The feeling is borne out of a routine which was established in my student days back in the early to mid 1980's when the middle of the week was dedicated to skivving off from lectures and general studying for the pursuit of cycling.
I was at Polytechnic in Nottingham and on a misty early spring or balmy summer morning a full day on the bike saw a group of us getting well into the Peak District above Sheffield, into the depths of Derbyshire, south to Loughborough and Burton on Trent and all points of the compass. We thought nothing of covering 150 miles and more at a cracking pace, only stopping to have a tart in Bakewell or a cuppa in Ashbourne.
A wednesday was to be greatly anticipated and enjoyed especially when a certain level of fitness meant that it was really not a lot of effort. The days after and leading up to the next wednesday just dragged on, what with trying to get an education and survive on a meagre student grant.
I often think back to that time now when my midweek work diary is full and there is just no opportunity to get the bike out and just ride.
As it is I only really get an opportunity to cycle on a saturday and if recovered sufficiently on a sunday as well but there are many pressures and demands on my time and energy that inevitably prevent any two wheeled activity. Four hours a week is just not enough to develop any fitness or cardio-vascular benefits and so I just get even more frustrated and restless.
I have however done something about it this week, specifically on the wednesday just passed.
It was a premeditated rather than an impulsive act as I engineered my appointments so as to leave a gap of about 3 hours from 11am to 2pm when I could just disappear from the radar of my work colleagues and business partners without them being concerned for my safety or whereabouts or tempted to contact me with another job.
The weather, a bit iffy over previous days, was bright and dry but as I drove back to the house after my first appointment a few of the St George's flags flying on forecourt flagpoles were flapping to indicate a stiff westerly wind which detracted from the otherwise ideal conditions.
I was genuinely excited by the prospect of a wednesday skive as I could not really recall when I had last dared to abscond from my responsibilities in such a way.
Kitted out in my winter gear and accompanied by my son we set off on the course of the old Hornsea railway line which took us across the city centre behind the terraced houses, urban schools, industrial areas and wastelands until reaching the outer estates and then the open fields of rural East Yorkshire.
The first six miles or so are on red tarmac, reasonably smooth and well drained apart from a few sections where shallow tree roots have burrowed close to the surface making for a very bumpy and uncomfortable ride even with mountain bike suspension.
After crossing a busy main road at the remains of the old Coniston platform the track is just cinders, mud and a few patched potholes and after some rain in preceeding days it made for a great muddy mess.
Ten miles of it meant that upon our arrival on the Promenade at Hornsea on the East Coast both of us were speckled with mud over faces, exposed skin and heavily soiled on jackets, leggings and footwear.
The proprietor of the seafront cafe, bucket and spade emporium where I bought two steaming hot coffees offered me an old dishcloth to wipe away globules of mud caked onto my cheeks and nose as evidently my appearance was a bit disturbing to his other customers.
It was chilly on the sea wall where we sat and warmed ourselves up with the weak instant coffee before setting back for Hull.
The westerly bit into us as soon as we resumed the track. It was going to be a tough ride for the next hour and a half. There was more mud and glory on offer but rather than dodge around the larger mucky puddles we were past caring and just ploughed through raising a small bow wave, mini tsunami and vaporised cloud.
I sat behind my son for most of the ride whose strong pedalling was cutting through the wind and afforded me a bit of shelter to conserve my fast dwindling energy levels.
I was glad to just sit and wait for the traffic lights at the last main road crossing point for a few moments and even happier to pull up to the house having completed my challenge for that wednesday.
It was now a case of going back to work and I had twenty minutes to reach my 2,30 appointment just on the other side of the city centre. I scrubbed up well, or so I thought, and apart from a glowing red face and tousled fringe I felt that there were no real outward signs of my exertion over the previous hours.
During my inspection of the property at half past two I was conscious of the homeowner, a middle aged lady, staring at me as I worked. I put this down to her anxieties of having someone snoop around her house but she persisted in paying close attention to my every move. I thought it was a bit strange and not a bit creepy but all was made clear when I climbed back, a bit stiff legged, into the car and caught a glimpse of myself in the rear view mirror.
Although I had washed my face to remove the railway mud pack I had omitted to do the same to my ears and sticking out from my cycle helmet they had received the brunt of the churned and thrown up mud. They were filthy and I could appreciate the intense interest of the lady in such an anomaly in a supposed professional person. I felt very embarrassed indeed and dashed home to clean up properly.
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