Shakedown Trials

'What the hell happened to you?' I asked him.

'Whaddya mean?' My dad asked puzzled

'Your face!'

'What's wrong with my face?'

'Where do you want me to start...' Interjected my mum. I turned to face her, to chastise her for

interrupting a potentially important diagnosis.

'And what the hell happened to you?' I asked her

'Whaddya mean?' My mum replied puzzled

'Your face!'

'What's wrong with my face?'

'Where do you want me to start' interjected my dad

I could sense a circular discussion coming on.

'You've got what looks like a bruise on the side of your jaw, mum. And your

face is... well... massive, Dad. You look like a melon on a toothpick'

They had just spent their first night in the Kempervan. 'Shake down' trials

my dad called them. I had met them in the back arse of nowhere before an

annual family picnic.

'You must have hit me when we were asleep' my mum said rubbing her face.

'I was probably trying to stop you from snoring'

'I'm surprised you could hear me snore over your snoring'

etc.

From the ensuing discussion, I gathered that the first night in the van was

a little uncomfortable. When my Mum described is a 'bijou' she wasn't

kidding. There is barely room in the back for two people to sit side by

side never mind sleep. The pop up roof is supposed to be used as a sleeping

berth. However Dad won't get up there on account of his vertigo and Mum wont

get up there on account of her claustrophobia.

They were camping at a local campsite and only after they had turned in for the night had they realised that they were parked on a very slight incline. The result being that their feet were above their heads. Understandably Dad wasn’t keen on getting up, unhooking the van and parking it the other way round. Somewhat less understandably my Mum wasn’t keen on lying the other way round in the camper. You see, she insists on sleeping with her head pointing towards the back door of the van. If her head is pointing towards the front seats, it affects her claustrophobia, and sleep is not possible for her, and by extension not possible for my dad, given that she supplies a minute by minute commentary on her lack of sleep. I did point out to her that you generally sleep with you eyes closed, so why would it matter. This thought was met with scorn.

I don’t know if you have ever slept with your feet above your head - its not he most comfortable of positions. They awoke next morning in a crumpled heap, jammed up against the back door. Once they had untangled their limbs, it became apparent the previous nights sleeping arrangements had been injurious to both. Mum with her bruised face and my Dad with his massive heid. Apparently 8 hours effectively suspended upside down had caused the blood to flow into his bonce. He now sported a face that looked like a football and a head so large it had its own weather system. His forehead had been stolen and replaced with a fivehead. I won't lie to you, he didn’t look great.

I asked him how he felt.

‘Well know you come to mention it I do feel a little light headed. I thought it was just the bottle wine we had last night’

‘Light headed?! Light headed? Are you kidding? It’s HUGE! Your head looks more massive than a medicine ball’

When I enquired how they had slept the response wasn’t overly encouraging. The van was pretty cramped, their sleeping bags were overly restrictive, leading them to believe, in their half conscious state, that they had been mummified and entombed – not a feeling conducive to a restful and refreshing nights sleep, I'll venture.

Although whilst my Father plainly wore the signs of an imperfect night rest, my Mother seemed quite sprightly.

‘It does look quite small in there’ I had observed.

‘Aye, we did “touch knees” a couple of times during the night’ Had been my mothers response, much to the mirth of my Aunts and Uncles who were also at our picnic.

Judging by the spring in my mothers step and the hang dog expression worn by my father, it looked like they had ‘touched knees’ a few times during the night.

‘If the caravan is a rocking – don’t come a knocking’ as I understand they say in the campervan fraternity. Never a truer maxim was uttered. If the caravan is a rocking, my mother is most likely chiding my father for his choice of parking place or trying to escape from her mummified tomb. My advice would be to leave them to it, you wouldn’t want to be interrupting that.

From Glasgow,
n

Etape of the World… and Back with a Bump

The Tiffosi after the Etape

‘Some days you’re the hammer… other days you’re the nail’

You may have seen reports in the press, back in September. Announcing my retirement from Triathlons.  No? Well you’re not alone. I had expected a little more fanfare, but this fact seems to have gone pretty much un-mentioned in the national media. I suspect they were too busy, caught up in the post Olympic fanfare and all that.

If truth be told, I wasn’t really a fan of triathlon. I don’t really like running and I’m a rubbish swimmer, so god alone knows what I was thinking when I decided that I was going to take on a Half Ironman. It was the swimming that I really hated. My coach commented that I had the wrong type of physique- a back end like an elephant and a top half like a sparrow. Which isn’t a good combination in life, never mind swimming. My body tended to the vertical when in the water – which more conducive to drowning than swimming. My natural focus on survival did not help with achieving a fast time. The other thing I hated was putting my head under the water. Not in the swimming pool, god no. That was fine. I quite liked immersing the old bonce in the warm chlorinated, clean water. But the problem with Triathlons is that they insist that they are done outside, and the problem with Triathlons on Scotland is that they insist they are done in Scotland. If anyone here has tried to swim in a Scottish Loch will know that they are absolutely Baltic. The deep water, the snow melt from the hills and the fact that the Scottish summer occurs one day in June, means the water is permanently just above zero.

Getting into the water is always miserable. Firstly there are all the jaggy rocks that you cant see on the floor of the Loch. I used to call it the ‘monkey walk’.

‘oooh, ahhh, oooh, oooh, oooooh, ahhh’

At the start of a triahlon if you close your eyes and listen its almost as if you are transported into a troupe of particular vociferous monkeys, as people gingerly wade into the loch and step on all the painful stones.

Then the water gets up to your thighs and your testicles make a beeline for your armpits - always particularly unpleasant. As you go deeper, and the water gets above your chest, its like the air gets slowly squeezed out your body, by a slowly tightening vice and it becomes difficult to breathe. Have you ever felt the need to stick your head in a vice? Thought not. Hence my reticence to stick the phisog into the aqua. My decision to retire did not take a whole lot of consideration.

That’s why I’ve never taken up surfing. I love the idea of it. I love the imagery of it. Except the imagery is always of some tanned be-muscled athlete in a pair of board shorts. I’d like to see him try that off the west coast of Scotland. He wouldn’t last long.

Give me a warm shark invested sea any day.

The fact that I’m luminous white and have muscles like knots in a midges penis has nothing to do with it either.

