For some, Easter is about religion.
For many, it’s about bunnies and chocolate.
No-one really knows why, but bunnies are cute, and none of us are keen to dig too deep for fear of messing up a pre-approved excuse to eat chocolate.
So we keep our heads down and go with it.
For the cyclist, however, it gets complicated. It’s a time of guilt, remorse, and punishing hill repeats.
It’s particularly difficult for those of us with kids for whom there is chocolate, literally, everywhere. I have eaten so much chocolate this Easter that it no longer has a distinguishable flavour. My olfactory system is convinced that ‘chocolate’ is just what my mouth naturally tastes of.
I find myself wandering around the house popping brown things into my mouth. I’m arguing with my kids about how early is too early to be eating chocolate. I’ve managed to tie myself in a morally dubious knot where drinking alcohol naturally comes before eating chocolate in the pecking order of naughty things.
I have to crack a beer around 10.30 every morning just to clarify my point with a visual reminder.
“But what about the guilt, remorse, and punishing hill repeats?” I hear you ask, helpfully guiding me back towards the point (such as it is) of the story.
It’s simple (and if you are one of those cyclists who keeps at least half an eye on your weight, will barely need further explanation).
If things have gone to plan, by April you will have spent two or three months diligently chiselling the body of a cyclist from whatever raw material you’ve got to work from. In my case, a forty year old father of two with a penchant for pies and one eye permanently alert for donuts.
This year I’ve gone all in; dairy free, yeast free, alcohol free, and easy on the donuts (because we’ve all got a dark side, after all).
And yet here I am, at risk of carelessly undoing all that work because every flat surface in my house seems to have chocolate, in one form or another, perched upon it.
I’ve spent so long riding my bike in the last few days, to burn off everything I’ve scoffed, that my kids think I’ve moved out.
Which leaves them rightly wondering who exactly is eating all their chocolate.