It’s minus more than usual for this time of year and the Black Bullet is asleep in the shed. My dad, bless him, had a thing about thermometers and I appear to have caught it. I have one that remembers highs and lows and it’s telling me there’s been a minus nine-and-a-half recently. On the roof of the kitchen where the probe resides, deep winter has come early.
Back in the summer, when I rather cleverly bought mountain bike gloves for all the clever reasons given, I’d forgotten what minus anything felt like. Even my gauntlets don’t look up to the job anymore. These temperatures are not in the book of Motorcycling for Pleasure.
It hasn’t helped that I’ve picked up a cold and when the freezing air hits my lungs they jump out of my mouth. The retching that follows dampens any appetite I may have had for a crisp frosty ride to work. That and the strange smell my balaclava seems to have absorbed from the under the stairs cupboard.
With nothing to report Bullet-wise, I’m filling in time. It’s going to be a long slow haul through winter but with the threat of eviction put off until the sun comes back around there's time to get under the covers with a good book, cuddle the baby (avoiding the inevitable elbow to the throat and heel to the balls), cwtch the girlfriend and neck some decent spirits by the fire. Life isn't so bad then.
