Stage 8: As The Tour Bears its Teeth, Tiredness Bites.

Yesterday was a day all about tomorrow, which is today and will soon be yesterday. Today is followed by tomorrow which part of today should have been about, if you follow. I have to confess that it wasn’t. Which might be an issue when tomorrow comes. That makes sense to me, but I’m tired and weary and might not make sense to you.

Today was a tough day. Every day now is tougher than the last. That might be because the stages are progressively longer and higher and steeper. Or it be in part due to increasing fatigue, the cumulative effect of 8 hard days on the bike. Part of it too, might be lack of sleep. We are only getting around 6 hours a night and precious little time to relax in between. That means recovery times are affected and that means more tiredness. If you forgive the pun, it’s a vicious cycle. Legs are beginning to throb. Arses are beginning to chafe, hands hurt from gripping the bars, feet hurt from pushing the pedals, skin hurts from too much sun, eyes are heavy from lack of sleep. But I say this not for sympathy. God no. I am having the time of my life. Every day is special and brings a new challenge.

Today wasn’t a great day (it was still fantastic, but it had its challenges). It started off well, with a good group ticking off the miles nicely. Then at the bottom of the climb things started to go a little awry. A puncture and a pump that didn’t work = frustration. The puncture took longer than it should have to fix. Big Phil took a bullet and stayed with me to help me fix the puncture and pace me back to the main group. He didn’t need to, but he did, and for that I am hugely grateful.

Then Phil and I missed a turn on the climb and ended up doing 6k of fruitless climbing, and blowing our chance of getting back to the group. Then my gears started to fail, meaning I had to get off and manually shift my gear into the wee ring, and god did I need the wee ring. Then I started to bonk half way up the climb and had to pull the emergency rip chord and take a gel.

The Port de Pailheres and I have an unhappy history. A few years ago I did the same climb and near passed out at the top. I managed the climb better this time, but not as well as I really wanted. She didn’t beat me today, but it was a score draw at best. I am going to have to go back…

Today will soon be yesterday and tomorrow is fast hoving into view and it’s a really tough stage. Five categorised climbs, four Cat 1s and a Cat2. That means serious hills. I might regret not thinking about it until now.

It’s late, well it’s late in my little bubble, and I am dog tired. I have breakfast at 0530 and need to get all my stuff together before that. Sorry this entry was so brief. There is so much I want to say and so many stories I have to tell. But they will have to wait. Right now, more than anything I need my precious 6 and a half hours sleep. I’m sure you will understand.

From Ax Les Therme,

N

Stage 7: Bonjour Mr Mistral, we have been expecting you. Now bugger off.

Today was a day that was all about tomorrow. That’s not to decry the stage today, or underestimate its difficulty. It’s just that tomorrow is going to be a belter.

First today… The mistral blew and blew hard. Right in our faces for 80 odd miles. That made a tough stage even harder. The accumulated climb was the highest we have had to date, and this was definitely the hardest stage we have had, until tomorrow. Everything is in reference to tomorrow.

Today didn’t go quite to plan. Big Phil punctured and he and I were left on our own to deal with the Mistral. It was not a day to be isolated, but we had little choice, and I couldn’t have found a better guy to work with for nearly 40ks to get back to the bunch.

Through circumstance and bad planning I spent a lot of today either on the front or on my own, which was unfortunate. I have kept a lid on my efforts to date, however, I allowed myself a little blow out on a couple of later climbs. My legs felt great, I just hope I didn’t over do it.

The biggest concern is strange noises coming from my bottom bracket. The initial prognosis was not good, the bike is currently in the sick bay and I’m praying that the mechanics can make it good.

Tomorrow sees us in the Pyrenees. I have done a couple of the climbs before and was broken by the first. I cant wait to get up and at it.

On the subject of getting up, breakfast is at 0545 tomorrow, so it’s a 5am alarm call. Sorry it’s a short one, but I gotta get some sleep.