I imagine surfing to be quite a humbling sport. You are after all, at the mercy of powers that are far in excess of yours. You will have to work with the waves, make the best of whatever fare nature dishes up on any particular day.  No matter how good a surfer, you can’t ride a great wave if its flat calm. You cant do that really cool thing where they zipp along the inside of a breaking wave if you’re not lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time. Sure, you can maximise your chances and make sure you make the best of the opportunities that are presented. But ultimately you are at the mercy of the gods.

Cycle racing is like surfing, in a roundabout kinda way. In that so much of it is chance, so much of it you can’t control. On any given day just about anyone in the peloton could win, if they are in the right place at the right time. If the sun is shining on them and they have the favour of the gods, then they are in with a shout. Sure, the strongest riders will still win the most often but over one race, its anybodies.

There is a golden rule in cycling, an indisputable fact around which all tactics are based: The poor bugger at the front of the bunch is working far harder than anybody else. Not just a little bit harder either. He could be knocking his pan in whilst 7 bikes back, tucked in and out the wind his colleague could have his pipe out and his slippers on, feet up, enjoying a cup of tea and discussing the pressing issues of the day. The vagaries of aerodynamics mean that if the fella on the front wants to double his speed, he will have to cube his effort, meanwhile the chaps in the bunch will barely notice the difference.

Getting away from the bunch is a difficult too. Basically, you will only get away if the bunch lets you go. That means that your pace in dictated by the pace of the bunch. Basically, what I am trying to impress, dear reader, is that there is a lot of chance involved. Someday’s youre the hammer, other days you’re the nail.

One of my goals of this season was a good result in the Etape Caledonia. The Etape is a sportive run over closed roads in highland Perthshire. It attracts a field of over 5000 riders. One of my main targets for this year was a sub 3hr 50 time and I thought that I might be able to get into the top hundred riders.

The race was great. Right from the get go, the sun was out and there was barely a breath of wind. Because of the number of riders in the race, people are set off in bunches at two minute intervals. The fastest guys first. As a result you have no real idea what your relative position in the race is. As a result I was concentrating on my clock rather than position. I was in the second wave off and we made good pace. We made good time to Kinloch Rannoch and caught a bunch of riders just before we made it to Loch Rannoch. I had done a fair bit of pulling for the 20 miles to Kinloch Rannoch, so decided to sit in and hide from the wind for a while. A fair sized bunch had formed round the loch, which was blown apart by the time we got to the top of Schehallion. I lost sight of a group of riders on the ascent but by the time we were making our way through Glen Lyon we had formed into a group small enough that people were willing to work together. As a result we caught another group of riders. When the new group formed it became obvious that it was going to be too big to work together, and the terrain too flat for any breaks form. I sat in, content that my speed was such that I was going to easily get inside my target time. I didn’t know where about I was in the field; too far down to merit any kamikaze efforts, but far enough up to be confident of finishing in the top 100.

As we approached the last five miles, the pace increased and the quality of the riding decreased. Riders, some of whom were on the limit, started to take risks and make mistakes- never a good combination. I had in the back of my mind the tour and didn’t feel that the reward of 50^th as opposed to 51^st place merited taking any undue chances. So I continued to sit in. By the time we were in the finishing straight guys were busting a gut in the sprint, again I couldn’t see the value, so sauntered over the line. My time was 3hrs 36 mins. I had smashed my target time and I was absolutely delighted… Until I got a call from my Uncle to tell me that I had finished in 7^th place only 90seconds off a podium place. I felt fresh as a daisy. I was gutted!

In the interests of fairness, I have to point out that that standard of the field was pretty ordinary, however. Three days later I was competing in a 3^rd / 4^th cat race in East Kilbride with a field of only 50 riders. I finished in 15^th. And I was well and truly busted. That day I was definitely the nail.

From Pitlochry,
n

A Close Shave

Big Merv. Angry after a sea gull shat on his nose.

I remember it distinctly. Seared in my mind. It was 1989 and the Australians were touring England, trying to recapture the Ashes that they had given up in 1985. They didn’t stand a chance, so was the collective wisdom. They hadn’t won an away test series in donkeys and even then that was only one test against Sri Lanka; and they were barely recognised as a test playing nation. Terry Alderman was their strike bowler and he was made of glass, constantly injured and past his best, although he had seldom stayed fit enough for long enough to establish a ‘best’. He was a ‘has been’ that had never been.

The Aussies won the test series 5-0. Batting for day after day and bowling with metronomic and ruthless consistency. Alderman, in the form of his life was chief tormentor. And they were mean. By god they were mean. A motley crew of snarling, foul mouthed delinquents. As one wag put it ‘they didn’t just go for the jugular, they ripped it out and made balloon animals with it’.

But it wasn’t the cricketing excellence or the unflinching will to win that so impressed me. It was the laissez fair attitude they had to personal grooming. I had never seen such a bunch of hirsute and unkempt individuals. They looked like a band of swarthy, sweaty South American brigands fresh from raiding cattle on the high plain.

I had never seen anything like it. Border, Boon, Hohns, but most of all Merv Hughes.  Big ‘Merv the Swerve’. It was like a particularly hairy marsupial had stretched out and gone to sleep under big Merv nose. A huge hairy boomerang that covered fast expanses of his face.

The Victorian era was surely the zenith for facial hair.The moustache, the beard, the beard and moustache, the sideburns that were so luxuriant that they had their own hair style. It is perhaps fitting that Merv was (and is), in fact, a Victorian.

It was as if this Australian team had stepped on a plane in 1889 and arrived in London 100 years later. It really was super stuff.

I travelled to Australia a few years ago and there still seems to be a fascination with facial hair. Alas, the bouffant styles prevalent amongst 80s cricketers has been replaced with something a little more stylised and all together less masculine. Like the moustache under the bottom lip, or the beard that only covers the bottom of the chin which makes the wearer look like he’s put his head on upside down. They don’t look mean any more, just stupid. They have somehow managed to make the wearing of facial hair somewhat effeminate. Quite how they have managed that is beyond me.

I journeyed home last weekend to take part in an Audax. Audax’s are long distance cycling events (the classical scholars will know that Audax was the greek god of cycling). To the outsider, they seem rather pointless. You spend all day on a bike and end up back where you started. 120 miles and 8 hours of pedalling and you get precisely nowhere.

They are organised events but in the loosest sense of the word. The only objective is to finish the course within a time limit, however, there is also a maximum average speed limit. Which presumably means you are disqualified if you ride too quickly. There are no marshals or judges, you are just left to get on with it.

