Whatever that means
My position as Strava King of the Mountains on a small hill in Angus, a minor and dubious achievement in the first place, was shortlived. I don’t think it even lasted 24 hours before the bloke that took it off went out to take it back.
Although the conditions were good – no wind – I also failed to better Joe’s time on the Cramond prom but the gap’s a good bit less so maybe the next westerly wind will let me get the extra 11 seconds I need.
Apart from that it was a Monday that only distinguished itself by the clownish proportions of the trousers I casually plucked from the wardrobe. I don’t remember buying a pair that were much too big so it was simultaneously pleasing and horrifying to think that at some point they fitted.