From Albi

N

Stage 6: The Lantern Rouge

It was past Loch Katrine, just on the rise out of Stronachlacher when we came across two cyclists who were stranded at the side of the road with a puncture. I was out with a couple of club mates on a ride and we stopped to see if the guys were OK. Its super bad etiquette to pass a fellow cyclist on the side of the road. It turned out that one of them had a puncture but no repair kit. We helped him get the tyre off the rim and tried to find the puncture, in order to patch it. No luck. Dave threw him a new inner tube, the guy was reticent to take it, but Dave would hear none of it. The guy wanted to take Daves phone number and address with the promise that he’d drop him in the money or replace the tube.

‘Don’t worry about it, mate’ Dave said, with a wave of his hand ‘Just pass it down the line’.

And with that we were off.

Todays stage was flat and relatively short at ‘only’ a hundred miles. However, we got our first taste of the Mistral today. It mostly seemed to be in our face and it made the stage harder than we had anticipated. When our expectations of an easy stage were dashed, it makes the stage even harder. It's evidence, if ever evidence were needed, that there are no easy stages. Just some stages that are harder than others.

Cycling is a metaphor for life in so many ways, and today I was taught another lesson.

The greatest achievement is not always in winning the race or being the fastest or strongest. Cycling is all about suffering and there can be heroism in that suffering, regardless of where you finish in the race.

The group of riders has definitely split into a number of sections. There are the racing snakes who are determined to rip up the course and get home as fast as possible, bagging as many Strava King of Mountains as possible. There are those who are determined to get home as fast as they can, but not destroy themselves in the process and there are the plodders (and I, in no way, mean that pejoratively); those who are just trying to get round, who have probably not done as much training as they would have liked or have perhaps underestimated exactly what they have taken on. For the plodders every day is a struggle, and the temptation to throw in the towel is ever present. Everyone will go through a dark day on this trip. However, the plodders dark days are darker and more frequent (sometimes they come round daily).

I rode with one of the plodders today. Ally is a great guy but he is suffering. Every day has been a struggle and I said to him last night that I would ride with him today and try and help him round. I have been in his position before, and its no fun.

So, I pulled Ally along for a hundred odd miles. It perhaps took me an hour or so longer to get home that it would otherwise, but that is nothing in the grand scheme of things. But I was rewarded with a front row seat of a show of great guts and determination, which was quite humbling. He kept turning those pedals when I know he was hurting and in a dark place, he could have climbed into the broom wagon at any time, but he kept on keeping on. He might not realise it, but there is glory and heroism in that kind of suffering and I admire that far more than any king of the mountain.

Truly, je te tire mon chapeau.

He tried to thank me afterwards, but there is honestly no need.

Just pass it down the line.

Tomorrow sees us reach the foothills of the Pyrenees. We haven’t had a difficult stage yet, and tomorrows wouldn’t be classed as one of the really tough stages. However stage 8 and 9 see us in the Pyrenees proper. That’s when the fun, and by fun I mean suffering, will really start.

From Montpellier,

N

Stage 5. Hobbits have 2 breakfasts.

What day is it today? Hmmm… not sure

What time is it? Nearly lunch time. Its always nearly lunch time.

Where am I? Hmmm… not sure. I think I might be between Nice and Marseille, but it might have been yesterday that I was in Nice or maybe that’s tomorrow. Im pretty sure I’m in France though.

Where did I stay last night? Hmmm…. Not sure. See above.

What did you have for dinner tonight? Oh, I know that one. Pasta with some form of meat in a stew. Followed by cold custard or an apple pie made with cold custard. It was nice. But took an age to be delivered and there wasn't enough of it. 

Where are you going to tomorrow? Hmm… not sure. We just follow the arrows and we get there eventually.

Life is pretty regimented at the moment.

0530 alarm clock goes. Sort my shit out for the day

0630 breakfast – massive breakfast.

