Thursday, 8 January 2015

My bicycle fantasy

Courtesy of farconville at
Two years ago, while clad in a burgundy onesie that my daughter had bought me – she’s always had a devilish sense of humour - I glimpsed my 54-year-old torso in a mirror. The grotesque sight of my beer gut, shrouding my waistline like a wobbly canopy, shocked me into action. The potent mix of onesie and male vanity compelled me, for the first time in a quarter of a century, to enter into a regular exercise regime and, as a result, I have since shed 25 pounds.  

Part of my workout involves three 30-minute bursts per week on a static bike – I’m too wimpy to ride a real one. Although effective in maintaining fitness and burning off blubber, heavy-duty pedalling alone in our back room is a tedious affair. As such, my wild and fantastical imagination is an asset … …

I’m back at my old workplace and it is the annual charity event. My team has selected me to represent them in the ‘static-bike challenge’. At 56, I’m the oldest competitor. My friends at work express respect for me for ‘giving it a go’, despite their belief that I have no chance of winning this test of endurance.

A huge and boisterous crowd, almost exclusively comprising of attractive females, has gathered to witness the contest. As I walk – nay, strut – to my bike, wearing my knee-length navy shorts and white vest, I overhear two vivacious blonde girls talking about me:
‘Wow, how fit is he!’
‘Just look at those muscular legs, and his firm, chiselled torso!’

There are five other men in the competition. One of my opponents is Mike, 20 years my junior and an arrogant nob-head from the neighbouring office. I dislike him intensely, and always have done. He smirks when he sees me. ‘I hope there’s a defibrillator handy,’ he says, evoking laughs from the few cronies who have accompanied him. I ignore him, maintaining my laser-like focus on the task in hand.

We mount our bikes and, at the starter’s command, begin to pedal vigorously. The decibel level in the arena rises to a point where everything sounds distorted. After 15 minutes of frenetic pedalling, my rivals start to drop out, one by one, each exhausted and spent. Twenty minutes, and only Mike and I remain in the contest. As I pump the pedals, the rhythmic thrusting of my thighs has not gone unnoticed by the ladies in the front row.
‘He’s so powerful!’
‘Goodness gracious, that man oozes testosterone!’
'What a gladiator!’

Giggling, they share crudities about what they would like to do to my body. They yearn to be the bike under my pounding limbs. Their lady-bits moisten. They stare at the bulge in front of my shorts, imagining a truncheon-like phallus lurking within. They redden at the awareness of their own arousal.

In scenes unwitnessed since Beatle-mania, swooning girls, overcome by my athletic beauty, are helped from the stadium. While being lifted onto the stretchers they cry, ‘We love you, Bryan! We love you, Bryan!’

After 25 minutes, Mike crumbles over the handlebars, wheezing like an asthmatic 19th-century steam locomotive, defeated. A crescendo of cheering greets my resounding victory. To humiliate him further, I continue to pedal for an additional five minutes as the ladies scream their approval. As I dismount, triumphant, I’m swamped in a surge of adoring female flesh.


Alone in the austere back room of our house, I tentatively get off the bike, feeling groggy and on the point of collapse. I almost slip on the puddles of gooey sweat on the floor-tiles under each handlebar. My haemorrhoids are stinging like a swarm of vindictive hornets. I head to the bathroom, undress and inspect myself in the mirror. I resemble a withered Dumbledore after a fruitless night scouring the earth for Horcruxes. The grey hairs on my chest spiral downwards, limp and aimless. My trouser-snake appears to have tunnelled into my abdomen, rendering my genitals concave. I smell like a vagrant’s arsehole.

Ah well, I’d better get showered; I’ve got the weekly shop to do.    

A bowel-blastingly funny e-book will shortly be published on Amazon, titled 'Does Not Write Well With Others'. Together with some of the zaniest bloggers on the planet, I have contributed to a compilation of hilarious stories that may well evoke incontinence in the unsuspecting reader; you have been warned! Watch this space for further details.