April might be the cruellest month if you’re a maudlin poet, but for sun-starved British cyclists, that title belongs to March. By mid-March – recall at your peril – the cold and wind had lingered so long it felt like spring would never arrive. Morale was low, work was busy as I adjusted to a new role, and the thought of gearing up in winter kit to brave the aggro drivers and potholes of south-east England seemed barely worth the hassle. Then I remembered an intriguing email that had landed in my inbox a few weeks earlier. Would I like a complimentary stay, it asked, “at a boutique hotel offering premium bike rentals and guided cycling trips in Cyprus?” At first, I dismissed it as too good to be true, but as another wintry squall rattled the window, my defences crumbled. Oh, go on then, I replied – or words to that effect – don’t mind if I do.
The trip was set for late April, but a few days before departure, I noticed strange irregularities in my heartbeat – runs of unsteady beats punctuated by thudding jolts like a cardiac kickstart. Having been investigated for arrhythmia before, I knew the drill and booked with the GP for an ECG. The results showed a few quirks typical of a heart adapted to endurance exercise, but nothing that troubled the doctor, and the cardiologist agreed: no further tests would be needed. The annoying ectopic beats, likely caused by stress or poor sleep, would pass, advised the kindly GP, I just needed to relax. What better way to follow doctor’s orders than a four-day getaway in the sun?
