That’s it. The cleats have got to go. Last night Jo and I managed a quick blast on the bikes (my new racer’s first outing in over a week) around the Reading area. I had the vain hope that being in the countryside would mark an end to uncertainty at traffic lights and I would be free as a bird.

Apart from getting slightly lost (pretending not to be), it was all going ok. That is, until I hit a slight incline, changed gear, got the chain caught, looked down-then-up in a kind of Wallace and Gromit fashion, realised I was screwed, had one second exactly to get my cleats out of the peddles, called for help (don’t ask me why), failed, fell over in slow motion, then just lay there embarrassed while Jo just fell about laughing.

And there was me worried about the swim. I’ve also realised that Jo is also a better cyclist too. So we’re even on running and she’s literally twice as quick at swimming. Not that I’m being competitive or anything.

I’m not even thinking about how much quicker Armgard’s going to be - I think our time difference will be measured in hours, rather than minutes.