Torn

It was dad's 60th this weekend and TSK's first 400 ride. Now dad's don't turn 60 every day and TSKs can choose their 400s so I spent the weekend in Manchester whilst TSK spent the weekend in Hull riding round in a significantly large figure of 8.

In the bar at night on Daddy's birthday we all toasted the absent TSK and wished he were there and poondered sending him a text but the walls on the Swettenham Arms are too thick and it's the end of a dead-end cheshire lane and phones of the mobile variety don't work there.

At midnight I texted from home to tell him to text me any time of the night and I would spurr him on. I promptly fell asleep, deeply, for the next 8 hours to find out that I missed the crux 5am call to say he was exhausted and heading for base. I felt bad and worried that he might need picking up. Reassured by a phonecall, I went out for a ride with Daddy to stretch our pre-3-Peaks muscles.

The entry form for the 3 Peaks was posted on t'interweb on 1st July. Last year the event was cancelled and all riders who entered last year were automatically registered this year except for 20-or-so who asked for their money back. So this year, competition for places is hot. On 30th June I sat by my computer at 11pm, debating whether to leave it on for another hour to complete my form and post it straight away. I suspected that entries would be by post only so there really was no need for me to fill in the form at midnight, or to lie awake till about 3 am worrying that I was sleeping whilst everyone else was getting their 3 Peaks places. At 5:30am, the 'pooter was switched on and at 7:30, the form went in the postbox. As with anything vital, I had run out of cheques and TSK had to stump up.

Now the interminable waiting. Entries are closed, the race is full. In 3 days time (or-so) I will discover my fate and a new bike, all the training and forsaking coffee and alcohol for the next three months will all become worthwhile.

The waiting, I think, is worse than the race itself.