Wake up; spend 12 hours in a melancholic trance; go to bed. While this is fairly standard practice for a mid-winter’s day in the UK, I’d decided to add an extra layer of misery to December's blanket of gloom by taking on a Virtual Everesting attempt and riding the height of Everest (8,840metres), indoors. Why? Because for reasons I’m not quite yet able to fathom, cyclists seem to err towards making life as miserable as possible.
For some reason, we cyclists like to seek out activities that will elicit a maximum level of pain and discomfort. And when we’ve finished, maybe a week later when the chafing is subsidising, we look back and think ‘that was a really horrific experience – but not quite horrific enough. Let’s do another one.’
