Shorter Tales of Headwinds, Queasy Guts and Crumbling Morale (and Flapjacks)

Cherished readers (both of you), fear not. My silence did not indicate a catastrophic derailment into inactivity or flapjack-based despair—though we did flirt briefly with both.

Since the triumphant London escapade, my training schedule has been less "relentless cycling machine" and more "man with good intentions and conflicting obligations." Thursday rides, once the crown jewel of weekly mileage, have been relegated to the background—collateral damage in the ongoing war against time, commitments, and pineapple juice.

Instead, I’ve cranked out two sub-30 milers and two longer efforts: one 49 miles, the other 66 miles of sheer discomfort disguised as a leisure activity.

The 66 miler, despite having every possible checkbox ticked for “pleasant spring ride,” was the least enjoyable experience since the sideways hail episode. The weather was bright, the birds chirped optimistically, and cyclists were out in droves—presumably all delaying their group ride coffee stops to catch the Tour of Flanders later. And yet, I felt off. Mildly nauseous. (Possibly due to the ill-advised ingestion of suspicious pineapple juice which had triggered the first suggestion of nausea the previous evening —procured on a whim by my better half, who does not have to digest said whims mid-ride.)

The discomfort held off long enough to lull me into a false sense of competence, only to return in full nauseating glory once I turned into the wind. Was it a virus? A fuelling mistake? A karmic punishment for mocking Powerade in the previous blog post? Hard to say. Nevertheless, I pushed through, channelling the spirit of a Victorian explorer who refuses to admit defeat despite being lost, starving, and slightly poisoned by something he found in a hedge.

Now, dear reader, allow me to update you on the Flapjack Saga (Vol. III: Dry Times Ahead).

My previously excellent recipe (see earlier scrolls) fell victim to the dreaded Oven Beeper Failure—a domestic tragedy of Shakespearean proportions. The flapjacks, though edible, were as dry as a bureaucrat’s smile and approximately twice as enjoyable to chew. Not one to shy from danger, I attempted a peanut butter variant, replacing half the butter with optimism. They, too, emerged dry. I can only assume the peanut butter absorbed all available moisture, joy, and hope from the batter. We now return, humbled, to v2.0. May it bless us with stickiness once again.

Cycling-wise, all is not lost. Despite the dip in long rides, I’ve still managed headwinds (which I now consider weight training for my soul) and personal bests on segments so old they were probably last attempted with rim brakes and naïve ambition. Encouraging? Possibly. Or a sign that I simply avoided them for years due to PTSD. Hard to say.

Anyway, the stars (and domestic scheduling) have aligned, and a long Thursday ride has been greenlit. Will it be a triumphant return to form, or will I once again face down a crosswind while digesting another underwhelming flapjack? Stay tuned. The answer may surprise you (but probably won’t).