0700 make sure my bike has pumped up tires and check I have my luggage in the right place for pickup

0730 Swing my leg over the bike and start pedalling until I see a sign saying ‘Revitalment’. Which is French for stop.

0930 Stop for second breakfast

0945 Swing my leg over the bike and start pedalling until I see a sign saying ‘Revitalment’. Which is French for stop.

1200 Stop for lunch

1230 Swing my leg over the bike and start pedalling until I see a sign saying ‘Revitalment’. Which is French for stop.

1400 Stop for second lunch

1410 Swing my leg over the bike and start pedalling until I see a sign saying ‘Revitalment’. Which is French for stop.

1600 Stop for lunch number three

1610 Swing my leg over the bike and start pedalling until I see a sign saying ‘Revitalment’. Which is French for stop.

1800 Je suis fini.

1810 some wee snacks to tide me over to dinner

2000 Dinner

2200 Sort my shit out for tomorrow

2300 Go to bed.

Repeat. 

The most observant amongst you will have noticed that we eat a lot. These lunch stops are not just for small snacks, we eat like horses. We are burning 5-6000 calories a day just with the cycling. That’s 4 times what we would normally burn. Even with that exercise I am still going to put on weight, I think. I noted down what I have eaten today. As I know it will make riveting reading.

Breakfast1

2 pancakes with maple syrup

Bowl of granola

Yoghurt (my preference is strawberry, but strawberry yoghurt is in short supply in France. So often times I slum it with peche)

4 sausages

5 potatoes

2 chocolate croissant

2 normal crossant

1 glass of orange juice

Breakfast 2

1 slice of custard pie

handful of peanuts

Half a Danish pastry

Bread with rasins in it

Half a chocolate croissant

2 sponge fingers

1 hard biscuit thing. Might have been a biscotti. But I don’t know what a biscotti is. However if I were to imagine a biscotti, it would look like this thing. Regardless, they are very tasty, although very hard. Perhaps not recommended if you don’t have your own teeth. If you do have your own teeth you may not after one of these bad boys. 

Snack stop

1 waffle smothered in chocolate – dam they are good.

Lunch stop

2 glasses of coke

Ham and cheese baguette

Three slices of something like pizza but with no cheese, but with an olive oil on top

A thing like a pizza but with fried onions instead of tomatos and anchovies instead of cheese. Wasn’t a fan of this to be honest. But when in Rome... (Are we in ROME?). 

4 slices of the best quiche I've ever had. 

I lost count of the number of water melon slices I had.

Two wee bits of bread with an unidentified topping on. It looked like pate, but I don’t think it was. Salty. 

Two cup cakes decorated with a wee bicycle. Not sure of flavour but one was lurid orange and the other lurid yellow. If I closed my eyes they were delicious. Not sure how many calories the rice paper bicycle added. 

Four squares of chocolate

Second lunch stop

2 chocolate waffles

raisin bread x3

Some pretzels

Yellow cake x2

Tonnes of water melon

Afternoon tea stop

2 cans of coke (drank one and dropped the other. It exploded and sprayed all over someone’s very expensive bike. He wasn’t best pleased)

Half a chocolate waffle – how abstemious

2 slices of water melon

Finish snack

Handful of pretzels

1 slice of yellow cake

1 Muesli bar

1 slice of water melon

1 can of diet coke (got to watch the figure, after all)

Dinner

Crudités de vegetables (uncouth vegetables for those not au fait avec le francais)

Chicken on a stick

Fruit salad. 

It's not just an insane amount of miles we  are wracking up. All those calories take a lot to get through. 

It was a tough day today. It was long.  But I had expected flat. Unfortunately it was the day with the most accumulated ascent so far. A long and hot day in the saddle. Still, the scenery was sensational. Again.

Better go. It must be nearly lunchtime. 

From marseille,

N

Stage 4: Chewing the Pave

Feet up, Resting. You wont see a finer example of the 'rest' anywhere in pro cycling.

