There always comes a time when you know you need to pull up stumps, cut your losses, get out while the going’s good. It’s those times when your words don’t quite form coherent sentences and the barman looks at you like he’s about to call security, even though he’s only served you one drink and it’s the middle of the day. When you make that uncomfortable joke that only elicits a few hushed sniggers and a couple of groans. When you miscalculate the angles and kiss your girlfriend’s mum on the lips as your hand lands way too close to her bosom. Or when you say ‘yes’ to one of Jonty and Asher’s bicycle rides.

You hear about them weeks in advance, and try to forget it as quickly as possible. You avoid any contact, looking the other way as you ride past his shop, knowing he’s seen you but pretending you’re lost or have suddenly contracted Alzheimer’s. You delete his details from your phone and claim you don’t answer unknown numbers because of, you know, scammers. Yet somehow, you still find yourself milling around early on a Sunday morning while he swaps out chainrings to something ridiculously low, heralding what is about to come, imbibing espresso shots that you didn’t really want but still took anyway. You look at all the other bikes and find yourself double/triple/quadruple guessing your choice as probably the wrong one. There will be times throughout the day when it’s the perfect choice, but mostly not.

You will marvel at the scenery of the beautiful city you inhabit, and curse its geographical bastardry as you scramble up another set of stairs, or slide down a greasy bank too steep to ride. You’ll wonder where the fuck you are, disoriented after five hours without much food before you pop out of yet another laneway with a “ah now I know where we are!” and then postulate why it took an hour to make it ten minutes down the road. Choice words will be uttered, then mumbled, then yelled, but their intent is never one of discontent or malice. It’s all in good fun, a bit of a laugh, even if your legs are telling you otherwise.

And when the beers have been drained and the chips are all gone, you know the end’s in sight, with just a short crawl home, a few more minutes on the end of many hours, the pain subsided and the endorphins ready for bed, they do it to you again. Another long short cut, another set of stairs, another hour to make it ten minutes, another sick joke with a punchline easily missed but not funny anyway.

What a great day.