What’s in my bag?

My dad used to say that you shouldn’t ever look in a lady’s bag (especially my mum’s) but I’m going to break that rule now.

After Highworth and the high hill, I met the national cycle way towards Cirencester and a lycra-clad older man sped his way past me, slowing down to say something to the effect of ‘they’re a heavy set of paniers you’ve got.’  Before that I hadn’t paid much attention to the bags hanging on the back of my bike, which I was relieved everything had fitted into, but since then I’ve been regretting my sheer delight and relief that everything did fit in.  Weight, I’d just not considered it.  Maybe that was why the hill was so hard.

Anyway the guy didn’t stop long – he sped off with only a light backpack clinging to his purple lycra shirt, leaving me ambling along behind. 

Why did I bring my tent, the two pairs of trainers, waterproofs, shorts, skirt, two gas canisters, saucepans and cutlery, not to mention the trackies, flipflops, jumper, sleeping bag and mattress? I wondered.