Elvis is alive (and cycling)

I’m not sure if Elvis ever rode a bike. I doubt it. That rhinestone encrusted, skin tight, jumpsuit would not have permitted him to swing his leg over the cross bar without causing some permanent damage. And those platform boots would have been murder on a set of clip in pedals. Infact, I’m not sure there would be any rock star, worth their salt who would have enjoyed spending time on the humble velocipede, it doesn’t exactly fit in with the 'rock 'n roll' lifestyle after all…

Winter is a difficult time to be out on the bike.  You hardly see the daylight during the week, so getting outside is tough, if you work during the day. Although a cold crisp winter day on the bike can be a joyus thing. However excess crispness brings ice. There is only one weather that you can’t cope with on a bike and that’s ice. There’s not much grip on two slick road tyres barely the width of your thumb at the best of times and precious little protection afforded by a millimetre of lycra, from either the cold or a tumble.

Thus, the winter nights are spent squeezing out miles on the turbo trainer, or to give her pet name -the Vomitron.  For those who don’t know, the turbo trainer is basically a hamster wheel for bikes and it might be the most effective instrument of torture yet devised by man. Forget water boarding, listening to Phil Collins or Chinese burns, the Vomitron is premier league torture. Had the Spanish inquisition been in possession of the vomitron I doubt there would have been any dissention against Catholicism for a thousand years. Richard Dawkins would still be saying the rosary and be thankful for it.

Thumb screws have nothing on you, my sweet little Vomy.

It is not much to look at - just a small fly wheel on a sturdy tripod. There are no hills when you're on the turbo, no wind to batter and retard your progress and no rain to soak you. But it is everything that is bad about cycling and nothing that is good. There is no changing scenery to engage your mind and distract you from the pain, no moving air to cool you. Its just you, pools of sweat and your discomfort. The thought that there is always a tub of chocolate digestives just three steps away, the couch calling sweetly like a Siren to a sailor in a tempest and NOBODY WILL KNOW IF YOU QUIT! I fucking hate the turbo (sorry for the invective Mum, but I really really f****** hate the turbo).

It’s just you and your tunes trying to distract you from the pain and a towel stopping you drowning in your own sweat. Jackie Wilson implores me to go higher than I've ever gone before; Paul Simon spins me a yarn about his back garden and a wee boy called Julio; Me, Gladys Knight and her Pips take a Midnight Train to Georgia. And Elvis. Good old Elvis and his Swinging Little Geetar Man.

So I don’t know for certain if Elvis ever rode a velocipede in life, but he tolerates only action and no conversation on the vomitron and he and his suspicious eyes are with me nightly, telling me that Vomy and I can't go on together.
Oh yeah, me and Elvis cycle together every night.
In spirit at least.

Uh huh huh.

From Glasgow

N

Sweat stained mat, soaking towel, water bottle and Elvis on the tranny. Welcome to my pain cave.