Cycling produces some wonderful imagery; from the peleton cruising past bright yellow sunflowers, to the vertigo inducing back drop of the alps. The French summer sun creates a palette of colours that simply aren’t available under a driech Scottish sky. But not to be out done by their photo journalistic colleagues the cycling’s written press also paint equally vivid pictures. For a start there are the nicknames given to the cyclists, lurid, often blood thirsty, always memorable: The Cannibal, il Pirata (the Pirate), the Badger, elle Pistelero (the gun slinger), the Tashkent Terror, the Eagle of Toledo, Spartacus, The God of Thunder, il Diablo to name but a few. Oh and not forgetting Poupou, the hacks must have had an off day with that one. You’d be gutted if your pal was assigned ‘The Cannibal’ and you drew ‘Poupou’ out the hat. The fact it was Raymond Poulidour – one the finest cyclists ever would just add insult to injury. Poupou was the ‘eternal second’ to Jacques Antquitel (Monsoir Chrono) and Eddy Merkx (the Cannibal). I can’t help thinking that the respective nicknames must have had something to do with him never winning any of the Grand Tours. After all if someone shouts, ‘Crikey, here comes Poupou over the hill’, its hardly likely to strike the same level of fear as if you turn round to see a Cannibal breathing down your neck.

Forgive me, I digress… Now, where was I? Yes… Imagary.

Even the races are given, well, racey nicknames. Like the ‘Race to the Sun’ or the ‘Derby of the Road‘. Paris – Roubiax is often referred to as ‘The Hell of the North’ (l’Infer du Nord’) and is run over Napoleonic, cobbled roads in the north of France. The ‘Pave’ are so rough you wouldn’t think it possible to ride a bike over them. As a result you often see the riders do everything they can not to ride on the roads, bumping up onto the pavements or the grass verge.

Today saw us tackle the team time trial (TTT) circuit. In what is sure to be another photogenic stage in the beautiful town of Nice. The turquoise water of the Med and the golden sandy beaches will give a sumptuous back drop to what is always a spectacle. The sight of 12 riders riding as one in close unison, at speeds of 60kph is always a site to behold.

I think it would be stretching things for our, at times, motley progress to be described in such poetic tones. Our journey was, hindered somewhat by the injudicious placing of a number of traffic lights and compulsory stop signs and the occasional need for one our number to stop and go for a piss. As a result I don’t think that the time we put down, although stiff, will be beaten with a great deal of difficulty.

We jumped off the ferry from Corsica this morning about 8am and were all done our cycling for the day by about 10. The remainder of the day has been spent resting.

Resting is a crucially important part of any Grand Tour and one of the few areas where I feel I can truly compete with the worlds best. I am, even though I say it myself, pretty dam good at the resting and it is something that I take incredibly seriously. To this end I have been sitting on my arse all day, variously eating, dosing, typing and keeping out the sun. The latter has been a real sacrifice, given that we are in Nice and in a hotel with a private pool and a private beach complete with perfect golden sands and chokka block with beautiful people. But, dear reader, rest assured that my iron will and discipline has not wavered.

My battles with the French language continue, on the menu for lunch number 1 (there was also a lunch number 2) were a Pave roll and Otter flavour crisps. I, like the pros avoided the Pave roll, I figure that if they are too hard to ride on then they are probably too hard to chew on. I’m not sure if it was curiosity or hunger that got the better of me, either way, I got tore into the otter flavour crisps and can report back that they were quite magnificent. I can reveal that Otter flavour crisps taste a lot like ready salted, should you ever be faced with such and ethical dilemma yourself.

I’m off… I need to get another 30 minutes resting in before dinner and I’m not sure I’ve got enough time.

From Nice,

n

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Stage 3: A picture paints a thousand words.

Every corner, a picture postcard.

When I was a kid and we went on holiday my Mum always used to insist that I kept a holiday scrap book or diary. Every night after dinner we were forced, under considerable duress, to sit down and write a diary entry. I used to hate doing my diary entries. To such an extent that the initial frisson of excitement that a vacation brings to a child, would rapidly dissipate when I realised that a holiday was no holiday - it was hard graft, because of this forced diary writing. Sometimes it’s the injuries that have no visible scars that cause most pain.

