Torn in seven places

To Mount Faber, 99 km. I'm cycling so hard, the sweat flows copiously and drips down on my top tube. My knobbies hum, sounding more melodious than my laboured breathing. Today is my last full day of training before next week's Bike N Blade charity ride. I'm wearing my newest - and "holeiest" - bikeshorts. They aren't holy as in "blessed" but they went through a baptism of fire when I crashed in them on 6 May. A seamstress patched them up. They look OK but there's some chafing. This is an expensive sport. I should've picked something more sedate, like chess or knitting, which I can do in a rocking chair. I see some oldies on high-end road bikes. I shudder to think what I'll be like at their age; I hope I too can tear around the roads at that age. In a decade's time or so, I'll get a road bike.