The morning after the night before. Much to my surprise I managed to stay awake for all of the England match.
That was worth it.
I didn't get out on the bike as early as I wanted on Sunday morning. But even at 8am, the Essex Badlands country lanes were completely empty.
I made a major cycling fashion faux pas in rolling out with the silly lycra leotard. Good job that there was no one else around to see it.
The weather has definitely turned. It took me fifteen minutes or so to warm up.
Not a bad ride, but not exactly breaking any PB's either. Bloody Strava buggered up once again, failing to record any of the 40k-ish ride.
Mad bastard John F said on Saturday that if Strava doesn't record your ride then it hasn't happened.
I feel cheated.
I almost lost my front wheel out towards one of the Tendring gravel patches disguised as a spot of re-surfacing. All I could think about was how silly I would look in hospital with the lycra leotard.
The afternoon was spent working.
Early evening was put aside for a gardening session. I say gardening, but it's more of an exercise in tidying up. I'm very good at pulling things ups, not so great at planting.
The honeysuckle that I butchered back in the spring has started to flower. The tomatoes are almost ripening, albeit ball bearing size. The appearance of the evening primrose at sunset was a welcome surprise.
I've got a full on day of Transpontine duties tomorrow, mainly involving... gardening. The tools have been packed up. The plan is to pull things up in the front garden for the flat, and then ponder what can go down at so late in the season.
If I plant some evening primrose before luncheon, then it wouldn't surprise me to see it flowering by the time the sun sets over South Lambeth Road.