How I became a domestique at the age of seventy-eight.
Last Sunday I took my grandson on a ride. We were to tackle his first real climb. In the great scheme of things the local Gover Hill is not massive, being less than a mile long and rising some 300 feet, but for an eleven year old it probably looked like an alpine pass.
Riding at old gentleman's tempo at the front I was quite pleased with the pace I was able to maintain but having reached the summit I was told by the little voice behind (attached limpet like to my back wheel) he would have been happier with a slighter higher speed.
To get my revenge I took a slight diversion so as to take on a short but somewhat steeper climb. But again as I reached the top the eleven year old wheel sucker who was not even breathing heavily, announced that he would have come by on the climb but was not sure if we were to turn right or left at the end of the road.
So twice in one short ride I had been told how I should ride. I have now accepted my lot as a poorly performing domestique.