I don't mind giving a reasonable amount, but a pint! That's very nearly an armful!
With Tony Hancock's immortal words ringing in my ears, I rolled down the corridor to the bloodbank. The doctor had told me to warn the orderly I have a thing about blood samples and needles so as not to land them with a 'fainter' on their hands. The guy just shrugged, sat me down and started talking about football.
"Nobody likes having blood tests done," he said nonchalantly as he drained the very lifeblood from my right arm. "There you go... all done," he chirped, like a consoling mother telling her little soldier he'd been a very brave boy.
I swear I was a fair few shades whiter as I shuffled out of the clinic and headed straight for the newsagent to quell my enormous hunger. The blood test was the last in a three-pronged assualt on my person by the health services yesterday morning, which you may have read about in an earlier post. The ECG and chest x-ray were a breeze in comparison.
Somewhat wimpily, I felt too weak to do any training yesterday. It's now been some time since I sat on the trainer, but I am commuting on the steed more regularly, which I'm sure is helping. It's getting the two working in tandem that will be important in the coming weeks.
Balancing this out in no way at all is the fact that I've read thousands of words on how to train, what to eat, accessories I'll need and bikes to buy. Words that will be of great comfort when I'm burying myself in the side of a French mountain.