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You’re The Best Dad Ever
We rolled out of Great Malvern train station with two laden bikes, a dentists nightmare of a snack bag, and a plan that, on paper at least, erred on the side of ambitious. It took less than two minutes for that plan to completely fall apart.
“I’m done with these hills!”
A strong and entirely understandable early statement from a 9 year old boy who had unknowingly signed up for 200m of elevation within the first 2km. (There were several others climbs over the course of the day that I’d also chosen to keep to myself).
I stood there, already sweating like a lasagne in a dishwasher, looking up at the climb I’d chosen, then back at the face of a furious riding partner and wondered, not for the first time, why I have this habit of making things a lot harder than they need to be.
I could have definitely picked a much easier route closer to home; flatter, shorter and far less likely to trigger an argument before we’d barely got the wheels rolling. I could also have scrapped the idea entirely and taken us to the cinema. Or a trampoline park.
But I didn’t.
And I rarely do, for some strange reason.