“And anyway, I drove up to Ludlow to buy a aluminium 5-bear split-shift fork”.

We are trapped in a pub with an Anorak!

“You can't get them anymore because they stopped making them in 1946, but I know a bloke, you see”, the Anorak confides.

Hamish, Sioned and I have just climbed the Sugarloaf mountain and are in desperate need of refreshment.

We settle in a convenient pub and sigh lovingly at our pints. The Wales-Ireland match is playing in the background and this is indeed, heaven. Pub. Pint. Rugby.

We have stomped our way uphill through snow and this was the carrot. I smile inside and reach for my pint.

At that moment, I notice the bloke at the next table is watching us. He is listening to our conversation.
I quickly look away. Sioned keeps talking. She mentions her mountain bike.

Too late! He moves in for the kill.

“Are you cyclists?” He asks.

Hamish makes polite noises of agreement. I nod.

"I'm a professional cyclist", he tells us. He is fat and pushing 70.

Sioned blinks at this. She quickly points out that although we all own push-bikes, none of us are professionals. I detect a hint of sarcasm.

This, however, is of no consequence to the Anorak. He has performed the classic textbook Anorak's Entrapment Technique, as set out in chapter 4 of 'The Official Guide to being a Boring Bastard (edition 2), 1939'......... and we have fallen for it!

We glance at each other, nervously.

• First rule of avoiding anoraks: Never EVER, under any circumstance, make eye-contact.
• Second rule of avoiding anoraks: Never EVER, respond to anything an anorak says.
• Third rule of avoiding anoraks: Move house if possible, or if trapped behind a pub table, hack off any limbs that are preventing you from getting out and crawl, bleeding and twitching towards the door.

“Yes, I own 30 bikes”, he says, not listening to anything we say.

Sioned stares into her pint. “That's nice”.

“I've probably spent £50,000 on them, over the years”, he adds, warming up. “I keep them all in my loft”.

“Aye, that's great”, observes Hamish, with spectacular fake enthusiasm.

"I don't believe in carbon-fibre, that's for nancies", he says. "I bought a frame last week that is weighed down with 12 tons of lead and a sherman tank, for stability. Bargain, only two grand. I'll add a four-berth 8-jointed bungalow with a 6-iron and I'll probably use it to go to the supermarket a couple of times, before I stick it in the loft with all the others", he informs us.

I try using emergency telepathy but both Sioned and Hamish have lost the will to live. They are clearly contemplating Rule 3.

“I cycled from Galway to Dublin, a couple of years back”, I offer.

The Anorak isn't interested.

“I used to cycle 12 times around the Isle of Man, and then cycle across the sea and cycle up every mountain IN THE WORLD, before breakfast”, he informs us.

“That's nice”, says Sioned.

“And I once cycled to the MOON, without an oxygen tank, on a bike without any gears”.

We are defeated. Life is no longer worth living.

“And that's when I had to buy a hand-made load-bearing 3lb cotter pin from ebay, and I had to cycle to Saudi Arabia to get it because I didn't want to pay the postage”. The Anorak is in full flow.

"Back then, I only had one leg, but I sprayed the stump with WD40 and it grew back within a week".

Agreeing heartily, we down our beers and, tall stories flying dangerously past our heads, we make a break for the door.