All through this hour…

Lord be my guide and by thy power, no foot shall slide.  That’s an exert from Psalm 37 and is the words to the chimes of Big Ben.  Yes people, did you know that on the 31st May 1859 Big Ben started chiming hourly across old London town.  For those of you who haven’t been to London or are not a horologist or maybe a chronomentrophobic. Big Ben is that ruddy great big clock on the side of the Houses of Parliament in Westminster London.

To be more specific, Big Ben is the nickname for the Great Bell located at the top of a 320 feet high clock tower known as The Elizabeth Tower, but everyone calls it Big Ben.  The Great Bell weighs 13.8 tonnes, cast in 1858 by Whitechapel Bell Foundry and is tuned to a pitch of A.  But he is not alone. There are four quarter bells tuned to the pitch of G#, F#, E and B, all cast in 1857 by John Warner & Sons.  The carillon of bells (collective noun for bells by the way) strikes on the quarter-hour and of course on the hour Big Ben does his thing.

For those who are still with me, a brief interlude for some interesting facts about Big Ben. The first stroke of the hour should be correct to within one second of Greenwich Mean Time.  So at midnight, the first of the twelve-hour bells signifies the hour. As an example, on New Year’s Eve as we enter into a brand new year and break into song with Auld Lang Syne, its Big Ben first chime that starts the party.  Secondly, on Remembrance Day the chimes of Big Ben strike to mark the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, Lest we forget.

Big Ben is one of London must-see tourist attractions. Now in the time it took me to cycle the Mail Run. You could have done not only a tour of Houses of Parliament in Westminster but The London Eye on the bank of the Thames. Then The Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace.  Then a very scary Jack the Ripper walk, finishing off with a cheeky pint in his local boozer, The Ten Bells. Pure genius my global audience and I THANK YOU

So to the ride and the whole point of this blog as the entertainment factor and the roller coaster ride I call supporting QPR are just added extras. It is about the 1000ks of cycling I will be doing in September to raise valuable funds for kids battling cancer.  With that, the Mail Run or as I now refer to it as the only ride I suffer agonising leg cramps whilst tackling a full-on headwind, which is not much feckin fun.

To recap the last Mailrun back in 2019, I cycled 101ks and it took me just over 4 hrs and 13 mins at an average speed of 24ks an hour.  As it was my first time, I thought I did pretty well and only suffered slight cramps in my calves with 6ks to go.  So not bad, a justified pat on the back and a round of applause from all as I passed the finish line.  With my first qualifier under my belt and with a smile on my face, I tucked in a traditional Aussie sausage sanga and a can of Coke.  Please be aware there are other soft drinks available on the market, and I received no sponsorship for drinking Coke or mentioning it in my podcast.

What a difference twenty-four months make for feck’s sake. This year was a feckin nightmare and one I feckin well intend to share with you feckin lot my global audience and twenty-one followers.  This story starts on Saturday or the day before the Mail Run, where I had to transport the carbon fibre stallion to Singleton the starting point for this famous charity cycle ride.  I convinced the Minister for War and Finance that it was imperative that I spend $666 (spooky, is that Tubular Bells I hear?) on a roof rack and bike carrier. Well, convinced is probably not the correct adjective, more like I wear the trousers around here, I just went out a bought it and sod the consequences.  Buying something is easy. Fitting it is a whole other story.  First things first, ditch the instructions and go straight to the car roof.  Six feckin hours later, the rack is on and ready for testing, which uncovered my first real-life problem.

Being in my early fifties with a slightly disproportionate midriff – slightly being the adverb of choice in my humble opinion.  Another noticeable trait of my stature is being 5ft 4in which has not hindered me in any shape or form until now.  I needed a stool to get the feckin carbon fibre stallion into the bike rack, but in true MacGyver fashion, I parked the car on the road and used the extra height the kerb gave me to station my trusty steed.  With my work done for the day, I return to the comfort of the living room to watch the mighty Newcastle Knights on the telly and loaded up with carbs ready for the Mail Run.

