Tour De Living Room

I'm sitting here watching the Tour De France...for the first time in my life. Don't get me wrong, I'm not remotely interested in the Tour De France; it strikes me that, bar the scenery, they're all pretty much doing what I do right here - they're pedalling stupidly to not particularly get anywhere (I know they actually get somewhere, but it's a race, it's not as if they couldn't get where they're going much faster in a moderately priced car). If I'm honest, I'm only watching it now because it's too much like hard work to get off my ass, take two steps, pick up the remote control and press a button. Hey, it's still a big ass, it takes some shifting, alright?

There's very little to tell you about today - It was another day at home, proofreading, so pretty much spent it laying around in my jim-jams staring at scientific formulae and wondering a) if they mean anything in the real world, and b) who it is that's got a life sadder than me, so they come up with this shit, rather than just having to read it. But on the upside, I did manage to get two stints on the bike today - err, yes, that's the "god-rotted evil-bastard bike" of a couple of nights ago. d mentioned this to me shortly after she read that entry - "this'd be the bike you whined and bitched about endlessly when it stopped working, cos it was 'crucial to your weightloss plan'?" she asked.
"Errr...yeah," was all I could manage. She's right of course - I'm glad it's here, and clearly it's doing me good, it's just that occasionally, it squats there like a big malevolent raven going "Rawk!!!" pitched somewhere between Edgar Allan Poe and Damien - Omen II, staring at me. That "Rawk!!!" translates as "Yeah, I'm still here ya fat bastard, and you know...you just know that if you ignore me, I'll come in the night while you're snoring your fool head off and stick big wobbly globules of fat back on your belly. So...talk to me...!"

So today, I shut the freaking bike-bird up with twenty miles at level eight, doing my own Tour De Living Room. Except even as I'm sitting here, I can hear a muffled squawk behind me, saying "You're not hurting yet, are you, ya big wobbly bastard, and it's Tuesday tomorrow...ya wanna dance with the Devil? Or you wanna dance with meeeee???"

We'll see, frankly. d, bless her, wants to kick my ass at a game or two tonight, and I want to let her try. We'll see whether the Devil-BirdBike wins out later on, or whether I come dancing, naked and wobbly into the living room, flipping it the double bird before I drag my ass off to snore. I will say, twenty miles at level eight burns up a lot of exercise-guilt. Still...thirty miles...that really would feel like a Yellow Jersey moment...

Ach, quit your squawking, I said we'd see...

Whaddaya mean, "Nevermore!"??