2003-03-25 - 6:47 p.m.

Hahaha, I was kidding about the paraplegic-serving monkey, of course. The mountain biking weekend was lots of fun, in much the same way that being routinely tortured with a rusty bicycle pump must be fun. It was billed as a "beginners" weekend, though apparently this must be some strange usage of the word "beginner" that I was previously unaware of. It didn't really help that I laid into the strong continental lager on the first night, but I figured my whole approach to this assignment had been one of unswerving commitment to avoiding exercise, so what further harm could it possibly do? Of course, I was eating my words the next day on the first ascent, which felt like taking a unicycle up the outside of the Chrysler Building. Or at least I would have been eating them, had my mouth not been otherwise occupied by trying to suck in enough oxygen to compensate for about four years of complete physical inactivity.

Still, at the top of the peak, I was assured that the worst was over, though this must have been some strange usage of the word "worst" that etc, etc, etc. "This descent is a bit technical," the guide announced, obviously assuming that I was ready for the downhill section of my learning curve (granted, my learning curve in anything almost always takes a downhill parabola). Anyway, for "a bit technical", read "a boulder-fettered death gully that you'll hurtle down with all the grace and control of a psychotically disturbed Slinky, gripping on for sweet, sweet life as your saddle gets violently hammered into your lower abdomen". That was my interpretation, anyway. The rest of the first day alternated between tortuous and torturous inclines ("a quick tootle up the ridge" in guide-speak) and sheep-frightening downhills as you honed down yet another chunk of steep, unsuitable terrain. OK, it was a fifteen mile long picture postcard, but over scenery and a painless existence, I'll take being able to feel my hands and my nethers not having an unnecessarily intimate knowledge of my crossbar any day, Chester.

The second day is even better, because you start from a position of intense, searing pain (including the twin throbbing colossi of agony where it's said my buttocks used to be) and things can't really get any worse. Luckily, the session was half as long, thus preventing the need for me to garrotte myself with a break cable. "So, do you think you'll be coming back on one of our weekends?" one of my guides asked as I prepared to leave Biking Belsen. "Oh sure," I replied. "When a hostile race invades the country and forces everyone to participate in ridiculously masochistic sports for their deranged enjoyment." Actually, I just thought that last bit.