No sooner had I found myself actually drawn to watch a football match on TV (Germany vs Brazil, on mute, whilst doing some late project work on my laptop and talking to my parents on the phone - it made for an interesting email to a client, a flawed conversation with my mother, and a peculiar narrative to anyone else in the vicinity) than another far more deserving sporting event consumed the LCM household.
Yes, Le Tour.
That glorious, mad, painful and indecently Lycra-clad three-week event that even people with absolutely no interest in two wheels can appreciate. Witness the Yorkshire grand départ and subsequent legs with record crowds and franco-fied names of every pub, lane, hill and vale. There's an element of novelty, I'll grant you that, but, by 'eck the populace got stuck in and had a great time.
Now the LCM household is quite partial to cycling. With recent comments about our garage resembling a Halfords depot, it is hardly surprising that the level of competition has now been edged north a few notches with the TdF up and running.
Case in question: OH heads out early one recent Sunday morning to do a couple of laps of Richmond Park. Mr Man accompanies him - on the single speeder - and joins him for one lap, enjoying a muffin and drink while waiting for his father to complete his outing.
All fine and well.
Fast forward to the following weekend. OH heads out again for the same routine. Mr Man, channelling his soon-to-be inner teenager, claims 'tiredness' and opts to stay in bed. Into the fray steps Blossom, aged ten.
She proceeds to complete not one, but two laps of the park with her father. Also on the single speeder. Undaunted, she then comes home and says she "could have done another, I felt really energised".
I look at OH and catch his eye.
"Seriously?" I ask.
"That's nothing," he answers. "I was told off by one of the riders she overtook."
"How so?" I query.
"He wanted to know why I had gears while my daughter had none!"
Probably worried about the dent to his reputation, I reckon, being left in a child's wake.
Heaven forbid when Widget has his turn. The child is already a sprinter-in-the-making, forever out of his seat, making headway and racing to finish lines regardless of conditions. Mark Cavendish, Peter Sagan, Marcel Kittel, watch out.
The one saving grace is that he is - for the time being - so laid back he is virtually horizontal.
Unfazed by sibling competition.
Anyone interested in placing a bet for 2020?
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