...And before anyone gets excited, starts spreading salacious gossip or calling my mother, a bonk is the term (us) bike enthusiasts use for when you get tired and a bit shaky because blood sugar is low or you haven't drunk enough (water).
Woke up ready and raring to go.
Sun was out.
Weather was good.
Bike was geared up.
Small breakfast was eaten.
Route was straightforward.
Left the B and B with only 17 miles to go.
Cycled 12 miles, felt happy and full of beans.
Do you ever (or is this just me?) get struck by how brilliantly your body works? I mean, look at your hands, think about your legs, your eyes, your ears, your heart, your lungs, your skin. It's AMAZING! All the things we can do, can understand, can think, can create.
So, there was me whizzing along feeling thankful for having a body that works really well which means I can have all this fun on my bike when I got another puncture. Back wheel again...hmm.. curiouser and curiouser, said Alice.
Yesterday I bought a new inner tube and puncture kit, so I was armed (and dangerous?). Thing was, I didn't want to make a hole in my new inner tube if there was some glass still stuck in the tyre. Had a look inside and out, couldn't find anything, decided to just keep going with my (slow) puncture and to keep pumping it up every mile or so. Occupied myself with thoughts of getting a new tyre. Carried on.
It was then that I got my bonk. Thing was, I hadn't planned, or bought, anything for lunch, thinking that I'd get to my friends at a reasonable hour. So suddenly I went a bit wobbly, bit woozy, bit weak and pathetic. Stopped to pump up the tyre and ate some snack supplies of nuts and big, fat raisins.
That sorted me out. Bonk over. Slow puncture under control I pootled into Lichfield.
Friday 1 July 2011
Thursday 30 June 2011
Puncture too.
Yesterday I pumped out 40 miles, today it was 27, tomorrow I've only got 20 to sunny Lichfield.
Plan:
Something did happen - puncture.
This time, however, the road was pretty quiet and the helicopter folk didn't seem inclined to pull up (down?) and offer support. Puncture no 2, like no 1, was in the back wheel, it was also a small slit. Hmm. Suspicions raised I decided to investigate fully and, probing Kev(lar) found a wicked but tiny glass shard embedded in the tyre. I'm not actually sure if this is what caused the last puncture and if I'd been lugging it around, or if it was a new shard. It was really deeply embedded though, hard to find and needed pushing out with my Top Peak top tool. I finished filthy and perspiring, but with a fixed tyre and a rejected shard.
On a completely different note, B & Bs. If you want to get away and find cheap accommodation come to Staffordshire: £20 quid a night all in, get in! Not much else to say, no photos taken, no sights seen, no strange occurrences. Dim byd, de nada, de rien, zilch, chuff all, diddly squat.
Watching a programme on polar bears now, did you know they have 50% body fat and that polar bear milk contains 30% fat? (In contrast human milk has 4% fat and seals - P.B's favourite food - a whopping 60% fat.)
Their skin is black and their hair colourless. Well I never.
Wierdly, while the Inuit's diet consists mostly of seal, whale and polar bear meat and very few fruit and vegetables (in an isolated village shop one leek costs £3), despite this the average 70-year-old Inuit with a traditional diet has arteries as elastic as those of a 20-year-old Danish resident.
Well I never never.
Here endeth the lesson.
...Some time later...
Man on tv now squeezing polar bear poo from lower intestine into a tube to study the fat content.... Gillian Mckeith would have a field day!
Plan:
- Stay with friends this wkend
- Cycle to work near Bath, (140 ish miles)
- Start work next Friday
Something did happen - puncture.
This time, however, the road was pretty quiet and the helicopter folk didn't seem inclined to pull up (down?) and offer support. Puncture no 2, like no 1, was in the back wheel, it was also a small slit. Hmm. Suspicions raised I decided to investigate fully and, probing Kev(lar) found a wicked but tiny glass shard embedded in the tyre. I'm not actually sure if this is what caused the last puncture and if I'd been lugging it around, or if it was a new shard. It was really deeply embedded though, hard to find and needed pushing out with my Top Peak top tool. I finished filthy and perspiring, but with a fixed tyre and a rejected shard.
On a completely different note, B & Bs. If you want to get away and find cheap accommodation come to Staffordshire: £20 quid a night all in, get in! Not much else to say, no photos taken, no sights seen, no strange occurrences. Dim byd, de nada, de rien, zilch, chuff all, diddly squat.
