The best laid plans...

So the plan for today was I was going to meet my friend Andrew on the Old Military Road at about ten. The plan was I would take my race bike. My race bike needs new tyres, but that's OK, they're bought, they're just sitting waiting to go on. I would, I planned, arise betimes and fit them before I left.

Well, it didn't work like that.

When I awoke, it was ten minutes to ten. To quote Four Weddings, 'fuck!'.

Thing is, there was a gig up at Corsock last night. A German duo, yclept 'Cassard', apparently in memory of a seventeenth century French privateer, were playing. And play they did - upon a nyckelharpa, an accordion, four different sets of bagpipes, a couple of pipes and a short Breton thing like a pint-size oboe which they called a 'bombarde' - with justice, for it was quite extraordinarily loud.

And, of course, one danced. How could one not dance? It would have been disrespectful to sit stolidly in one's seat in the face of such musicianship. When the concert was over, people retired to the pub - including my neighbour Ruth with her nyckelharpa, and a duet on two nyckelharpa would be something to hear... But I had to ride this morning, so I was responsible and came home.

Somewhat responsible, anyway.

So, at ten to ten, of course, the race bike was not ready to go. Oh, well, the cross bike it must be. Clean teeth, pair of shorts, short sleeved shirt, sun-cream, socks, shoes, mitts, hat in my back pocket, cereal bar in there too - no time for breakfast - and out of the door in under ten minutes from waking, which isn't bad. I found Andrew in the bike shop in Castle Douglas, where we were given some excellent home made banana cake and coffee. A good local bike shop is worth treasuring, folks.

From Castle Douglas a sturdy westerly blasted us along the Old Military Road back towards Dumfries. Andrew was on his beautiful art-deco titanium Colnago, and is an ex national junior road champion. You can see he's a cyclist just by looking at him - there isn't much to him, not an ounce of spare fat, but his lycra bulges with muscle. And such a lot of lycra! He was wearing knee warmers, shorts, a long sleeved jersey, and a windproof gilet over that.

"Aren't you cold?", he enquired.

Well, I'm not the most hardy of folk. I like to be warm. But riding fast, I find that isn't a problem. We blethered about all sorts of things in a companionable way, while flitting swiftly across the rolling landscape. I love the freedom and the relaxation of bicycles.

Eventually I grew aware of the miles adding up behind me, and the strength of the headwind I'd have going back; so we parted at Milton and I turned south through Kirgunzeon (a name invented specially to torture the tongues of outlanders and of the saissonach) and back towards Dalbeattie.

In Dalbeattie there is a most excellent butcher, where I stopped to buy a slice of game pie for my lunch. But then I espied some fillet steak, and an inch of that found its way into my back pocket. Lunch eaten lazily under a tree, I rode the last eight miles home feeling nicely exercised, relaxed and mellow.

There's a lot to be said for this not working lark.