The pothole

the pothole v3-1815

Potholes. Everywhere. Big, deep, hard, empty, potholes. That’s two weeks on the pop I’ve been undone by tarmac.

Or rather the absence of it.

One minute you’re whizzing along, wind at your back, not a care in the world.



That familiar but dreaded feel.

Instant flat. The sickening feel of rim on road. Every bump a moraine. Every pebble a boulder.

Last week it was Taffs Well’s cavern of doom.

This week? Edwardsville’s gap of terror.

Perhaps it’s me. Seeking ‘em out. Picking my lines to put tube and rim to the test.

Like that machine in IKEA that pumps an armchair relentlessly proving it’s point. 8870. 8871.  LOOK! Still going! 8872. 8873.

Only with my tubes its; 1 ride, BANG!. 1 ride, BANG!

Guess what I’m doing tonight? Gluing. Sticking. Patching.

Still…..Worse things happen at sea. No need to feel deflated.

Convinced that after 5 years of austerity, potholes are multiplying like rabbits. Image above; Central Cardiff. A whopper.