I awaken to the sound of my alarm, then realised it is 5 in the feckin AM. Who in their right mind would be up at this time apart from the milkman and feckin burglars.  Anyway, it felt like Christmas morning as I start getting ready by slapping on a handful of chamois cream or as I like to call it, Australian Essential Cycling Oils on the old orchestral stalls in preparation for my cycling challenge (getting bored with mentioning the Mail Run).  With the bags packed, I load the car and set off for Singleton.  I arrive and the place is buzzing at 7AM (fellow weirdos) anyway I get changed and register, and it is only 7:15 as I queue with the 100k riders – or so I thought.  The commentator informs us that the 65k riders will be away at 7:30 – you feckin WHAT. Where are all the like-minded 100k riders? Well, they all feckin started at 7 o’clock.  So off I go on me jack jones (rhyming cockney slang for alone) with no other riders insight, which was the case for about 30k when I saw all my fellow 100k riders cycling in the opposite direction.  The theme of cycling in the opposite direction to everyone else was the case for the entire feckin ride by the way, the whole feckin ride.

Now that I have set a context or theme so to speak for the ride let me talk you through the feckin pain I experienced – which I liken to childbirth going by what the wife tells me.  Only joking ladies, only joking is was worst.  I’m going uphill and I feel a twinge in my left thigh, which quickly gets worst until I can not bend my leg.  I can hear Bear Grylls telling me not to stop or your fecked, but I do not heed the words of a non cycling celebrity and unclipped my left leg from the Carbon Fibre Stallion.  With cat-like reflexes, I unclip my other leg just in time.  For feck’s sake, I have never felt pain like it as both my legs lock up.  So I’m standing there in excruciating pain when these two, what can only be described as pensioners, stop to ask whether I’m OK.  Two things. What the feck are two older men doing just behind me and the other. What a feckin question to ask someone howling like a banshee and walking like a zombie on a grass verge for feck’s sake.  Not deterred by my incessant screaming, they asked if I have any salt tablets.  My reply NO.  Well, the youngest at about 70 returned, here’s 2, and commented by the time you walk your bike to the top of the hill, you’ll be right POME.

I did as the grey-haired smiling cyclist instructed as they had got as far as my good self, but without the pain and tears. In fact, they were both smiling as they meandered their way through the Singleton countryside.  Swallowing my pride just after the salt tablets, I carried on in my endeavour as giving up was not an option, mainly because there was no other fecker around for miles.  Then it came into sight. The crest of the last hill before the 25k home straight but more importantly its as flat as a pancake my global audience.  Then a sight that struck fear into my weary legs, the trees were waving at me.  No, the salt tablets were not laced with LSD, but in the two-wheeled fraternity, this can only mean one thing, a feckin headwind.

Short interlude for some gratuitous advertising – AGAIN

So that I don’t have to go into graphic detail about the excruciating pain I am experiencing and to minimise the use of the adjective, feckin.  I will point out some memorable events from the last 25ks with a constant, relentless headwind.  The 2 grey-haired smiling cyclists increased to 5 as they overtook me.  A guy with what can only be described as severe back problems stopped to ask if I needed help. Out of pride, I said NO, so he carried on and became a dot on the horizon.  I did not find the sign halfway up the last hill funny as it had the phrase tell your legs to shut up as you have another 1.5ks incline to go – smart arse.  But there is a shining light my global audience, I did finish before 6 other riders.  Now they were Chinese and were doing something very Australian – having selfies taken beside unusual letterboxes.  This is true. Nearly all Australian farms try to outdo each other by creating a sculptural masterpiece in the form of a letterbox that resembles a kangaroo, a horse, a Muppet, dragons or a fat farmer.  Now the Mail Run has feckin loads of farms, so if this lot took selfies at every one, no wonder they were running late.

Fear not my global audience, I did not finish last, and the finish line held a culinary delight that could tempt a vegetarian to the dark side, a traditional Aussie sausage sanga and a can of Coke. By the time I finished, there was no queue which was a bonus but the sausage destined for my sanga did look a unwanted but covered in onions and tommy sauce, it tasted fan-feckin-tastic washed down with a Coke (again there are other brands of soft drinks available on the market).  So how did you do, I hear you ask. Well, it took me 4 hrs and 58 mins at an average speed of 20ks an hour.

Stop feckin laughing as it is not about how fast you complete the Mail Run but the taking part and raising valuable money for charity.  With that, I bid you farewell for another month.  Be safe people, social distance as it saves lives, respect our front liners, get the jab when it’s offered to you and for pity sake, look after the oldies – SAVVY

Here is 4 hrs 58 mins of excruciating pain, my global audience as I give you this year Mail Run