The Audax cycler is a completely different breed to any other type of cyclist that I have yet encountered. They have their own language and terms. For instance if you complete a 200km Audax you are a Randonneur. Which I imagine is kind of like a musketeer, except without the lethal weaponry. These guys are much more old school. Given the long distances that they have to travel and the fact that they can’t do it too quickly, they are much more tortoise than hare. Sure there were some carbon fibre and other space age materials on view at the start line, but you got the impression that they were slightly looked down upon, in an ever so gently patronising way. Steel frames and waxed cotton saddle bags were definitely de riguer. And beards. To be proper a Randoneur seemingly one must have a full face of hair, if not a full head. You are supposed to ride these Audaxes self supported, I guess to save on weight a good few of the competitors (although its NOT a race) have eschewed their Gillette Sensor. As I got my kit together in the Forfar Asda carpark I was transported back to 1989 and that Australian rabble. I had never seen so much facial hair concentrated in such a small area, since Lords in ‘89. I full expected big Merv to be swinging his leg over a cross bar.

A fella (bearded and bespectacled) signed us in at some ungodly hour in the morning, issued me with a Brevet card and sent you on my way with a cheery ‘Good luck’ and a ‘Bon Courage’.

The Brevet (French for Brevet) is a card that to which you attach proof that you have been to certain parts of the route within the allotted time and not before. Proof can be a stamp given to you by another bespectacled and bearded man or a dated receipt from a particular shop on the route. Its kind of like a treasure hunt for middle aged men who have lost their razor and been told to get out the house for at least 12 hours.

The Audax itself was great. A jaunt round Deeside taking in Banchory, Braemar, up over the Cairn o’ Mount and Glenshee through the Angus Glens and back to Forfar. It was a tough day in the saddle, however. Initially driech, a strong wind got up and scudded the clouds away by mid morning, unfortunately that strong wind morphed into a brutal headwind from Banchory all the way to Glen Isla. I managed to get into a wee group of (clean shaven) riders and we made good time making it back to Forfar first (although its not a race). I am guessing that the surfeit of facial hair amongst the competitors (although it’s not a race) hampered them in the strong winds.

Have you ever seen big Merv or David Boon on a bike? Exactly. Wiggo take note.

From Arbroath,
n

 

The Kempervan has landed

The Kempervan during its maiden voyage, with roof tent fully deployed...

Mum – Should you really be reading this? Surely you havesomething better to do with your time?

'I don't like your jacket'
Was the rather abrupt welcome I received when I visited my parents recently.
'Right. Thanks Mum. Just as well I do. May I enquire as to why you have an issue with my new and, may I add, very expensive jacket?
'It doesn't cover your bum'
'Right. I'm pretty sure it's not supposed to'
'You'll get piles. Mind you, the size of your bum, I'm not sure you could have afforded the excess material anyhow'

That. From my own Mother. Some cheek (as it were). It's her fault - a fulsome posterior runs in the family after all. Her family. Unlike most ladies of her age, she doesn't shop at M&S for her underware. She prefers Blacks of Greenock. For my sins I have been blessed with a Bonellie Bum, so massive it comes with its own weather system and gravitational field.

Two things my Mother swears by. A silk vest regardless of the weather and a jacket that covers your arse. The cumulative effect will ward off piles, that and never sitting directly on concrete, apparently. I'm not even sure what piles are. I sure know how to avoid getting them though. A silk vest and long jacket and you'll never get the dreaded Emma Freuds, and you will be able to tackle the vicissitudes of life. Its all about being warm. In her eyes if you're warm you're happy... And you won't get piles.

As I have written before, my father is not a guy who is quick to temper. Infact, he’s not exactly quick to anything these days. He is, by nature, a very calm man. Indeed, he had an operation on his back a few years ago and, on occasion, he has to take treatment for the pain. We are not talking acouple of paracetamol and a radox bath here. No, Faither has been prescribedsome pretty hard core pain killers. Hard core, in the sense that they would tranquilize the angriest of bull elephants. As a result he is even more laid back than he ever was. Panic is not a response I have ever seen in my Dad. Whilst most peoples reaction to danger might be a typical ‘fight or flight’ response, his is more likely to consist of a ‘wee-sit-down-with-a-cup-of-coffee-and-a-kit-kat-whilst-I-find-a-scrap-of-paper-to-work-this-out,-now-where-did-I-put-my-glasses…?’And that was when he was a thrusting young buck with a spring in his step and a twinkle in his eye.   Even during those halcyon days his speed of reaction would more likely to be described as lethargic rather than electric.  In his dotage, if he were to witness any incident requiring swift action, his reaction time would probably be equal that of someone reading about it in the paper the next morning, and that is only assuming that he could find his specs so he could actually see what he was witnessing.

Many years ago, not long after I had passed my driving test, I was driving my Dad home whilst he was dosing in the front seat. I might have been driving a little fast, but still within the speed limit. Turning a corner I lost control of the car and we started to spin, performing a perfect pirouette. We bounced off the far side kerb with the car facing the way we hadjust come, then bounced across to the other side of the road, hitting the other kerb - the car coming to rest facing the correct way with the front wheels up on the grass verge. I shat myself (not literally, although it was a close run thing), not from the near death experience, but from the imminent hiding that I was about to receive from my Dad. I turned to look at him and asked, in a tremulous voice - that was a couple of octaves higher than it should have been, whether he was OK. His eyes were only half open, as if he had just been gently woken from a slumber rather than just having had a near death experience. The only sign that his equilibrium had been disturbed was that his glasses were perched on the end of his nose, making him look slightly more disheveled that normal. He snorted, rubbed his nose with the back of his hand, sorted his glasses and said simply.

‘Probably best not to tell your Mother about this’

He then went back to sleep. Leaving me to drive home, a mental wreck. He has never spoken of it since, I sometimes wonder if he thinks he dreamt it. I owe my Dad a lot, almost 15 years on, my Mother still doesn’t know. He has never once cracked, even under the most intense of 'how was your day today, love?' type interrogations.

I guess I’ll find out soon enough if Ma reads this blog…

Regular readers of this blog will already know that my parents have blown my inheritance on a whimsy (Hail to the Chief). Which is just as well as after this blog I might be dis-inherited anyhow. They have decided that my suffering up the highest Cols of the Alps is too good to miss.They have set their hearts to go on ‘The Trip of a Lifetime’ and follow me round France. My pain seemingly being the main attraction. I can’t say that I am entirely delighted at this prospect, but other than register my disquiet with the management, there is little I can do.

