Modern Cyclist Magazine Issue 3, November 2014 | Page 37

“If you meet it
promptly and
without flinching

– you will reduce
the danger
by half. Never
run away from
anything. Never!
- Winston Churchill”.
we really want to eat with a placebo
replica which doesn’t come close to the
real thing. We replace our food nirvana
existence with a Westworld replacement
only to find that it rarely measures up to the

real thing. And life takes on the consistency
of cardboard. Dull, dry and grey.
No. This is not the time to swap out
anything. Defence systems need to be

Any day is a
good day for
a Cow ride, I
suppose!

At 50 kilometres per
hour, the “fat boy
Friday” riders pace it
out.

Every morning and every night, as I brush
my teeth, the words glare at me from my
bathroom mirror.

adjusted to DEFCON 1. Buttons on the
dashboard are blinking red. Immediate
evasive action is required.
Write these words down with a bold black
marker and place them somewhere you
will see them every day. “If you meet it
promptly and without flinching – you will

reduce the danger by half. Never run away
from anything. Never! - Winston Churchill”.

Some good banking friends of mine take
to the Alps every year in their pursuit of
the endless summer. Their ruse is that it’s to
ride in the shadows of cycling legends. But
we all know the truth. It’s to fend off those
feisty grams that multiply in the stomach
linings during our winter’s lament. Riders
embrace extreme measures to avoid that
feeling of the gut resting on the top tube of
their Bianchi.
And so we take the Rocky Balboa snowy
road and set up bicycles in the man cave
working the pedals with the turbo trainer
whirring in disapproval. “Stop, you are
weak, go back to bed,” it complains.
Instead my brother and I focus on the
television in front of us. We’ve chosen ‘The

Sopranos’ to keep us company. Season
two. Tony Soprano is in a full frontal
monologue of fire and fury which is the

only way to accompany and survive the
4:30am wake-up call for the day’s hill
climbs and Tabata sprints.
The quads strain in disapproval. The
heartbeat rises in the throat. Sweat stains
the towel beneath the turbo trainer like
fluids leaking out of the latest victim of

a mob execution. This work needs to be
done. The flab will reside. The muscles

and resolve will strengthen. If we can
make it to the end of the series, possibly
Season 3, we may just convert ourselves
into competent riders and Fat Boy Friday
survivors. And when the race comes my
hopes are that we, riding alongside my
Alpine friends clad in their “I-scalpedAlp-D’Huez” cycling shirts, will not be
found wanting.

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