The First Run

Yesterday I clambered again onto the old bike and set off for the first training ride this year to North Berwick with Gareth. It was a slightly fraught start to the day when the garage door wouldn't open, a constant recent problem we thought we had had fixed by a joiner. When I prized the door open, eventually, not only did the entire lock mechanism come free from the inside of the door, but I was able to pass the key through the keyhole. This was handy as the key was so completely wedged into the lock that I couldn't get it free.

As a result, my cycling morning started with the unsightly scene of me punching the garage door in frustration. I composed myself just in time to see Emma coming out to ask if everything was okay...

Once we got going it was a fabulous run. A still, clear, bright morning meant we fairly flew down the coast, through Musselburgh along to Aberlady, where we stopped briefly for a rest (and where Gareth called his wife and said he had "popped out for a quick cycle with Murdo"); then through Gullane and into North Berwick for coffee and sausage rolls in the Buttercup Cafe. Back on the train and then I pelted home to see if I would be in time to collect the boys from school, as promised. I wasn't. Emma passed me going in the other direction. I raced to the house, stowed the bike, jumped in the car and texted E to tell her I was on my way to take over.

When I eventually got home with the boys I went out for a run. A staggeringly stupid thing to do. After that I was completely drained and felt twice my age (which left me feeling 94, let's remember).

However, that's 25 miles under the belt. It was a reminder of the shadows which follow any cyclist - the knee trembling weakness in the lower leg when you try to walk after a long stretch, the fire in the lungs on a long slow incline and, worst of all, what G described as the pudendal chafing. I'm still feeling somewhat raw when I resume my seat.

Still, it's good to be back in harness. What it did reinforce for me is how much work I need to do in order to be at all ready for August, and how completely unhinged you would have to be to do triathlons, and particularly Iron Man Triathlons. The fact that my twin brother John is about to embark on his third leaves me in a particularly authoritative position on this. There's a gleam in his eye when he talks about triathlons that rather leaves any thought of brotherly competition completely redundant. He likes murderous competition; I like a comfortable seat, strong coffee and an Australian collapse.

Ricky Ponting resigned today as Australian cricket captain. The captaincy became him, ironically, the more unsuccessful his team. He was at the end the only truly great cricketer in the team since the mass retirements of Waugh, Warne, McGrath, Hayden, Langer and Gilchrist, and he comported himself with grace and humour in interviews (though not on the field, hilariously). There's been a lot of nonsense spoken about how Australia don't select former captains in their side. Not true - Kim Hughes played on after tearfully shedding the captaincy in 1984 - but the last 5 or so have retired on clouds of glory at the end of their careers, whereas Ponting has really resigned, uniquely in the last 25 years, due to a success deficiency. If they don't let him play on it's either because they think the new skipper, who is almost certainly Michael Clarke, doesn't have the strength of character to captain the side with such a strong personality in the room, or because they are, frankly, stupid. Both explanations are possible. They cannot afford to lose a player of his calibre since the new players they have selected over the winter are of the calibre of English players of the late 90s. Not good.

I love it.