We then moved out of the bland Super 8 into a rather more groovy stone-built motel in town. There was a power-cut and storm clouds gathered. In the gloom of the temporarily lightless living room, we met up with a long-distance cyclist called Matt who was travelling the other way, and we compared notes while I coveted his shoes: Teva-style sandals with cycle cleats on the soles. My cycle shoes have been absorbing water like sponges, yet I’ve become addicted to those cleats: it’s a good feeling, clicking your shoes onto the pedals. Efficient and purposeful. Edward seems to think its all nonsense, like energy gel, designed to part impressionable cyclists from their money, and Ewa seems quite content as she is – so I must pursue my quest for the Perfect Shoe on my own. Edward has noted, quite correctly, that I find it hard to pass a cycle shop without popping in – who knows why? I think I just like the ambience. But now, at least, I have an excuse.
