Yesterday was a day for the little things. It was the beginning of a long weekend with the help of Worker’s Day and I, as a non-worker for the weekend and the Monday Bank Holiday, was intending to squeeze it of its complete gorgeousness. To help me out, a good old friend came over to stay and I took him out on a very leisurely bike ride that took in two pubs, a countryside filled with sunshine, a group of friendly cycling advocates, and his very own extremely saddle-sore behind. What more could one ask for?
There were times in during the ride that he struggled. He kept slowing down so that he could relieve a cheek, one at a time. There was a moment when he showed a streak of speed to out-pace a very slowly ambling rambler. Bu when it came to the extremely arduous task of sinking a beautiful pint of beer, he was up to the task. This was not once, but twice.
Heroics are important, but stretching them out into self-flagellation is madness. Both he and my wife had me down as a sado-masochistic German tank commander who would push and push and push every last drop of human-willpower from his charges’ very souls. I now revel in the revolution of my personal recovery.
“Is everything alright, my friend?” I asked from beneath a slashing, yet caring smile.
He gasped something in response which I took for a sign that he was still living.
“You will tell my wife that I have shown concern for your wellbeing, won’t you?”
Again, he gasped.
“And your bottom cheeks are still functioning?”
This time there was a tiny squeal and a facial grimace. I took this for positive.
There were moments on the ride that I appreciated everything that was on my plate.
Descending one beautifully gentle slope, I turned to him (he was drooped over his handlebars).
“I think we will miss each other when we are dead.”
It was meant to be a utterance of absolute bromance. He coughed and I understood what he was thinking.