I am... (this morning)

Before the appointed hour, I am awake.
Round the bed I creak to switch off the alarm.

Through the box under the bed I rummage.
Where has Margaret hidden my special clippy shoes?
Trussed up in lurid tight Lycra, like a vain deluded night-clubber,
In broken heals I hobble downstairs.

I swallow down hot porridge eaten as if it were medicine (or illicit drugs).
Click goes the front door.
I am a cyclist!