As I get older I realise that my mother was right about so many things. It pains me more than you can understand to admit this, particularly as my mother might be reading this blog. She was right about the diary too. Looking at those old diaries now brings back so many memories. They are treasured items.

I still find it hard to sit down and write this diary, often there is a lack of inspiration as to what to write. ‘What I did today’ entries are, after all, boring to write and boring to read. Some days the entries write themselves, but on other occasions they can be a real struggle. Today is such a day.

I am sitting on the ferry from Corsica to Nice, the sun is rising over a becalmed sea, the sky a pastel pink and the sea a gently rolling slate gray. I have been reflecting on yesterdays ride from Ajaccio to Calvi. Thinking about how I can describe it. But I cant. I don’t have a vocabulary to do it justice. If I were to try it would risk sounding like hyperbole.

So I will simply say this:

Yesterday was the best day I have ever had on my bike.

It made the hard training during the winter, the vomitron and the crashes worthwhile.

The road from Ajaccio to Calvi is simply stunning. If you ever get the chance to drive it then you should. If you ever pass up the chance to ride it, then I may never speak to you again. High, dramatic, vertiginous mountains, crashing down into seas that look like they were made from crushed sapphires. Rock sculptures, of the deepest ochre, set against a clear sky of almost luminous blue. Surf crashing against white sandy beaches. Beautiful climbs, leading to wide sweeping fast descends. And these were not isolated features. There was a hundred miles of eye popping, jaw dropping, scenic pornography. Every corner brought a new picture postcard vista.

I have been wracking my brains to think of a better road I have ridden. I haven’t come up with one.

Yesterday was perfect.

They say a picture speaks a thousand words. So I am going to shut up and let the pictures to the talking. My camera is far more articulate than I.

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Monday July the 1^st. Mark it in your diary. If you only watch one stage of the tour then this should be it. Only then will I be able to tell you how wonderful this stage was.

From the middle of a gently rolling Mediterranean sea,

n

PS oh... I'm using twitter, if you would like to follow me in real (ish) time then I will be twittering/ tweeting/ tweetering from @neillkemp

Stage 2: El Gringo

Cycling is a simple sport. You pedal as fast as you can over a set distance and the person who finishes first wins. If it’s hilly, the man who is most powerful with respect to his weight will win. If its flat them man who is most power will win. Power and weight are therefore important. Be as powerful as you can be and as light as you can be. Simple.


I love my bike. I love being on my bike. I love being on my bike cycling with pals and shooting the breeze to let the miles wash by. I love being on my bike on my own, alone with my own thoughts with nothing but the soothing noise of chain on cog for company. I love going slow on my bike taking in the scenery. I love going hard on my bike so that you taste blood in your saliva and you see blue spots infront of your eyes. I just love being on my bike.


That I love cycling, should come as no surprise given my current endeavour, I guess. However, ask me any technical detail about cycling and I haven’t a clue nor an interest.


There has been much talk amongst the my fellow riders over the last couple of days about the finer points of mechanical set up. I am afraid that when the conversation starts to turn to tubs vs clinchers, compact vs standard or god forbid, gear ratios, my eyes glaze over, I stop listening and start to think about chocolate. I have come to the conclusion, therefore, that boring bike chat is not only bad for your mental health, but it’s not great for your cycling either.

Today was a great, great day on the bike. A beautiful sunny day wall to wall blue sky and some of the views to die for. The hills were long, but not too steep as to make your progress painful. I was still able to set a steady pace and spin the legs. A much more enjoyable day than yesterday. I continue to take things easy, but am still managing to get home in plenty of time to relax before dinner. My legs feel good and I am happy with how things are going. Things will undoubtedly get tougher, but right now, things are tickety boo.

Oh, and if you are interested in the technical details. I cycled up the hills on the smallest ring at the front and the biggest ring at the back. When I was going down I was in the big ring at the front and the wee ring at the back. Occasionally I did vary my gear selection, but generally followed the same formula. I have had a modicum of success with it so I think I will continue. Number of teeth? Haven’t a notion.

