Pain and Humiliation

At least once a week, I drive to a nondescript house in suburban South London, take off my clothes and pay an attractive young woman to inflict pain and humiliation on me.

In case you think this is some Max Mosely-style middle-aged sordidness, I should point out that these are visits to my osteopath -- a whippet-thin, sub-3.30 marathon runner with astonishingly strong hands and an ability to find the part which hurts the most and concentrate all her efforts on it, which suggests the CIA may have missed a trick by not recruiting her for Guantanamo duty.

I'm being treated for what I claim is a ski-ing injury to my shoulder, and what she says is the inevitable result of 20 years of poor posture, insufficient stretching and general laziness.  Did I mention the humiliation?

I've written before about how  pro-cyclists exist on the fine line dividing superfit athletes and physical wrecks.  Even rank amateurs like me suffer for our sport -- overdeveloped calves and thighs, poor core strength and useless upper bodies.

There's an old bloke I sometimes see out on the road -- well into his seventies -- who has an impressive on-bike position over the drop bars of his modern carbon machine.  Unfortunately, he maintains almost exactly the same position -- hunched forward, flat back and crouched legs-- when he gets off and walks into the cafe.  Clearly his spine gave up on standing straight a few years ago.  I have seen my future.

My own personal Ole Kaare Foli has so far not banned me from riding my bike. But she has insisted that I take regular breaks while riding to perform swivelling shoulder movements and dangle my right-arm loosely at my side like a chimp.

So if you see someone riding a red Casati round Richmond Park looking like Tarzan's Cheetah, give me a break. I need all the support I can get.