ong, long ago, when tyres were thin and frame tubes were round, my friend Bernard organised a bike race. It was a time trial. A small time trial. A small, badly organised time trial. It was notable for the village hall being double-booked with a funeral, which gave it a more upbeat atmosphere than many time trials, but led to a tense stand-off over a plate of bread pudding. In retrospect, we should possibly have let
