A brace of mid leg articulators are essential working body parts for a long weekend of dusty riding in the Southest of France. Useful also for getting around once walking becomes stumbling becomes resting, face down, on the sun warmed ground. Alcohol may have been involved, it generally is.

You see there is an grooved narrative causality governing trips away with bicycles and good friends. Firstly a key component of my MTB will explode somewhere betwixt careful packing and despondent rebuilding. Following closely on is a twist in the story that ends up in a glass and then a full on monstering of the liver. And while the two may be only loosely related, I am powerless to resist the grip of the tale.

On the way to a hangover, which rates somewhere high in my top ten “never another drop, not ever, don’t even mention the word” thumping morning afters, we discovered from our recently domiciled host that “France is run by middle age women” and “there is no point trying to charm them, they get that 24/7 from the indigenous population” and “Driving while drunk in rural France is as simple as sticking your head out of the window and feeling the hedge“.

All you need to know in three simple sentences spread over an evening of ever increasing wine fueled stupidity. Which ended in us incautiously cracking open a further bottle back at Si and Sarah’s house before grabbing a bike each for a spot of “Derbying in the Dark“. Less Bruce Springsteen, more loose springs ream as a collection of expensive bicycles were thrown roughly to the floor, occasionally striking a drunken bystander.

Once Si unleashed his BMX (if not his BMX skills), four men who should really know better spent much time giggling, searching for lost bikes in the darkness and attaining verticallity for the single purpose of securing another drink. Did it end well? Two guesses and you’ll not be needing the second one.

The next morning started slowly because the previous evening had finished not too much earlier. Head clutching shades stalked darkened corridors, moving slowly but easily identified by their cries and moans. Stairs were difficult, cutlery a mystery too far and the prospect of attempting to control a motor vehicle nothing more than legally sanctioned murder.

We did eventually go riding which went about as well as you could expect from a quartet of men sweating red wine and chewing back last night’s dinner. Still hell of a night, not such a fantastic morning.

I’ll get round to cataloging our mastery of both bikes and stomachs when I get a minute not earmarked for some serious study of the inside of my eyelids. But I’m fairly sure the world oil crisis may be over considering the volume of the stuff leaking from my (air!) fork over the weekend. I’m in touch with BP regarding some exploratory drilling of this apparently bottomless reserve.

Something is broken. Thankfully not me although Saturday morning, I’d have paid good money for a mercy killing 😉