Remember boys, it’s not actually a race.
So, the three of us, Dan, Gary and my Sweaty self agreed at the start to make the Daffodil a social occasion and determined to enjoy it without killing ourselves. I’ve got to be honest, I wasn’t sure how much fun it was going to be, what with the sub-zero temperatures and Arctic wind. Myself and Dan were rooting round in our cars looking for extra layers, but, as we all know, Gary is made of stronger stuff and he was liberally applying the factor 20 to his exposed limbs and adjusting his sunglasses just before the off. He did make one concession to the weather by putting gloves on.
We rose above the frantic scramble up Pendine hill, opting instead to bide our time and bask in the adultation of the gathered masses and were propelled up by a thousand helping hands and hushed good wishes.
Our leisurely rate meant we had plenty of breath for conversation, we discussed the usual stuff, shoes and ships and sealing wax, cabbages and kings, why the sea is boiling hot and whether pigs have wings. I did once venture onto a legal topic only to find that Dan has a special app on his Garmin that actually keeps a running total of the amount payable for advice given by a senior partner on a Sunday. Graciously, he agreed to accept my car and two of my children as a downpayment.
The first 16 or so miles passed without incident. It was at the refreshment stop in Trelech that our differences became apparent. Dan showed his class by insisting on a table cloth and I betrayed my Tasker Milward school roots by jumping the queue and inhaling Welsh cakes at a tremendous rate. Gary has obviously done this sort of before because we witnessed a masterclass in queue management. Dan and I had both remounted before we realised that Gary was still patiently queuing by the Welsh cakes and biscuits, helping himself as he passed, politely accepting the proffered tea then simply rejoining the rear of the queue and starting the process again. It was on his fourth or fifth circuit that we managed to steer him back to his bike and to the matters in hand.
It was around this time that we were joined by Kim and Ian, or more correctly a silent, sunken eyed version of Ian. Not a squeak passed his lips the whole time we cycled with him, not even when I misjudged an attempt to help him up a hill by pushing his saddle. My outstretched fingers did not meet any resistance as they disappeared into an area slightly above his saddle, I was glad of the warmth and Ian can be reassured that his prostate felt perfectly smooth to my untrained digits.
On we went and the downhills loomed. I’m ashamed to say that we lost Gary when he stopped to calm some distressed ponies.(Insert your own horse meat/butcher chairman joke here). Myself and Dan swept up Stag Jones and stormed over the Tuscan hills surrounding Laugharne to the finish, warmth and pasta.
I had a great day, thanks to all, especially Dan and Gary. Well done Ian.
Total Ascent 3961 ft
Cups of tea/coffee 6
Welsh cakes possibly numbering in the 20’s
Horse Whisperers 1