To this end they have pawned the family silver (ie sold the car), have purchased a second hand van from Japan and have had it converted into a campervan. Now, don’t ask me about why they had to get a van from Japan, it all sounds a little suss to me. I did raise this as a potential issue with my mother and poo-poohed the whole endeavour. However, my poo-poohing was promptly poo-poohed and I was informed, rather patronisingly, that this arrangement is de-riguer when concluding these types of transactions.

I just wont be surprised if its all a front for some Triad drug smuggling ring and the tyres are actually stuffed with some Class A Narcotic.What perfect cover, a couple of pensioners in a campervan on the trip of a lifetime, actually smuggling drugs into mainland Europe. The Cosa Nostra come from Corsica – that’s all I am saying. See if I have to cycle down to some Corsican police station and bail them out? I wont be happy.

However, I digress. It was some months ago that they ordered the Kempervan, as it has cunningly been christened (by me... I thank you, I'm here all week). It took a while for it to be shipped from Japan and it only arrived a couple of weeks ago. The internal fit out has been completed, after intense argument over the addition of a heater. Mother insisting that even in the south of France in the middle of summer a heater will be necessary. After all who knows when life will bowl you a googley, but if you're warm then you can get your foot to the pitch of the ball and drive it through the covers for 4.

I spoke to my Dad just after the van had been handed over and asked him if he was pleased with it.

‘Well it’s a lot bigger on the outside than I had thought…and a lot smaller on the inside’

Hardly the ringing endorsement I was hoping for.

I asked my Mum what she thought of the pop up roof.

‘Oh its smashing, the grand weans love it. There’s no way I’dsleep up there though, way too claustrophobic. And there’s no way your Dad could ever get up there on account of his back. The weans love it though…’

'Excellent. You've blown a few grand on a climbing frame with wheels' I thought. I decided, however to keep my thoughts to myself on this occasion.

They then decided to take it on its maiden voyage. All was going swimmingly until they hit the dual carriage way outside Dundee. My Mum was barrelling along the A90 to Perth (rather too fast, by all accounts), my Father, as always when disaster is about to strike, was snoring in the passenger seat. There was then a sudden roar, the cab was filled with cold airand the van started to lurch across the carriage way. Before she realised what had happened Mum heard my father let loose a stream of invective the like of which she had never heard, the soliloquy ending with:

‘The bloody roof has bloody blown off!’

That’s how it was relayed to me. I’m not convinced the word 'bloody' was used. My Father has an enviable vocabulary and I simply refuse tobelieve he used bloody, twice in one sentence.

Out the corner of her eye Mum noticed my Dad leaping, salmon like, out and over the back of his seat displaying a nimbleness and speed of thought that has been singularly lacking in their previous 40 years of marriage and in one movement grabbing hold of the roof before it had a chance to separate from the body ofthe camper. There he was left dangling, his feet off the ground trying to hold on to my inheritance whilst my mother piloted the van back to a safe harbour.

Thankfully no white powder was released during the internal hurricane. Mind you, that would explain Dads sudden burst of speed…

So the Kempervan has landed. However, I’m not sure the portents are great for their voyage. Thank god they made the decision to get a heater. At least I won’t need to worry about them being cold in the 40 degree heat of Southern France.

I bet she still packs a silk vest though and god help Dad if he doesn't have a method for covering his arse and sits on concrete. You'll be able to hear the 'I telt you' from Mars.

From Glasgow,
n

Woe is me

On reflection, maybe my choice of bike is not helping.

‘The harder I practice – the luckier I get’

Gary Player

Ever wondered how you get a golf grip on a golf club? I suspect not. You use double sided super-sticky tape and wrap it round the shaft. But then getting the grip over the tape poses some challenges*. When I was a kid my dad cut me down a set of old golf clubs for me to use. When I say old I mean old. Not the cutting edge of golfing technology for me. My golf bag contained a Baffing Spoon, a Mashie,  a Niblick, a Mashie Niblick, an Auchterlonies 5 Iron (my pride and joy - since it was not pre loved), an 8 iron and a putter. It was only much later on that I discovered that a Mashie was in fact a 5 iron. I haven’t a clue where my dad got the clubs from, with names like those they must have originally been my Grandfathers. Not only were they old but they were not top of the line in their day either. The shafts were made of steel, but had a plastic coating on them to make them look like they were made of hickory! Cutting them down wasn’t an issue for my Dad, but putting grips on them presented some challenges. He couldn’t figure out the conundrum of getting the grip over the sticky tape. However, never one to let a problem go unsolved he came up with the only solution he could think of. He put a slit along the length of the grip and then bound the grip with electrical insulating tape. Somewhat defeating the purpose of a ‘grip’ in the process. It did a job, just not a very good one.

It was an imperfect solution, admittedly, but allowed me and my brother to get out on the course and have a thrash around. More importantly, however, I suspect it allowed my Dad to combine child care with a game of golf.

I love golf. However, I am last in a long line of Kemps whose enthusiasm  for the game is matched only by their lack of ability. I am truly awful. A distinct handicap when you are born and brought up in St Andrews.

Not only was I rubbish at golf, but being a younger brother I grew up being by far the most rubbish in the whole family, a status that did not change until I was into my 20s. I am, however, intensely competitive which is not a good combination. Admittedly, I was not helped by my tools. Electrical insulating tape does not offer the best of grip, and, on a wet day it was not uncommon for my club to end up further down the fairway than my ball. Having to shout ‘Fore’ for a flying golf club rather than ball caused a no shortage of consternation amongst the St Andrews golfing cognoscenti.

It wasn’t much better in the dry. The electrical tape was want to peel off leaving a sticky residue and the slit in the rubber grip left the original ultra sticky double sided grip tape exposed. Golf is a frustrating game, particularly for a young tyro. Even the most mild mannered, god fearing of men has been known to throw down his clubs in frustration. However, the combination of insulating tape and exposed grip tape can make putting down a golf club more challenging that it should be. After carving another ball into the jungle and in tearful rage it was not unknown for me to deliberately try and loose my Niblick in the nearest gorse bush. However the adhesive qualities of the grip meant that the clubs would remain stubbornly attached to my person. To not even be capable of throwing your clubs away was the final ignominy.

I often came back from a round of golf having been soundly beaten by dad and my brother in what can charitably be described as an ‘ill humour’. I would sit down at the dinner table in a stew and announce the assembled company that I was retiring from golf forthwith and there was no use trying to persuade me otherwise as my mind had been made up. I expected that my own kin would at least show some compassion for a young sportsman in obvious turmoil and perhaps even acknowledge that it would be a sad loss for the sport in general, but no platitudes were ever forthcoming. They just nodded and seemed to accept this earth shattering news with surprising equanimity.

