If I said that I was going to climb Mount Kiliminjaro, he would be jogging up and down Mount Everest for the weekend. There is absolutely nothing that I can do that he has not done in a different format. I run, he power walks, I cycle, he’s cycled, I write, he paints. The only difference between us is that I actually think that I do these activities rather than dream about them.
So, I’m brushing up my lack of conversational skills for another journey into work. At just short of one hour, it lasts a lifetime. After a few ‘good mornings’ I settle back for a twenty-five minute monologue. We move through favoured conversations, walking, marking, retiring, and teaching. I manage this without having to utter a word. When the car eventually reaches sixty yesterday, I am tempted to throw myself out.
Once or twice we have been joined in the appreciation of nature. I spot a kestrel while he sees it as a pterodactyl. Cars are the same as I see a nice Landrover Discovery and he says he hates those and prefers the 1975 version. I read the more current literary offerings, he reads kitchen sink stuff from the 1960s.
Yesterday I mentioned that I may go out for a cycle when I got back. He told me that I ought to do so as I had not completed the hundred-mile walk that he did over the holiday. I didn’t do the cycle and only walked to the pub for a rescuing pint.
This morning I will tell him that I managed 3,000 miles on my bike, up Everest, in reverse, with a passenger on the back.