Watching a programme on polar bears now, did you know they have 50% body fat and that polar bear milk contains 30% fat? (In contrast human milk has 4% fat and seals - P.B's favourite food - a whopping 60% fat.)
Their skin is black and their hair colourless. Well I never.
Wierdly, while the Inuit's diet consists mostly of seal, whale and polar bear meat and very few fruit and vegetables (in an isolated village shop one leek costs £3), despite this the average 70-year-old Inuit with a traditional diet has arteries as elastic as those of a 20-year-old Danish resident.
Well I never never.
Here endeth the lesson.
...Some time later...
Man on tv now squeezing polar bear poo from lower intestine into a tube to study the fat content.... Gillian Mckeith would have a field day!
Bored!
Wednesday 29th June 2011.
Cycled from Queensferry to Market Drayton. Didn't blog because I couldn't think of anything to write. Wasn't inspired by the farms or cows of Cheshire. Usually I occupy cycling time with ridiculous thoughts of stuff. Not today, think I bored myself.
Cycled from Queensferry to Market Drayton. Didn't blog because I couldn't think of anything to write. Wasn't inspired by the farms or cows of Cheshire. Usually I occupy cycling time with ridiculous thoughts of stuff. Not today, think I bored myself.
Park and Ride...
Rode to the local park last Friday (23rd) am from friend Nic's house where I spent the night.
Met Mum and the other dog walking park ladies. I'll let you into a little secret...if you want to know anything about anything...go to the park.... FBI, M15, Betty Turpin, they know nothing compared to the park ladies. Wanna know who's given birth, having an affair, dead, alive, unemployed? Go to the park. Thing is, you won't get any info by asking, oh no. There is (seriously) no gossip here. No, you just have to hang around. Maybe drop in a name or two, intimate you know all about 'that funny business' and out it comes!
Top quote came from Ann.
Ann: You know Mary?
All: Mary?
Ann: Yes, Mary. She died.
All: Which Mary?
Ann: She goes to bingo.
Pause.
Ann: You know her, she's got white hair.
Hmmm.
Not as good as the Father. Park Ladies are acquainted with an (Irish, Catholic) Father. What a lovely man. Shame my mother can't get his name right, she calls him Father Duvet, when his name is Father Divan but when did the Catholic Church let a few letters get in the way?
Anyway, Father Duvet came over for a chat, I'd never met him before I was on my bike and got introduced as the daughter.
'Oh', says Father (imagine Southern Irish accent) 'and ders you, with a nice fancy bike, all smart and shiny.'
I smiled and bored him with some shiny bike details.
Father: 'Knew a man once, he went off for a cycle, hadn't gone ten miles up the road there when he had a heart attack, he died, straight off. ....Where've you been today?'
Explained that I had just come from my friends, where I had spent a lovely social evening.
Father: I knew a man once, invited his friends over for the night. Said good night to them, shut the door, had an aneurism, was dead in two minutes flat. Aorta blew up like a balloon. Burst. Dead. How's that dog?'
Mother explains dog is well, thank you.
Father: 'Knew a dog one time in Mayo. Lovely dog, very friendly. When I saw him I'd always put my hand out, give him a stroke. Like this though, you know.' (indicates moving hand carefully with closed fist and back of hand towards dog's mouth). 'Man came up to him one day. Holds his hand out, but not careful like and what does the dog do? He bites him! Poor ole fella, they had him put down.'
Apart from that my week was spent catching up with friends, chilling out, doing stuff.
Met Mum and the other dog walking park ladies. I'll let you into a little secret...if you want to know anything about anything...go to the park.... FBI, M15, Betty Turpin, they know nothing compared to the park ladies. Wanna know who's given birth, having an affair, dead, alive, unemployed? Go to the park. Thing is, you won't get any info by asking, oh no. There is (seriously) no gossip here. No, you just have to hang around. Maybe drop in a name or two, intimate you know all about 'that funny business' and out it comes!
Top quote came from Ann.
Ann: You know Mary?
All: Mary?
Ann: Yes, Mary. She died.
All: Which Mary?
Ann: She goes to bingo.
Pause.
Ann: You know her, she's got white hair.
Hmmm.
