyclists and deer -- both safe from motorised oppression. A family of deer were standing in the middle of the road as I crested the hill; they looked -- startled -- in my direction then turned away, convinced that this slow-moving, bright blue creature was no threat.
Three laps then back to the boxes with a renewed vigour. Oh, and the Aga is great for drying damp riding gear.
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