I was lying on my back in the middle of the road in the pissing rain this morning, looking up at my bike, wondering how I had got into that unfortunate position, when only seconds earlier I had been hurtling along the road at breakneck speed, with my bike firmly below me. It didn’t take me long to realise that I had somehow contrived to crash (again). 12 minutes earlier I had been on the start line of the Straiton Struggle road race, with expectations of a good showing and high hopes of a top 10 finish, given the course was one that suited me. 10 minutes into the race I had hit a pothole (again) and punctured (again). 2 minutes later I was lying in the gutter having pushed a little too hard to try and get back to the bunch. My day effectively over, barely 12 minutes after it had begun. After I had untangled myself from my bike and started back into the race, I was reminded of my numerous retirements from golf. I was sorely tempted follow Chris Hoys example and rule myself out of selection from the Commonwealth games. Indeed had there been a press car following I might well have made the announcement there and then.  However, a solo 50 mile cycle in the pouring rain gives a man much time to cool down and think. By the time I had limped home I had reconsidered my position.

Lady luck has not been with me so far this season. And I’m sorry Gary, with over 200 hours and 5,500km logged this year its not as if there has been a lack of practice.

This year I have competed in the following races.

• SWSCP Season Opener – Incorrect placing (6^th Place finish)
• Lake APR – Crash (22^nd place)
• Amstel Road race – Puncture (2^nd last finish)
• Gifford road race – no incident (8^th Place)
• Jim Daly APR – Buckled wheel (9^th place)
• Ingleston Criterium – Tangled with a back marker (20^th ish finish)
• Straiton Struggle – Puncture and a crash (finish tbc, but I wont be bothering the podium)

There have certainly been no lack of incidents, however I am getting sick of ruing my luck, but there is not much that you can do about getting punctures. I had hoped to get promotion to Cat 3 before I head away to France, however that is looking frustratingly unlikely now, given my calendar between now and then.

I have a Criterium on Tuesday and am heading up to Forfar on Sunday for an Audax ‘race’. No points on offer there, but the chance to catch up with my folks and maybe squeeze in a round of golf. Keep an eye on the press- I may well be announcing another retirement on Monday.

From Glasgow

N

*oh, just incase you ever have to apply an emergency golf grip… Once you have applied the double sided sticky tape, you smear petrol on the exposed side. This is a solvent for the glue, and the grip will slide on easily. You leave in a well-ventilated place for a couple of hours, the petrol will evaporate, allowing the glue to adhere to the grip.

My Dad figured that out 6 months before I had enough money to saved to buy a proper set of golf clubs.  Co-incidence?

Alas it wasn’t the clubs that made me crap.

Shadow Boxing with Major Tom

The slag heap summit of Ventoux, a couple of days after the etape. You can just see the road winding up the side of the hill.

‘You don’t have to be mad to go up The Ventoux. But you have to be mad to go back’

Provencal Proverb

There is a patronising game, of which I am sure you are aware, which is the preserve of particular type of insular Europhobe. “Name the famous Belgian”

If anyone asks you to partake in such a game, you should fix them with an incredulous stare and just say ‘Eddie’, if they don’t know who you are talking about then they should.

Eddie Mercx, was the greatest man ever to sit astride two wheels. His record is not only head and shoulders above anyone else, he stands alone, no one can even come close.  5 Tours de France, 5 Giro d’Italia, 1 Veulta Espana, 19 one day classics (winning each at least twice), world champion 4 times, hour world record holder and career wins that are too numerous to count.

His figures are nothing short of stunning. At his peak in 1971 he won almost every other race he entered. Merckx won the equivalent of a race a week for six years.

But it was not only that he was so utterly dominant, it was the manner of his dominance. He would destroy the opposition, winning was not enough, he would do so with panache and elan. Heroic one man breakaway’s being his speciality. He earned the nickname of the ‘Cannibal’, for the way that he used to destroy the opposition. The man wasn’t human.

If the Martians were to challenge Earth to a cycle race, then Merckx would be our man. That he would win, there is no doubt, but he would do so with style.

Not only was Merckx the finest cyclist who has ever lived. He transcended cycling. In that other favourite pub debate over the finest sportsman who has ever lived, then Merckx would definitely be a contender.

Following in the footsteps of guys like Merckx is part of the attraction of cycling the tour next summer. There are 21 stages and each of them will present their own challenge. I have a map on my sitting room wall each of the stages marked out. Stage 15 is perhaps the one that I am looking forward to / dreading the most. Givors – The Mont Ventoux.

During the course of this summer we will climb many a mountains on our bikes. Alpe d’Huez, Perysourde, d’Aspet, Glandon,  Madeleine, Croix Fry. Except we won’t, not really. In actual fact we will go over the lowest point possible on these hills to allow us into the next valley. Which makes perfect sense. Why would you build a road over the top of a mountain? If a mountain is inconsiderate enough to be standing between you and your destination, then you would go round it. Or if that wasn’t possible you would find the lowest point in the mountain go through that. If you think about it there is no logical reason ever to go to the top of a mountain. Other than perhaps to admire the view. Not so with The Ventoux. We will go right to the very top.

I have been up the Ventoux before. Back in 2009 I rode the Etape du Tour, a sportive which follows the route of the hardest stage of that years tour. Here is the blog I wrote after that trip.

Tennis has Wimbledon; Golf; the Old Course and Cricket; Lords. Almost mythical  locations where any good player must perform in order to be considered as great. Cycling has The Ventoux. It really is that big a deal. The hardest and toughest climb on the tour roster. This is a hill that terrifies proper cyclists. Its infamy was sealed 42 years ago when ‘Major’ Tom Simpson, the finest British cyclist of his generation (some say the best ever) died from exhaustion a mile from the summit.

Ventoux didn’t terrify me, however - principally because I am not a proper cyclist, but also because, I had no earthly idea what I was letting myself in for. 

I know now and it is brutal.

There is absolutely no reason for a road to go up to the top of Ventoux. The only reason why you would drive up over the top of Ventoux is to go to the top of Ventoux. There is a cafe and a view, but not much else. The only reason the road was built was as some form of proof of Gallic masculinity. ‘We are going to build a road to the top of the highest mountain we can find, to prove that we can’. It was constructed in the 1930s and it really is a road to nowhere. Just up to the top and back down. I suppose it connects the small towns of Malaucene and Bedoin, but then the pass over the Col de Madalene connects them too and that route is quicker and won’t have your car requiring a new clutch at journeys end. A road there makes as much sense as diverting the A82 to go over the top of Ben Nevis, just for a giggle. 