Not as good as the Father. Park Ladies are acquainted with an (Irish, Catholic) Father. What a lovely man. Shame my mother can't get his name right, she calls him Father Duvet, when his name is Father Divan but when did the Catholic Church let a few letters get in the way?
Anyway, Father Duvet came over for a chat, I'd never met him before I was on my bike and got introduced as the daughter.
'Oh', says Father (imagine Southern Irish accent) 'and ders you, with a nice fancy bike, all smart and shiny.'
I smiled and bored him with some shiny bike details.
Father: 'Knew a man once, he went off for a cycle, hadn't gone ten miles up the road there when he had a heart attack, he died, straight off. ....Where've you been today?'
Explained that I had just come from my friends, where I had spent a lovely social evening.
Father: I knew a man once, invited his friends over for the night. Said good night to them, shut the door, had an aneurism, was dead in two minutes flat. Aorta blew up like a balloon. Burst. Dead. How's that dog?'
Mother explains dog is well, thank you.
Father: 'Knew a dog one time in Mayo. Lovely dog, very friendly. When I saw him I'd always put my hand out, give him a stroke. Like this though, you know.' (indicates moving hand carefully with closed fist and back of hand towards dog's mouth). 'Man came up to him one day. Holds his hand out, but not careful like and what does the dog do? He bites him! Poor ole fella, they had him put down.'
Apart from that my week was spent catching up with friends, chilling out, doing stuff.
Sunday 26 June 2011
Just look up...
Do you ever wonder what everyone else is up to in the world?
If Yes: Move your eyes up the page to the little line that says:
Share / Report abuse / Next blog' . . Click 'next blog'
Oh my goodness, there is a world of people and things to wonder at!
If No: Go back to bed.
If Yes: Move your eyes up the page to the little line that says:
Share / Report abuse / Next blog' . . Click 'next blog'
Oh my goodness, there is a world of people and things to wonder at!
If No: Go back to bed.
David Attenborough strikes....
As this is the Year Of The Holiday I have a few planned. In August I am going on a girly walking holiday with...well, some girlies. We have been having email chats with regards to how we are going to manage the cooking. This prompted some talk of inviting Jamie (Oliver) and Gordon (Ramsey) (Chefs famous in the UK) on the holiday so they can cook for us. The subject was under discussion when D (he who previously has laboured under the label of 'The Divine') bravely stepped into the feminine fold with the following offering:
You can do as female mantids do - have both the male AND the meal.
A male mantid attracted by a female, creeps up behind her and when close enough leaps onto her, secures a perfect grip on her body, and copulates. No courtship. He has behaved “appropriately” for a male mantid. Yet if a male doesn’t behave appropriately, he may incite trouble. Positioning is everything.
A male that approaches a female from the front may meet immediate death by decapitation. If he sneaks up behind her but is just a little off on his grip, the female might bite off his head and dine on her brainless suitor as he continues to pass sperm into her body. Sometimes the impetuous female partially eats the male before he even mounts her. In this case, the headless wonder swings his legs around until his body touches hers, climbs onto her back, and copulates as though nothing were amiss.
A male that approaches a female from the front may meet immediate death by decapitation. If he sneaks up behind her but is just a little off on his grip, the female might bite off his head and dine on her brainless suitor as he continues to pass sperm into her body. Sometimes the impetuous female partially eats the male before he even mounts her. In this case, the headless wonder swings his legs around until his body touches hers, climbs onto her back, and copulates as though nothing were amiss.
Headless sex? Yes it's true! Copulatory movements in mantids are controlled by masses of nerve tissue in the abdomen rather than the brain. Males of some mantid species mate MORE EFFECTIVELY when decapitated. That's because a nerve centre in the male’s head inhibits mating until a female is clasped. If this nerve is removed (such as when the female bites off the male’s head!) all control is lost and the result is repeated copulation.
Sometimes the female devours her mate under circumstances outside the male’s control. If the pair is disturbed and the temperamental female becomes frightened, her immediate reaction is to whip around, snatch the male’s head in her greedy mandibles, and gnaw it off. In some species, a female’s propensity to consume her mate is unrelated to the male’s behavior or outside disturbance. It’s simply part of the mating ritual. And because she's a cow.
Does this help with your decision whether to allow males into the kitchen?
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