…and now for something completely different. When I kitted out my mid-life crisis bike carbon-fibre bidon cages seemed like obliglatory bling. Luckily the bike shop miswrote the spec and I got them for half price, or I might not have had a leg left to peddle with. Oddly enough the matching bidons are competetively priced, considering you would be bold or wreckless to risk anything else in the expensive holders. So although they’ve become familiar over the years they retain an exotic air.

Riding out in the rarefied air of 5.30 am on a spring morning might not take four o’clock in the morning courage, but thanks to daylight saving and a 3.30 wakeup from my daughter it wasn’t far off. No surprise then that a dull thunk and strange loss of traction didn’t distract my attention long enough to wonder if a bottle had jumped from its cage. Half an hour later in brighter gloom I happened to glance down and noticed the holder bereft of its cargo.

I was too far down the road to turn back, but I was determined to check for it later. As luck would have it I didn’t get the chance til 12 hours later when I took the hound for a stroll up the road. She’s probably still wondering why we took an unpleasant walk up South Street rather than taking the usual route to the park.

It seemed like a fool’s errand, not least because I’ve seen the odd dropped bidon pop like a paper bag under the first obliging car wheel to come along. But I’d had some luck recently with lost-and-found at the local pool, and I was annoyed that the thing had come loose despite an obviously inadequate check prior to departure that the bottles were firmly in place. I wasn’t even sure I could remember the right location, but sure enough there in the gutter across the road from where I’d ignored the fateful thunk was the distinctive grey water bottle, intact apart from a few dozen extra scratches and a tear in the cap retainer. If only I had that kind of endurance.