Or, in this particular case, failing to order pie at the pub lunch stop.
To be fair to my Rough Stuff Fellowship ride companions, their reaction to my pint of Coke and ham salad baguette – a combo which I thought at the time was a good choice of mid-ride re-fuel – was confined to a bit of light joshing and, maybe, a suggestion that it was a simple reflection of my geographical location (“southern softie!”, delivered with a grin). But still. Everyone else, to a (wo)man, was refuelling with pie. Lots of pie. With mountains of chips. And gravy. And a pint (or two, of real ale) to wash it down.
The menu, it turned out, was pie-heavy. And that was a deliberate choice. Most of the group had probably been eagerly anticipating their pies all morning. I could hardly have felt more limp-wristed if I'd turned up in a working men's pub and ordered a gin and diet tonic.
The odd thing was, it didn't matter.
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© Seb Rogers / Cranked 2015
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