On the way to work yesterday, a woman ran across a road and excitedly approached me for what I assumed would be advice on directions or such like, "excuse me, are you the Real Radio Fugitive?", "eh, naw".

Is here

To describe the southern coast of Arran to the inexperienced/weak/unconditioned cyclist as "undulating" is, as discovered on Saturday, an understatement. "Undulating", conjured a scene of gentle braes dissecting a terrain less punishing than that of the North - not energy sapping, lactic inducing, gradual gradients followed by short periods of high speed freewheelin' (up to 42kmph in a head wind according to the high precision £6.99 on board computer). Having the sun on yer back rather that gale force winds and sleet in yer face might also have made things a bit easier. After 36 miles and briefly becoming stranded on the String Road, it was back to Brodick, three pints of Arran Blonde and then off to bed. Not even Match of the Day could keep me awake.

Felt quite chuffed with my top speed until I caught late night highlights of the Paris-Roubaix one day classic on Sunday evening, where competitors could reach 45kmph across cobblestone-paved roads.