Miracle Cure

As I may have mentioned, I came back from London with a lurgy, which has proved rather more debilitating than normal – I spent the weekend alternating between feeling sorry for myself and attempting to cough up a tonsil, neither of which really make for entertaining blogging. Today, I had to be in Bigtown, lurgy or no lurgy. I thought I’d take a side trip to Aldi for some Manuka honey, because twitter had declared it the cure for all ills, and while I’m not sure it’s necessarily that effective I had managed to dig up enough pseudoscience on the internet to at least delude my brain into arranging some beneficial placebo effects. All was going well – sun shining, birds singing, spring springing – until I reached the outskirts of Bigtown when the sensation of suddenly riding through treacle, combined with an extra death rattle from my rack, alerted me to the fact that my back tyre had gone completely flat. Although I now have a beautiful tool roll with all the bits I needed to repair a puncture, I had managed to forget my pump. The nearest garage’s air pumps were out of order, so that meant going the rest of the way into town on foot – I had forgotten just how slow and tedious walking is when you’re used to zipping around on a bike. I got to my destination rather hot, bothered, weary … and, as I realised as I turned in the gate, no longer feeling ill. Whether it was the bike ride or the walk of shame, or just the passage of time, the lurgy had somehow eased its death grip on my throat. I think that I’d have preferred dosing myself with honey, on the whole.

At this point I should have loved to have said that I then borrowed a pump and repaired the puncture with practised ease – but I have to confess that I just wheeled the bike on to the bike shop and shelled out for a new inner tube and outsourced all the swearing at my tyres that refitting them entails. I’d be more embarrassed about this, if I wasn’t the 4th person to come in that day with a flat tyre. It seems that, while hedge-cutting season is long over, drinking outdoors season has only just begun and the paths and roads and verges all sparkle with celebratory bucky bottle shards as a result.

In other news, the cough has started up again.



6 Responses to Miracle Cure

  1. John Gibson says:

    I feel for you. It’s bad enough with the lurgy, but then to get a flat when you are nearly there is beyond the pale. Get well soon.

  2. velovoiceblogspot says:

    Reading along, I was prepared to conclude that the effort of pushing your bike into town “burned the lurgy out”*. Sad to hear that is not the case.

    Get well soon.

    * My partner swears by this. He rarely gets colds (which I put down to not using public transport) but when he does start to get the early signs e.g. sore throat, he pushes himself extra hard on his 6-mile commute. He swears it “kills the cold”. I am not convinced but prepared to concede it (or some other unidentified factor) works for him.

  3. disgruntled says:

    @John – it would have been worse had I been half way there …
    @velovoice – I’m a great believer in burning the lurgy out (or more likely drowning it – a miserable soaking wet ride seems to do it usually) and do very rarely get colds but this one seems to have settled well into my lungs

  4. Bob says:

    Hope you feel less “lurgi-ish” soon.
    It’s been decades since I’ve changed a flat on a bike. Just as soon take it to a shop, especially if it’s the back tire. Too many hindrances.

  5. CJ says:

    Broken glass in the road is so annoying, I used to fall prey to it all the time when I cycled to work in central Bristol. Hope you’re feeling completely better soon, I’ve heard good things about Manuka honey too, haven’t tried it yet though.

  6. disgruntled says:

    @Bob – it’s rare that I get a flat within walking distance of a bike shop so it was a rare luxury
    @CJ – unfortunately Aldi is down a rather hostile road for cycling so I still haven’t managed the trip down there. I did look in the health food shop but was put off by the eye-watering prices

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