Real TdF

The hills today were OK, not hugely long or steep. I don’t think they will cause any great shakeup in the field. Although the last few kms are downhill after the initial steep declines it levels out a bit so a well organised train should bring any breaks back. There is a sting in the tail up the Cote du Salario, which I think will rule out Cavendish, even assuming he can hold on through the mountains. This stage will suit a Sagan or perhaps even Gilbert. I think Cav could hold onto yellow though.

Ramorra

‘Not one meter of flat’ according to the race director. Not particularly long at 145km, however it is bumpy. Depending on the wind direction, this could be the hardest stage in Corsica.

Apparently the road is stunningly beautiful, so it might be a day to take the camera.

Tomorrow night sees us getting the overnight ferry across to the mainland for the Time Trial in Nice.

From Ajaccio,

n


 
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Stage 1: All the Presidents Men*

It was famously said of Gerald Ford that he couldn’t walk and chew gum at the same time. I have always had some sympathy with Gerald, as multi tasking is not something that I have ever been particularly good at. I think I could manage to walk and chew gum, but then I am pretty sure Gerald Ford could too. But were I ever to be in the public eye, then I am sure that charge would be levelled at me, and we all know what happened to Gerald Ford (no? Neither do I. and that’s precisely my point).

Or maybe it was Ronald Reagan, who had trouble simultaneously masticating and moving. I’d check, but I cant get onto the interweb so I am having to fly by the seat of my pants here. Anyhow, it doesn’t really matter, its not important to the story, so you I'll let you choose your favourite.

It must have been Ford as I think Reagan was the ‘Great Communicator’, and I don’t usually know more than one thing about any president. But then it might have been Gerald Ford, who was a communication dab hand. Dam you internet for not being available. Anyhow, it doesn’t really matter, its not important to the story, so you I'll let you… etc

I am not one to mettre le vent dans mes trombone, as I believe they say in France. However, I have a natural gift for languages. Communicational abilities are absolute necessitudes in today’s society and I have them in shovels. Regan might well have been the great communicator, but in how many languages, huh? 

Today it finally arrived, after months of waiting we set off south at 0730 on our own Tour de France. The start of things like this are always wonderful. The much anticipated has finally arrived and to say that I was excited this morning was an understatement. So much to look forward to, it was great to finally get tore in.
A relatively easy stage this. It was long at 200 odd km’s but it was mainly flat and despite an initial head wind we turned north after 40ks or so and were blown home by a stiff breeze. It was hot, but not overly so. Overall a wonderful day to be on the bike.

After we had finished the days stage and I had run myself under a shower, I nipped into downtown Bastia to try and secure myself a quick bite to eat to tide me over until dinner. I found myself a wee snack shop and strolled in. Being a polyglot of rare aptitude I was able to engage the proprietor in what appeared to be some humourous small talk. Homour, was not my objective, however. I had merely intended to ask how he was, but, in Corsica this appears to be the cause of deep mirth. I have found that whilst travelling it is important to respect other cultures, so who am I to decide what is funny and what is not?

I had a craving for a panini so ordered the good man to rustle me up one ‘toot sweet’. I did wonder why he was cutting up bananas and mixing them with nutella, but, these Frenchies take their chuck seriously and who am I to question their methods?

I understand that Corsica is a bilingual area of France and it appears that this particular chap was a rusty when it came to his French and I ended up with a chocolate and banana crepe. See these French? Their French is rubbish. 

I must confess that the crepe was nothing short of magnificent and precisely what I required, even if I was not aware of this fact at the time.

Unfortunately my sartorial choice had let me down this evening – 7hours in the Mediterranean sun does strange things to a mans mind. Rather than my usual stout brogue, I opted a rather natty pair of flip flops. I have never been a fan of the 'flop. They are fine if you intend not to walk, but are wholly unsuitable for a scouting mission to down town Bastia where one of the few requirements is to walk. Alas whilst I was eating my crepe, my attention was diverted from walking to savouring and the front of my flip flop got caught on a raised paving stone sending me flying headlong and narrowly missing a lamp post.

