That puddle, my dear, used to be me.

Mike was away so I cajoled my kid into biking with me through my first 20 miler. The most she'd previously pedaled was the 3 miles to school and back.

It wasn't altruism, the thrill of the challenge, nor threats of dire consequence that got her out there either....Nope, it was 20 bucks folding cash...well, at least the squirt didn't make me pay in advance.

So at 9 a.m. on Sunday off we trot from the ex's place.

I had managed to procrastinate a good hour away in purposless dither, and now the heat was starting to bite.

A flat 5 miles was followed by 5 miles of hill up to Glen Massey, and the kid was finding that she was having to earn her money.

Time and again I lose sight of her, and half expect to find her sitting under a tree somewhere...but then there she would be, waiting on my side of the road, water bottle in hand...the comfort of that is immense.

The heat climbs into the 80's and then into the 90's as I plod along.

I cross the road to run briefly in the scant shade of the willows that line the banks of the Firewood creek. The tip of my tongue starts to burn, like it does on the bike.

I tip water in, and it then leaks out. I feel like an old bucket. After two hours my toes blister, my bum chaffs and my resolve narrows and then shrivels to the size of a raisin..

At 17 miles I send the kid on ahead to the dairy. At 18 miles and with 2 miles to go, she stands outside the shop with two cold cans of coke. I rip the tab off one and swill it in one gulp, it bubbles and froths and I spew it back up...my kid watches aghast at the raw bodily functions of her father. I'm just thankful I'm not standing on Mrs Singh's linoleum. The second one stays down. The last two miles, I have to say, were a freakin' nightmare. Like boiling a frog. I was burnt, I was chaffed, I was tired beyond belief, my feet hurt, and Voldemort and the deatheaters were pattering along behind me...but finally I was done. I lay cooling on the soft sanctuary of the ex wifes sofa, drank two beers and then went home to sleep the afternoon away.

Now, I have never tasted Lambic beer even though I have been to Belgium and have stood on the great folly that was Waterloo, which is just down the road from where the beer is made. On Sunday 18th June 1815, some 40,000 Lambic drinkers were put to the metaphorical sword...although a fair number were blown to smithereens by being fired at point blank with cannon....victims of a combination of outdated battle tactics and misguided heroism.
French soldiers, on Napoleans orders, would form into squares of 100 or so men, muskets and bayonets bristling they formed a formidable barrier to both charging soldiers and cavalry. Wellington however, didn'nt send either men or horses...he rolled up cannons, pointed them at the squares of men, and ordered them to surrender...they wouldn't...chivalry and commonsense having apparently traded places ...the carnage that followed the lighting of the tapers was a sickening sight to behold....and made for one of the bloodiest battles of recent recorded history.
The ghosts of decapitated soldiers still stalk the escarpement at Mont St Jean, and to walk its field is an eerie experiance still. After 193 years people who visit, still cry there.
Lisa drinks Lambic, and on Sunday as I studied its providence and manufacture I tried to conjure the taste....of both.