To polish off several beers, a cider, a steak dinner (with extra frites) and a couple of bottles of Vin Rouge on a Saturday night, then proceed to pace the shit out of everyone on an early Sunday morning sportive.
As Dave pulled up at the side of the lane to unload his breakfast into the hedgerow, between heaves he considered the night before. Barry had drunk easily twice as much, and yet here he was, half a mile up the road, cheerily pacing the field up the climbs as they struggled to stay on his wheel. An Anquetil if ever there was one, and an utter bastard, thought Dave.
Term courtesy of @Jas_2013in2013
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