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Sadventure Completed #54: Recycling Shakespeare...

Updated: Feb 13, 2020

I've got a pedal bike. It's at the back of one my sheds. I was meant to sell it on Fleabay when I did my declutter Sadventure because I didn't use her, and I've got Fierce Fanny. Alas, I didn't. Fortunate too because last night I was instructed to cycle to Stratford upon Avon.


As if my dodgy knee and my torn back muscles weren't enough, I'm now to get undercarriage strain...




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I bought this dammed pedal bike back when I was having a pre-peri-menopausal moment of madness. It only lasted a few weeks before middle-aged exhaustion kicked in. Unfortunately, I have kept the bike because one of the signs of impeding menopause is the 'brain fog' that comes with it. My brain fog had completely obliterated just how damned awful bike-riding is. Thankfully, vanity has always prevented me from purchasing any psychedelic Lycra.


I set off from home and before I'd even got to the end of my road, a distance of no more than probably, possibly, maybe 100m at a push, I'd already realised that the 'gel seat' had cut off circulation to my nether-regions. I think the gel has set into concrete in recent winters.


By the time I'd hyperventilated up the first incline of the A44, I could have had my first-ever pain-free smear. And as I summitted the second hillock I sincerely believed I could have had an entire hysterectomy without anaesthetic. There was no way I was going to make another two hours of this, and so I decamped to the nearest bridlepath and walked home for forty-five minutes, only daring to mount the bike to glide downhill. I walked like I'd spent an entire week shagging the county of Oxfordshire - which I haven't. However, I do wish to preserve my love-life so for health and safety reasons: biking and my nether-regions absolutely must part ways.


So how to fulfill this Sadventure?


Inspiration came from my to-do list:




Sort of suggests, I realised, that at no time was I supposed to cycle from home! And that what I could actually do was deliver the Fanny Crippler to Stratford-upon-Avon. So me, my cycle, and my poorly nether-regions tentatively popped into the car and drove to Shottery. And from there, it was a six-minute cycle to Stratford, where I found the most Shakespearean Charity Shop imaginable and completed my sadventure.


They must have heard I was coming...






Several hours later, I was somewhat relieved that feeling had returned but boy is it sore to sit down!


From now on, I shall leave cycling as a pursuit for mid-life-crisis-addled men.






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