Back when tigers smoked*, this week kicked off with a jolly alongside the Phantom. We cycled a gravel circuit, weaving through the local lanes and off-road trails with all the zeal of explorers searching for lost treasure. Incredulously, the Woods of Doom let us pass without incident—a rare stroke of luck, since last time there were more dramas than East-Enders on Christmas Day. The only excitement came courtesy of Phantom’s rear tubeless tyre, which decided to spit out a gob of Stan’s fluid like an annoyed llama. The tyre sealed itself… eventually. Phantom, with his new plug obsession, insisting he would plug it later. The weather behaved nicely for the time of year, and I hope for more of the same.
After the outdoor escapade, next ride was all indoors and in my bike-room on Zwift. The session demanded a spell at threshold, then a dip below (thankfully not over), and so on, repeated until my legs felt like cooked spaghetti. No matter how much I tried, my calves were obstinately sluggish, and the following day they ached as though I’d run the London Marathon in clown shoes. Even my Garmin app got involved, gleefully informing me that my VO2 max had dropped back down to 48. Typical.
Midweek arrived with a wallop of work stress and zero exercise. Calves still grumbling, so I did the only rational thing: consoled myself with chips and chocolate—practically health food in these circumstances.
Thursday saw a return to Zwift for some seated sprints—an easier session until I powered down hard and the chain snapped like the tension at a family reunion. Luckily, I had a spare chain handy for just such emergencies and was soon back in business. My Zwift set-up now masquerades as a single-speed thanks to the hub, so I found myself pondering: what chain suits such a machine? The wisdom of Google and my own curiosity led me to the answer—a trusty 8-12 speed number from Shimano or KMC (go with HG53 or HG40 models) and regular attention with wipe and wax lube every 20 hours ought to keep the chain singing quietly and happily.
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| Kim |
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| My dear mother |
Motivation on Friday sank to the bottom of the barrel. Not a single workout logged, unless one counts getting into bed at the earliest socially acceptable hour. It was Kim’s and Ma’s birthday, but I couldn't get hold of them, so good reason to take it easy.
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| Painting in the underpass |
Zwift session later was much kinder, endurance-focused and mercifully free of snapped chains or pedal-pounding agony. Top wattage sat at a lazy 230, so I didn’t need to empty the tank. In hindsight perhaps a smidgen more effort at ParkRun would’ve been good, but considering recent mechanical mishaps it felt wise to keep mechanical drama to a minimum.
It was a packed Saturday overall. After all the running and cycling, I took Ernie for a windswept stroll over Upper-Downey, which felt a lot like walking through an industrial fan.
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| L-R: Z, mama Petra, Roxy, Carmel, Aruna, Pam, Kerry, Adrian, Carl and Doo |
Saturday evening was spent at a birthday bash (with my kids and wife), celebrating Carmel and Declan’s 60th. Many moons ago, I worked with Carmel in a frantic home treatment and crisis team deep in the heart of Birmingham. Those were golden days and tonight many of the old crew turned up, turning back the clock—at least in spirit if not in knees.
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| My beautiful girls |
The week wrapped up with a final walk with Ernie and a last Zwift workout. High cadence was the name of the game, legs whirring faster than my favourite vinyl. I did allow myself a bit of satisfaction admiring the virtual Zipp 858 wheelset I splashed out for—in Zwift at least, dreams are achievable (and much less expensive than the real thing).
(*In Korean folktales, "back when tigers smoked" is a playful way of saying "a very, very long time ago"—the equivalent of "once upon a time" in Western stories. The classic phrase in Korean is 호랑이 담배 피우던 시절에)
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