On the floor

Yesterday I purchased my first pair of cycling shoes with cleats. They look very smart, black and chrome and make me look like I know what I'm doing, which I don't. What the shop assistant didn't tell me was that they take a fair amount of getting used to. I liked the reassuring click they made when the shoes fastened themselves to the pedals. I could picture the Champs Elysée already and the finish line in front of me. But of course when I came to an intersection and had to stop, I couldn't get the blasted shoes off the pedals again. It was quite embarrassing to topple over in slow motion, several times I might add, with both feet bolted irrevocably to the pedals. The other thing the shop assistant told me was that when you fall, the shoes separate automatically from the bike. He made it sound like magic. Yeah right.

There I was on the pavement, on the road, on the piste, with my feet tangled in the inner workings of the bike like we were part of the same evil organism.
Then later that evening I spoke to Alex, a relocated Englishman and a competition grade cyclist to boot. Alex is the sort of Englishman who not only looks like he knows what he's doing, he really does know what to do.
"You see those two screws on each pedal?"
"Uh huh." I didn't want to admit that I'd seen the screws but didn't quite know what they were for. 
'Just adjust them and you'll be ok.'

There must be a life lesson in there somewhere but I'm much too sore to look for it.

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