This morning, on my regular cycle to work, I was staring fixedly at the lights waiting for them to go green. As is often the case, a lycra-clad man on some sort of carbon-fibre, ultra-lightweight, slick-tyred, alloy- reinforced, ergonomically designed velocipede nudged awkwardly between me and the car I had pulled up alongside. However, in this particular instant, there was a difference… He was wearing a shirt with ‘WIGGINS’ on the back. And he had the sideburns.
Instantly, I was intrigued. Trying and failing to get a glimpse of his face as he had continued his progress to the front of all the traffic, I studied his physique. Unlike the usual podgy city-worker who tries to get one over everyone at 8.04 am, he looked in very good shape and like he might be able to actually maintain his position at the front of the queue. So, as soon as the lights did eventually go green, the quest was on. Was it actually Wiggo taking a morning ride? Had I been touched by greatness? Would I ever even be able to find out?
The gears revved, cars eased their way down Bayswater Road, pedestrians ambled unaware of the potential greatness that glided past them. Maintaining a safe distance and fully aware of my surrounding (as any good cyclist would), I willed myself close to this likely champion of the two-wheeled machine. How could I even hope to get near him if it really was the Tour de France winning Olympic champion of 2012? An impossible task lay ahead.
I caught him in about 5 seconds. True to form, not only his shirt but his bike and entire body had written a cheque his body just couldn’t cash.
Here was just another city boy on a two grand bike but with a two pound pair of legs (£1 each). What a shame… Oh well, maybe next time. And the moral of this tale you ask?
DON’T BLOODY PUSH TO THE FRONT IF YOU’RE THE SLOWEST FUCKING BASTARD IN TOWN YOU FLASH TWAT
I thank you.