The Ventoux itself does not have much going for it. It is not a bonnie mountain. Its summit is a slag heap of limestone scree. There are no plants or vegetation, it’s like a desert. an eerie, desolate moonscape of a place. And windy. The mistral whips across the slopes mercilessly. It is one of the windiest places on earth. The weather station at the top has recorded wind speeds of upwards of 200 kph. For 240 day a year the wind speed exceeds 50mph. Its a mile high, and when it is not windy it is hot. The Provencal sun beats off the moonscape limestone so you get fried from above and below. Nobody loves Ventoux like they do other mountains, it is steep, long, hot and windy. It might engender respect, grudging admiration and perhaps fear but not affection.

The Etape itself was scheduled to start at 7am and it was an early, 4am, start from Gringnan. Once we had collected our bikes we were arranged in pens by starting number, ready for the off. The Etape du Tour is a huge event there were upwards of 9,000 people involved, logistically that must be some operation. As with all these things, one tries to eat and drink as much before the race to ensure that their bodies are fully fuelled. Unfortunately this means that, to a man, everyone on the start line is busting for a piss. It wasn’t long before bikes were abandoned and competitors jumped over the barriers to find a convenient bush to irrigate. Rivers of urine flowed from behind every tree.

When I was younger I used to get nervous the night before a race or match or exam or indeed any event of perceived importance. So much so that I was often physically sick. Thankfully I have grown out of that and don’t get nervous at all anymore, however I still hate the starts of races. Mainly because I hate how other people around me are getting nervous. People compare bikes, ask what food you’ve brought, what kind of cleats you use etc. Others check and re-check their kit, check their watch every minute, in a fashion almost bordering obsessive compulsive. You’d have to be going some to forget to bring your bike, and pretty much that is all you need. If I’ve forgotten to pack a spare wheel nut, or dustcap, if I have only 3 energy gels and not four, then unless I can manufacture it out of the river of pish that is fast becoming ankle deep then there is not much I can do about it now. I think I’d prefer not to know and not to worry about it. However, whilst standing there waiting,  I did realise that I had forgotten to make a plan.

I had read that when embarking on such a race, the professional will always have a plan. It had always struck that cycling a bike was a fairly simple task and once one had mastered staying upright, the propulsion and direction came naturally, and as everyone knows, once you have learned you never forget. However apparently your plan has to be a little more complicated than that. I gave it due consideration and decided on a simple enough course of action. I’d try not to go out too fast and find a suitable arse in the peleton and shelter behind that. I would take it easy on the pre Ventoux climbs and try and ensure that I didn’t get out of breath on any of them, I would try and drink as much liquid as I could and try and remember to eat as much as I could. My time was not important, I thought, so I would try and ensure that at Bedoin I would have plenty of gas left in the tank to tackle Ventoux. My objective was to finish, and not get caught by the broom wagon (or child catcher, as I liked to think of it). So I did a rough calculation of what time I would like to be at each feedstation, in order to give me enough time to tackle the Ventoux, as my average speed would surely drop considerably on that climb, and I would try not to fall off. Simple. Bon. Allez.

The start itself went like clockwork, about five minutes after the VIPs and the first couple of thousand riders passed across the start line, I followed. The first few miles in such a race are always a hell for leather, ‘hammer down’, frantic, so that people can get into a position they feel comfortable with. I realised fairly early on that I was averaging about 25mph over the first couple of miles. A pace that I would certainly not be able to keep up for 100 miles. So I found a large backside amongst the peleton and settled in behind that, my plan being to ‘wheel suck’ for as long as I could get away with.

The course itself was beautiful, we were taken on a tour of the finest that Provence could offer. Past vast purple fields of lavender, golden corn waving in the early morning sun and happy fields of sunflowers, their faces cocked towards the rising sun. The smells from the fields of lavender in particular were wonderful. The course took us through beautiful, medieval towns with narrow streets and windows shuttered against the sun. In every town the locals had come on to cheer us on with refrains of ‘Bravo’, ‘Allez, Allez’ and ‘Bon Courage!’. Some towns had set up unofficial feeding stations where there were filling bidons on request. It was a real carnival atmosphere. In the peleton too, riders chatted and joked as they whisked along at a rare old pace. The first couple of climbs over the Col de Cite and the Col D’ey were fine. I picked a big ring and just spun the wheels allowing people to pass safe in the knowledge that I was keeping plenty in the tank for the main event. The descent down the Col d’Ey was great fun. Apparently it is ‘technical’ descent (which I think means tricky). My descending is not my strong suit, so I didn’t pass many others, however working with gravity always beats working against it. At the base of the Col D’Ey, was the first of the feed stations. It was pandemonium with seemingly hundreds of cyclists trying to grab water and food. There was such a crush that the people manning the stations were just lobbing bananas and bottles of water into the crowds below. It looked something like the archive footage of aid vehicles delivering essential supplies after a natural disaster.

The climb up the Col de Fontaube was un remarkable also, although when we got to the top I was treated to my first view of the Ventoux. I had been told that we would be able to see the mountain from pretty much all of the course and I had been trying to ensure that I didn’t look at it too much and just tried to concentrate on the wheel in front of me. However on summiting the Fontaube it was difficult not to see it. Coming over the top of the hill we were presented with a monolith of a sight, almost close enough to touch. It came as quite a surprise to see it so close. It seemed that you had to crane your neck higher and higher and higher, until you were almost looking vertically up, in order to see the distinctive red radio mast on the top.

The Ventoux is not part of a mountain range, an old extinct volcano it stands alone and dominates the rest of the country side. The limestone on the top of the mountain can be mistaken for snow and it just adds to the impression of its might. After the Fontaube we swept away from the Ventoux, and everytime we saw it it just seemed to be getting further and further away. It was a cruel trick to play on us. Showing us it at close quarters to impress us with its scale and then showing us it from a seemingly huge distance just taunting us as to how far we had to go.

The Ventoux dominates Provence. You can see it from 60miles away and it seemingly never gets closer. A cruel trick to play.

The downhill from Notre Dame to Bedoin was seemingly endless and sensational. The joy of these long, long, straight and steep downhills was only tempered by the knowledge that all the altitude that we were loosing on the downhill would have to be re-captured when we got to Ventoux.

