During the month of May I clocked up over 100 miles by commuting little bits here and there, and because I don't go particularly fast, that meant over 13 hours' riding. Blimey.
I really thought I'd find it unsustainable, but I'm becoming hooked. I really thought it was the drink talking when I said I'd do it, but goddammit, I seem to be taking to it. I've already fallen off once and badly grazed and bruised myself, but it didn't put me off. The whole procedure is becoming gradually less terrifying. I read in the paper that on Tuesday afternoon, a cyclist died on Kingsland Road, which I cross on my Thistle route. So complacency is not and should never be an option.
However, I have cancelled my gym card, which counts as some kind of commitment, I think; I'll just need to work some resistance training in somehow. Maybe I'll check out what the local leisure centres have to offer.
And two days ago, I managed to ride to the top of that killer hill on Wharton Street for the first time.
Go, as they say, me.