I think the picture at the top describes me rather well. I once liked sports, but it’s gone downhill from the teen-age years. Without providing too much information about myself: It’s safe to say those teen-age years are a bit in the past.

And yet, this year (being 2012) in late April I decided to use the bike to go to work again. I’m sure there are deep psychological reasons that can only be uncovered by loads and loads of therapy, and yet two things stick out in my memory.

1) A colleague of mine is an avid cyclist. He’s one of those people who cycle to work every single day of their lifes (and I found out later that was a lie: he used the car at least twice so far, both times after having cycled more than 1000km in one weekend). We (and that is everyone in the (small) group) kept commenting on how amazing it was that he managed the distance, how rain and snow didn’t seem to faze him, and how jealous we were that he got to eat two servings on lunch-break and still was slimmer than all of us. Okay, so the last comment was mainly mine.

2) I reached 100kg. That’s scarier in metric than in weirdo imperial units (my personal favourite being the “stone”) for obvious reasons (comeon, admit it: passing 15.747 stone is not nearly as bad as the third digit).

So … on my “new” bike (by then four years old and rarely used), I tried the work run. Mainly with the goal of “I need to loose some weight – cycling will fix it all”.