The mornings, cold and foggy, have conspired with my lazy genes to keep me off my bike for much of this week. I get up, look out the window, check the messages on my phone, then snuggle back under the duvet for another half-hour or so. Shame on me.
But this morning I was determined to hit the road regardless of the weather and that horrible little voice in my head that talks me out of doing exercise.
No sooner was I trundling down Kensington High Street, wrestling red buses and a couple of irritable black cabs, than it started to snow. It was pointy snow. Sharp and cold. At first I didn’t know what it was, I just knew it was hurting my face!
By the time I’d cycled to Hyde Park Corner, a couple of miles down the road, I could feel the cold seeping into my bones. I can’t say this has ever happened before because I’m usually snuggly warm in all my layers – thermal tights and waterproof trousers, a moisture-wicking long-sleeved tee-shirt, a high-necked fleece and a day-glow windproof cycling jacket, plus fleece gloves.
So there I was shivering in my many mantles of clothing when I spied a fellow cyclist – a man – whizz by wearing Lycra bike shorts and a tight-fitting tee-shirt. What do they say? Mad dogs and Englishmen? Brrrrrr.