The old man is onto his next new sports craze.
Apparently swimming made his skin dry and boxing was a bit frightening, so his latest venture into the world of extreme sports, (in his perpetual attempt to lose weight get fit), is cycling.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not moaning. I’m all for
him losing some weight couples having their own hobbies. It gets him out of the house (unlike during his Pilates phase) while he’s still grieving the loss of his weekly visits to Kimbriki tip.
Furthermore, it has reminded the whole family, during what have been difficult times recently, about the importance of being able to laugh….. quite raucously in fact…..as in almost to the point of pissing yourself, whenever he appears in his new cycling clobber.
‘NORMAL’ people, when they dip their toe into a new sport, make do with existing equipment until they are fully committed. When the old man takes up a new sporting challenge, this is his how his thought processes work:
- I’ve cycled a couple of times now and I quite like it.
- Maybe if I spend ludicrous amounts of money on new equipment I’ll become a really good cyclist.
- The problem with cycling is that it’s actually quite tiring and people seem to find the sight of me on a bike quite amusing. I can’t understand why.
- I might just take all that very expensive equipment (that I could have bought Louisa a new piece of jewellery with) to the tip (furtively) to give me space to reflect on the next load of sports equipment that I can fill the garage with and waste my money on.
During that initial first two weeks of ‘I’m going to do this until I die’ passion, (from the point where he suddenly decides that he is the next Lance Armstrong to the realization that he is not in fact a true athlete), the world stops revolving and absolutely nothing can come between him and his new hobby. Not even me.
He had never even shopped on-line before he got this new cycling bug – now he’s ordering cycle caboodle left, right and centre and the house has suddenly taken on the appearance of the back storeroom of Cycling World.
Have you seen what middle-aged men look like in cycling shorts? It’s not pretty. Lycra doesn’t leave much to the imagination, least of all the kilo or ten that the old man knows he should really lose off his beer belly.
The teens are mortified by the sight of their father in his little fluorescent orange runners, skin-tight top (that emphasizes his man-boobs saggy pecs) and my faux Rayban women’s sunglasses in their new city neighbourhood, just as they are trying to fit in. His lycra cycling vest is that tight that we’re all convinced he must have ordered it from the children’s section.
That’s the worrying thing – that he obviously has to cycle in public.
He is now cycling to and from work, OVER SYDNEY HARBOUR BRIDGE, which I suppose is quite generous of him, providing free entertainment to tourists and his colleagues at the office.
Maybe it’s just another in a long line of Midlife Crises, but he seems to veer from one craze to another these days, although unfortunately I am never the recipient of his attention. The old man is far more interested in bicycles than me at the moment.
Evening conversation revolves around pumps, gears and tyres, helmets and shafts these days – so much double-entendre – it’s enough to drive a girl mad with longing.
So I decided that if the mountain won’t come to Muhammed, Muhammed must go to the mountain. If it’s bicycles he wants, then that’s what he’ll get.
So I decided to use his new fetish as foreplay and began sexting him like this:
And role-playing too, waddling walking around in my old cycling shorts, provocatively, saying things like’ so when can I mount your bike?’ or ‘shall we pump it up right now?’ or ‘how hard shall I grip your handlebar?’
And I swear I’ve seen the suggestion of a far-off glimmer of interest in his eyes.
Sad but true – when you’re middle-aged and been married for a b*tch of a long time, you’ve got to use what you can.
That’s this month’s sexpert advice on how to improve your sex life with a bicycle.