RIDE no :: 142
Sat 12th Apr Stansted Station
Hares:: Lurcher & Doghouse
I arrived at Cambridge on time to be met by Struth looking extremely well considering how long she had been waiting for the sun to shine. Sadly this had not rubbed off on Crabbo in his designer un-ironed strides. The other six waiting for the train to Stansted seemed pleased to see me but this may have had something to do with the fact all Eastern Region trains appeared to be in the siding we wished to use and they were bored. La di Da is suffering from Sars and insists it wasn’t Friday night.
Eventually after various phone calls to the pack at my expense they succeed in leaving without us even though the ride was to start at 11.14 not 11.00 and we were on the 11.28. Confused? So was I with no immediate refreshment stop in sight.
Maybe the pack were not interested in their illustrious leader or the sun was too much. The Secret Seven were now left to chase the pack, falling for the obvious incorrectly marked trail out of town. We were close but managed to lose the scent as Mummies Boy was seen coming the other way; it seems he is fatter than me having a fatigued frame to prove it. I wonder if mum does arc welding as well?
Onward we careered but what of Crabbo? Attentively shepherding Struth or his bad leg, and being romantic to boot. Some of us catch the Famous Five in front but what is this? Alistair not doing his own puncture repairs and roping in Umplebore to do something useful? Perhaps he and Checkpoint needed the breather as well having instigated the Great Escape from us earlier. Tongue Job looking on at his offspring and producing thorns of his own from punctures of yesteryear. I also take a rest and realise it is going to be another bad day with no other committee members present to coerce and cajole. Head Girl tells me where to get off when asked to do the ride report, which is why you now have to read all this crap. She does give me a kiss on meeting up though! No one appears to have a hip flask while we wait.
Boy what a bunch of misfits we are. Tom pedals backwards all morning to ensure his pedal comes off, Ron the foreigner thinks he’s ‘it’ blindly hurtling up unusable public footpaths thinking he’s useful and falling off when called back. We find we have a Fat Controller in the middle of nowhere when Joss faced with a millennium map 3 miles from the nearest village wants to know where the railway line marked close by in little ‘t’s is. Was he as tired and thirsty as me and in need of a lift to the pub? I became confused by a big R, a new one on me – ‘Regroup’ not ‘Refreshment’. Alex was obviously of the same mind and in true romantic style left her better half Andreas to get lost, even ordering her food and beer before attempting to rescue him; Doghouse politely pointing out he would happily go without his victuals whilst effecting rescue of said beast from Outer Mongolia. I feel the Bash is getting at me. No beer stops until lunch and only a couple of pints allowed before being forced to remount. Perhaps there would be a better route back past Greene Kings best? Thug thoughtfully providing seasonal sustenance in the form of a crème egg to keep me going, wrapper and all. Alas it was not to be, hurtling through Rotten Row and Patient End with out a pub in sight, was this a deliberate ploy of the hares? Yes it was! As the gods connived to ensure no ‘ON INN’ markings . With great presence of mind I rectified this, close to the station as well allowing an extra swift pint or two.
The circle proved interesting but not round, which idiot asked Struth to become temporary Tandem? Crabbo’s foot has now fallen off. La di Da learns ‘no talking in the circle’. The twin’s gag on coke it could have been worse. A prune juice or two!
Other misdemeanours being covered in depth including Kinky rigging the ‘Lerts’ voting and the best beer of the day for me after a long hard day in the saddle taken direct from the slop tray!
On!On!
MrBossy
Leave a Reply