You’re on the club-run. Rolling steadily over and off. The tempo is good. No-one misses their turn. It’s a sunny Sunday morning and all is good with the world. As the late morning sun cranks up it’s temperature, so too do you, as the miles melt away. You’re a seasoned cyclist now, so you know the pitfalls of dehydration. Conscientiously, you’ve been taking in those regular 6oz gulps of fluid advocated by your chosen training manual. Suddenly, as the pace quickens, you’re struck by that intolerable, tormenting, prickling, sensation in the loins. Like an internal car-alarm, it irritates you while, at the same time, panics you. Damn it, it’s ten miles to the coffee stop and you need a ‘Natural Break’! What to do?
Thinking now, you consider your options. I’ll ride off the front, stop up the road and….no can’t do that we’re flying as it is, I would never get enough distance before the group catches up with me. I know, I’ll just let it go on the move like they do on the Tour…..forget it, that’s to awkward. Ok, I’ll just shout up that I am stopping, the guys will wait….not bloody likely! Only thing to do then, hold it in until the café. Nine miles, eight miles, seven miles, suffer! Six miles, five miles, four miles, suffer-panic! Three miles, two miles, one mile, suffer-panic-agony! Then, at last, the café!
Casually. you set bike against wall, suffer-panic-agony-grimace! Enter café and clip up the tiled floor with an air of cool dignity, suffer-panic-agony-grimace-scream inwardly! Nearing the gents now, suffer-panic-agony-grimace-scream inwardly-strange feeling of relief! Reaching for the handle and….oh no! Red for ‘Engaged’! Suffer-dance-suffer-dance-panic-dance-agony-dance! Then oh, thank god! The hand dryer whirrs and the door opens, suffer-panic-suffer. Step in quickly. Fumbling with bib-shorts, bloody bib-shorts, panic-suffer-panic. Where is it, where is it, panic-panic-panic? Got it, relief-relief-relief-relief and, for a man of my age, yet again relieeeeeef! Then it’s shake-shake-dribble-dribble and again, shake-shake-dribble-dribble and, wait a moment, yes definitely finished. Then replace in bib-shorts, those bloody bib-shorts. Wash and dry hands walk casually back up the café floor through the Sunday lunch-time customers, busy place now.
Through the crowded tables now, customers seated at crotch-level. Toward the window you walk, relaxed now, the warm sun bathing you in light and, oh no! What’s this, dribble-dribble! Damn it, a ‘Rogue Dribble’! Affronted, the glistening, gleaming, sun-lit patch spreads slowly like some, obvious, insidious oil-slick. Oh my god, what to do???