Courtesy of farconville at FreeDigitalPhotos.net |
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.