I arrived at the feeding station in Bedoin in about 6 hours and was feeling good. I had made tentative arrangements with Mum and Dad that I would look out for them there and as I was pulling out of the stop we bumped into each other. I didn’t want to stop for too long and they asked me what time I thought I’d get to the top. ‘2 hours max’ I replied, secretly thinking that I’d be done and dusted in 90 minutes. After all I only had 15 miles to go.

When you are on your bike you never get that hot as there is always a breeze to cool you down, however whilst I was topping up my bottles I noticed that it was roasting. In the couple of minutes speaking to my folks, I noticed that I had broken into quite a sweat. Undaunted, however, I said my farewells and jumped back on the bike to bag the Ventoux.

The road rises quite sharply as you climb out of Bedoin and I noticed that my legs were heavier than they had been previously. However I was glad when the road levelled off slightly as we turned the corner out of the town. The first mile or so of the climb was fairly benign. It was unquestionably ‘up’ but I had a couple of gears in my pocket for when the climb got bad. We took a sharp left hand bend in the road and as we did so the road climbed steeply. I had to borrow another couple of gears from the bank. We then entered the forest, and there was a sharp hairpin in the road. And the road just seemed to rise up vertically. It was like hitting a wall. My pace slowed dramatically and I was out the saddle almost immediately to try and keep some momentum and so that I could avoid going to my lowest gear. Once this steep bit leveled out a bit I would get back in the saddle. But the steep bit didnt level off, it just kept getting steeper. I asked my bike to give me another gear, but there were none left. I was out my saddle and really grinding the pedals. I could feel my heart pounding and could feel my pulse in my temples. No matter how wide I opened my mouth I just couldn’t get enough air. I was only two miles into the climb, and I was struggling. My legs had been gently marinated in lactic acid for 90 miles, just softened up and tenderised. Now Ventoux was roasting them… And I had 13 miles of this to go.

We had now entered into the forest that cloaks the bottom of the hill. Usually the shade would have been a welcome relief from the broiling sun, however the air was still and fetid, it was so difficult to get air. It felt humid and oppressive. Sweat bubbled out from parts of me that I never knew could sweat, from behind my kneecaps, dripping off my ears, my hands were soaked through and finger tips crinkled, when I exhaled a spray of sweat was propelled forward. The atmosphere in the forest was such that there was no where for the sweat to go. It coursed off my brow and almost sizzled on the handle bars. Other riders had long since got off their bikes and started to push them to the top. Those who had stayed on their bikes were going only very slightly faster than those walking. There were some who were lying prostrate on the road trying to get their breath. Frequently we would pass others retching in the gutters at the side of the road, occasionally those on the side of the road were shivering - sure sign they had had too much of the sun. It was like something out of a war movie.

I was absolutely shattered. I kept asking my legs to push a little harder, try and get some speed up. My legs kept telling me to bugger off. 10 miles from Bedoin there was a feed station at Chalet Reynard, my plan had been to stop there for a rest before tackling the last 6 miles. However a couple of miles into the climb I had to get off my bike and try and catch my breath. I sat down for 5 minutes telling myself that if I took a rest that I would have try and make that time up. Sitting down watching the peleton pass was eerie. Where there had been friendly banter and joking before now there was just dead silence. 100’s of riders must have passed all with heads down, to a man faces racked with pain. There was no joking or bonhomie now. The silence was only broken by the occasional sound of someone wretching or the uttering a quiet oath as their gears slipped or cleat released or the occasional and slightly comedic prrrrrrrump of flatulence as the carbo rich food we had all been forcing down made its way through our systems. It was like a march of the (incontinent) damned.

I decided that I was moving so slowly that there was little point in wearing my helmet. I strapped it to the front of my bike and just wore my cotton cap. When I got up I resolved that I would, in cycling parlance, ‘put the hammer down’. I remounted my steed and the hammer immediately rebounded and hit me full square in the teeth...

The road was so steep and unrelenting that I really struggled to get back on my bike and get going. Even in my lowest gear I could get the first pedal stroke in but couldn’t get my other foot clipped into my cleats. My pedals would present themselves the wrong way up, and the design of the pedal was such that you couldn’t push down on the wrong side without your foot sliding off. The force that I was pushing down was such that my foot would come off at quite a rate, the backs of my calves would get ripped on the chain ring and I would find myself landing full flush on the cross bar. Nigh on a hundred miles in, a saddle tenderises your balls considerably, at least wearing them as earrings removes that dull ache, replacing it with a mind numbing pain.

I tried again. This time I was careful to look down and try and make sure that I flipped the pedal over with my shoe so the cleat was correctly oriented. Alas, the gradient of the hill was such that I couldn’t generate enough momentum to give me enough time (and I’m only talking fractions of a second) to clip in. As I fumbled about, my speed decreasing rapidly I veered to wards the edge of the road and started to over balance. Success! I was into the cleats, however my over balance had gone too far and I couldn’t right myself. In my panic I couldn’t get out the f*cking cleats. I slowly toppled over on the side of the road. I was left looking skywards, my feet still attached to the pedals, blood dripping from my knee, calf and elbow. I am afraid I didn’t see the funny side. I was raging at the sheer indignity of it all. Absolutely raging. If I had had the strength I would have done a Bjarne Riis and flung my bike away. But I was goosed. I just lay there for a few minutes trying to summon the strength to get up and carry on.

After another couple of attempts I finally managed to get back on my bike and slowly started to climb again. The forest was thick and obscured any view. It was impossible to tell how far you had gone or how far you had to go. It just seemed interminable and endless. There are kilometre markers up the side of the road, however that just made things worse, it was dispiriting that they took so long to appear. You kept thinking that you had missed one. Then when they only incremented by one it really got you down. In the end I just put the head down and ‘shat the pineapple’.

I had to stop another couple of times, I forget how many. I kept asking my legs for a little more effort but there was simply nothing left in them. I felt tired and lethargic. There was no denying that the hill was steep, but it surely wasn’t that steep. I started to feel cold despite my sweating, I was bonking. No doubt about it. I swore at myself for not eating enough earlier on. As I climbed through the forest my heart was busting, I could hear the pulse in my temples and it felt like my heart was going to break out of my chest. The hill was just relentless.

A number of riders had given up the fight and decided to walk up the mountain, such was the gradient they didn’t loose much in time. Indeed had they taken off their cycling shoes I dare say some would have passed those on the bikes.

