It’s amazing what one hundred and twenty eight cold and dark kilometres can do to someone. I’ve been transformed from a lucid, over-ambitious adventurer to a shivering, scared and superstitious wreck. Sure, my lack of fitness after my surgery played some part, but it was the demoralising darkness that did me in.
As I didn’t get a ticket to the summer ball, I planned something characteristically audacious. Instead of a quiet night in, my very own LBL. Two hundred and thirty kilometres.
I made it to Croydon before turning round. My knee was sore, but mostly it was the unending abyss of the unlit country lanes that faced me. The ride back consisted of chatting to drunks, swearing and a judicious pit-stop at McDonald’s.
I have definitely not learned my lesson.