I rolled down the hill and home, and sat at the kitchen table seeing stars. The hollow stare of a (hungry) Vietnam vet. I inhaled a cheese sandwich without chewing. Slurped a cup of tea without pause. Slowly, the creeping kilojoules soaked into my system and I returned to something resembling life.
The truth is, I’ve never ridden faster than when fuelled by samosas. And I’m not talking about the kind of limp, beige affairs you find on the deli-counter at Sainsbury’s, but whacking-great triangles of crisp, bubbling pastry, filled with enough spice to have you tasting them most of the way up the big climb of the evening.