Lifting the Veil on Living with an Obsessive Cyclist
A satirical look at the world of cycling, this is a 'must read' for fanatical cyclists & Cycling Widows alike.
Price: $2.99 (eBook)
Download to your Kindle (eBook)
Download to your Nook (eBook)
Download from Apple iTunes (eBook)
Download from Smashwords (eBook)
Download from Kobo
Download from Sony
Cycling Widows on Foley's Forum website
Are you a cyclist in denial of your addiction to the sport?
Or the long-suffering spouse of an obsessive bike-freak?
Either way, you need to read this!
In the cycling world, the term 'Cycling Widow' has long been used to describe the spouse of someone with OCD (Obsessive Cycling Disorder). All across the globe, these women live a lonely life in the shadow of this affliction.
Until now, the world of the Cycling Widow has remained shrouded in secrecy. But, here, the author lifts the veil to candidly reveal the trials, tribulations, highs and lows of living with a cyclomaniac.
Written by a long-suffering Cycling Widow, this satirical look at cycling might just save a few marriages - as well as many a bike from being fed into the garden mulcher.
Includes a handy test to find out - for once & for all - whether it really is a case of 'hobby or obsession'!
Chapter titles include: Twiddling my Widowy Thumbs; Life in the Spin Cycle Lane; The Ultimate Aphrodisiac; Going for a Fitter Model; An Insatiable Appetite; and Lying in a Ditch.
Part of a chapter in the book:
LYING IN A DITCH
Exploring the Cycling Widow's Deep Well of Dread
As a Cycling Widow, it's easy to feel torn when your other half isn't home when he says he'll be. On the one hand, you want his experience with you to be like a haven of peace when he comes through the door. In order to achieve this goal, you make up all kinds of excuses as to why he might be running late. Maybe he's had a puncture and it's set him back a bit. Or he's taken a wrong turn. Those road race directions aren't always the most reliable, are they?
On the other hand, however, as the minutes roll by, the ticking of the clock on the wall grows unnervingly louder — as does the nagging voice in your head that tells you something is wrong — very wrong.
And you know very well what's wrong: he's lying in a ditch somewhere. He's been mangled under the wheels of a rampaging juggernaut and been flung off into a prickly hedge, his new club uniform torn to shreds and his helmet cracked and askew. Or he's lying at the bottom of a ravine with amnesia after taking that tight bend a little too enthusiastically. Or perhaps a Council worker has left a manhole cover off and he's now stuck down in a smelly sewer pipe, half-unconscious and alone. If he ever gets out of there, he'll come home even smellier than usual after a ride and, due to his apparent exhaustion and disoriented state, the Cycling Widow will no doubt end up having the honour of washing the abominable stench-fest that is his cycling outfit.
One time, when Steve still hadn't got home an hour later than usual after an evening club run, I started to worry and phoned another Cycling Widow. If her hubby was home by now, I'd surely have cause to worry. But he wasn't back either. I ran my worst-case scenario by her.
"So…" she began slowly, "they could both be lying in a ditch somewhere?" she continued, the chill of deep concern creeping into her voice.
Obviously, the thought hadn't crossed her mind until I'd called. As she put down the phone, by now weeping, I thought back to the old saying 'a problem shared is a problem solved' and wondered where I'd gone wrong.
As far as obsessive cyclists are concerned, of course, being home late is usually a good sign — a sign that they are having a right royal time chatting with their buddies and comparing notes after a long ride. And, as they are having this right royal time, they are completely oblivious to the Cycling Widow's ever-churning whirlpool of inner torment back at home. She won't notice if I'm a few minutes late, he thinks, already running over an hour later than the pre-agreed time. Even if Steve promises to phone me when he's finished a race, when the call doesn't come, I do have to hold back the tide of anxiety and keep in mind that, although he has the best intentions, his head has more holes in it than Rab C. Nesbitt's string vest.
It has to be said that my partner's turning up late is somewhat the norm. Yet, despite this recurrent pattern of behaviour, the 'lying in a ditch' storyline still spools on in my mind. The oasis of tranquillity one hopes to provide upon his return is muddied by a mental scenario shared by many a Cycling Widow.
In the fretful mind of a Cycling Widow, potholes become gaping crevasses waiting to swallow up any cyclist innocent of their nefarious motives; gravel and newly-laid chippings turn into spring-loaded, lethal weapons just waiting to target themselves at a cyclist's pupils; and lorry drivers become sleep-deprived zombies whose eyelids are propped open only by the will to seek and destroy any hi-viz jacket-wearer on two wheels who dares to take up space in their driving lane. To be fair, it has to be noted that these truck-driving 'wraiths of doom' are not all bad, for they are the same individuals who give a wide berth to young, slender females on horseback, and who slam on the brakes when they see a duck crossing the road with her train of cute, fluffy chicks in tow. Somehow, it just brings out that hidden, soft side.
[END OF EXTRACT]