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

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