The Chariot

The Elbro is a big place, mostly due to the number of sports facilities it considers neccesary. In Oxford the main sporting venue is "The River" and I was perfectly happy living in a state of never having seen The River, or even being precisely sure if they were talking about the Thames or some other river. Conversely, here there are four sports pitches on my trajectory from house to library to department.

People react to being here in one of two ways. Many either feel that to go the Lugborog and not do sport is some kind of moral failing, and lok for an uncompetetive arena. Others, like myself, resolutely do no sport at all- unles you count ironically consuming beer and biscuits as a sport.

Pretty much the only thing between me and morbid obesity is the twelve-speed paddling motion that propels me around this big ol' green campus.

My chariot isn't particularly swift or shiny- which is why I have rejected the name 'Shadowfax' for it- but it serves me well enough. I am provisionally calling it the lurking grue, for no good reason.

There is one problem: at times of distress, the lurking grue will tip its saddle to any angle between 45 degrees fore or aft. These incidences aren't common, but it seems that we both find hills and speed-bumps distressing.

Now, I have no objection (in principle) to being reminded of my testicles, but there are good ays and bad ways. In the context of "Halfway up Beacon Hill" or "Three times before breakfast", this distinction becomes even more important. We are, in short, going to have to do something about this.

My housemates studying Sports Physiology, incidentally, don't cycle. They drive, smoke, and- I'll put this right out there- I can't even begin to compete with them on the beer/biscuits circuit.