So the day arrives. I've culled my clothing to fit into the biggest bag Ryanair will allow, something about the size of a small sandwich box. Everytime I try and close the lid the clothes concertina out like some demented jack-in-the-box, causing curses and frustration and beads of sweat to form on my furrowed brow. Eventually it's done, closed and hermetically sealed for freshness.
And so to the garage.
My bike box, unzipped, lies on the floor. I feel confident I can do the stripping down of a bike. How hard can it be? Wheels off, bubble wrapped, bolted in place. I stand back proudly admiring what I have to conquer. Bars loosened, ummm not quite fitting, ah the saddle, of course. Allen Key in hand I tackle the bolt, it loosens, I smile. A twist and nothing: the seat won't budge. I wrench, clasp, grip, twist and wrestle. A tangle of carbon and flesh heave around the garage. Out into the sunshine and the fight goes on, back against the wall, feet on cranks, twisting. Squealing, the protesting frame won't give up it's grip. Neighbours come and stare, sweat drips from my reddened face, blood oozes from grazes on my knuckles. Amid more screams of protest from the bike, the seat suddenly moves. With a grim snarl of success and spittle my lips break into a smile. Drenched in sweat, my heart racing, I collapse by the bike, probably in a similar state to how I'll look later this week.
I lovingly caress the frame into insulation tubes, more bubble wrap and eventually do up the zip. Then a shining light catches my eye, ah pedals! I'll need those. Unzip, more bubble wrap, find space, close zip. As I step back my foot sends something spinning across the garage, my helmet, unzip again. You get the picture. An hour later, the floor checked and double checked for spare or missing parts, I drew the zip closed for the last time. Let's hope it goes back together without the same fight!
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