So perhaps I’m no Ronald Regan, but a definite Gerald Ford. Or maybe the other way round…

Real TdF

This stage is one for the sprinters. Between Porto Vecchio and Bastia there are no obstacles to thin the field. Its likely to come down to a mass cavalry charge at the end. Expect crashes as 200 fresh riders all try and get to the front to avoid… Crashes. If his Quickstep Team can control the race and keep Cavendish out of trouble then this he is a stick on. Cav to be in yellow on stage 2.

Ramorra

A tougher day in the saddle. Shorter at 156km but bumpier too. The first 95k’s are pretty much uphill as we cut right across the island and climb the wonderfully named Col de Vizzavona. This is our first chance to get our teeth into some climbing with two Cat 3 Climbs and 2 Cat 2 climbs. Its all down hill from Vizzavona to Ajaccio. Should be another great day of cycling.

Looks like Cavs stay in yellow will be a short one.
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From Bastia,
n

A Nice Pair of Teeth

‘So how far will you cycle when you go to France?’ A colleague inquired recently.

‘About 3 and a half thousand kilometers’ I replied.

‘Three and a half thousand kilometers?! Oooft! That’s huge! I hope your shoes fit well’

‘You hope my shoes fit well?’ I work in the public sector. Conversations often contain much repetition. It's one of the ways we can ensure we remain as inefficient as possible.

‘Aye, well you wouldn’t want to be getting blisters if you have to cycle 3 and a half thousand kilometers, would you?’ She looked at me like I was stupid. As she often does.

‘True. I guess. Except, I don’t plan to walk three thousand kilometres. It’s not blistered feet that you have to worry about when you’re cycling’

‘What it is you have to worry about, then?

‘Blisters on your arse’

‘OOOOOFT!’ The look of derision, turned to one of empathetic pain, then queue uproarious laughter. Sympathy is in short supply where I work.

There are many things that make me apprehensive about the next three weeks. The hills, the heat, the distance, the hills, the heat, injury, accidents, illness, the hills and the heat. All of these stand between me and Paris. But one of the things that I am most worried about are blisters on my arse. The saddle sore.  To call them sore is to do them an injustice. They should really be called mother ****ing saddle agonies and I hate them. If you, and there is no sane reason why you would, actively wanted to get a boil on your undercarriage then spending many hot hours in man made restrictive materials under a state constant friction would be the way you would choose. So its almost inevitable that someone will come down with a saddle sore. Scrupulous hygiene, the prophylactic and liberal application of an embrocation called chamois cream before you set off of a morning and a good old slather of Savlon after your finish won't stop you getting them, but it at least reduces your risk. Sometimes, thought they just happen, regardless of what  you do.

When Lauren Fignon lost the tour by 8 seconds in 1989 it is reported he had a boil the size of an egg on his erse and had to ride much of the final TT stage out of the saddle. It is little wonder that he suffered during that tour.

I am now in Corsica. And tomorrow the Grand Depart finally arrives. I didn’t sleep that well last night, but I was up at 0430 anyway to catch a flight, so it didn’t really make much difference. I’m excited and nervous with the occasional wave of panic at what I am taking on.

It's great to be in France. I have always fancied myself as a bit of a linguist and I have been testing my aptitude on the locals. They seem to speak a strange dialect of French here, and seem to have trouble understanding me. Which is odd, them being French and all. Still, I have struggled on the best I can. I managed to procure a rather tasty Ham and Cheese baguette at the airport, not what I was wanting, but hey – beggars can't be choosers.

Anyway, it’s late now and tomorrow is a biggest day. I have been training for this for so long. I am really excited about the next three days in Corsica. We have a flat stage tomorrow of 213km before a two hilly stages on Sunday and Monday. Its almost like a Tour de France in miniature, just to warm us up before the main event. A nice pair of teeth as I believe the say in France.

From Porto Vecchio

n