Finally the forest started to thin out and rounding a bend I could see Chalet Reynard, the final feed stop before the finish line. It was like a bomb site, plastic bottles and gel sachets littered the ground. A huge scrum had formed around the feed station as cyclists tried to get what little water they had left. I managed to get a bottle, before it became apparent that the water station had run out of water.

I found myself a quiet spot away from the crowds and sat down behind a wall. I was spent. I emptied my jersey pockets of food and slowly force fed myself all that I had left, dry retching as I did so. Forcing thick sickly sweet energy gels into a mouth which was so dry my tongue was sticking to the roof of my mouth. I took me about 45 minutes to get through the couple of gels and energy bars that I had left. By the time I got back on the bike I felt a little better. The road levels out slightly immediately after the chalet (when I say level out, I am talking in relative terms, it goes from precipitously steep to just very steep). I was able to shift down a couple of gears and get into a rhythm. Out of the forest and into the sun, the air became clearer and it was possible to breathe again. Almost a mile up the views afforded of the Provencal countryside were amazing. They would have been breath taking had I had any breath left. More importantly the lack of trees meant that we could now see the orange radio mast in the distance. The road zig zagged across the barren moonscape of the hill. It looked incredibly steep but at least we could see the finish and the prize. It was amazing what a fillip that was. I had new strength in my legs.

Sensational views from the top of Ventoux

A couple of miles from the top we passed the memorial to where ‘Major’ Tom Simpson expired in 1969, a victim to the unrelenting demands of, the heat, the Ventoux and The Tour. The steps up the memorial are festooned with empty bottles and riding caps that have been left in tribute. I, like many others, doffed my cap in respect.

A long road to the top.

Just past the memorial a cyclist was sitting in the ditch at the side of the road, his head between his legs retching. He was in sight of the finish but he was spent. I took out my water bottle and threw it to him.

And then there it was. A small crowd had gathered at the top of the hill, sitting on the walls that line the inside of the last bend cheering on every rider. I got out my saddle and rounded the last bend as near as I could to a sprint finish. I crossed the line. Just like Anquitel and Mercx and LeMond and Indurain and Armstrong had done before me and like Tom Simpson never would.

I was shadow boxing with the greats.

I leaned back in my saddle and punched the air, just like I had seen my hero’s do in the past. It had been really tough and I wont lie to you I was emotional. Elation and exhaustion make a heady cocktail.

Then I saw him and my bubble was savagely burst. There, standing against a wall leaning against his bike was a fella with one leg, drawing on a fag with a casual insouciance that only the French can pull off. I had been beaten by a one legged man. Who smoked.

I’ll be back.

When the route of the Tour was announced I was thrilled that we would be visiting the Giant of Provence. The Tour has only visited there 8 times and the stage winners read like an all time who’s who. Gaul, Poulidor, Merckx, Thevenet, Pantani and Verneque.

And how did Eddie fair up the Ventoux? Well it has humbled even the greatest. It was a summit finish in 1970, when he was in his pomp. Merckx won the stage (of course he did), but the mountain took such a toll on him that he collapsed at the top with exhaustion and required oxygen.  

Perhaps he was human after all.

I can’t wait to renew an old acquaintance.

From Glasgow,

N

A Farewell to Corinth

My certificate of professionalism

‘I spent a lot ofmoney on booze, birds and fast cars. The rest I just squandered’

George Best.

I have never been much of a gambler. It’s all a bit complicated for me. I went to Ascott once and finally managed to pick a winner in the last race of the day, but for some reason my winnings didn’t cover my stake and I ended up having to pay the bookie. I still cant quite work out howthat happened. I guess it might have something to do with a hot sunny afternoon, a liquid lunch and free champagne since breakfast. But then, I had never put abet on before so I guess I can put it down to experience.

When John Daly picked up a $750,000 runners up check at agolf tournament in San Francisco, he drove to Las Vegas and blew it all, in one sitting, on the slot machines. But 750k didn’t really touch the sides, so he frittered another 750k before he figured that lady luck was not smiling on him that day. Shortly after he cut his losses and called it quits. In total he lost $1.65million dollars.

$1.65m. In one sitting. On the puggies. I don’t even know how to play the puggies, too many flashing lights, buttons and twinkly noises. It’sall a bit too much for me. But how do you manage to drop $1.65m on the puggies? In one night? That’s a lot of pound coins.

Its not like John Daly was a beginner, either. In his career he reckons he has lost $60m through gambling. You’d think by now he would figure out how to play the slot machines and realise that he’s really not very good at it. He’d have been better off following Georgie’s lead and spending his prize money on booze and birds. At least with a hangover and a dose of the clap, he’d have something to show for his endeavours.

My sporting career has not been particularly successful. The closest I have ever come to winning a prize was as a 6 year old in the St Andrews Botanical Garden, 1982 Junior Hortus Daffodil growing competition. I got a ‘highly commended’ certificate which, if memory serves came with the princely sum of two bob. I have recently discovered that Junior Hortus was actually run by a kindly reactionary socialist, who was fighting a solo war against Thatcherism. Her bid to engender an agrarian revolution amongst the youth of St Andrews involved ensuring that everyone got a ‘Highly Commended’ certificate for their Genus Narcissus. This has somewhat devalued my achievement. Added to the fact, that I have recently discovered that I unwittingly cheated. In a horticultural equivalent to performance enhancing drugs, my mother was up all night with a hair drier encouraging the daffodil to flower. So I am not sure I can even include my champion daffodil growing exploits on my CV. I should really return my highly commended certificate and 10 pence prize money to the Daffodil Society without delay.

This Saturday was a red letter day in my sporting life, however. Marking as it did, the end of my amateur career. A gentleman no longer, I have thrown my lot in with the players. An eighth place finish in the Gifford Road Race brought with it the princely sum of £15.

“Being shot out of a cannon will always be better than being squeezed out of a tube.”

Hunter S Thompson. Kingdom of Fear.

It was not a pretty race. A big peleton on narrow roads and a field who, to a man, showed not the slightest interest in being shot out of a cannon. We rode round for nigh on 50 miles at a pedestrian pace, meaning that the entire field was there at the end for a mass kamikaze cavalry charge in the last 2 km. It was pandemonium. The group became a heaving mass. Riders barged and elbowed their way to the front. Not through malice, just through lack of space. Both sides of the road were taken up by riders jostling for position. Thank goodness no cars were coming the other way. Wheels touched, riders would have fallen, had there been room to fall into. Slower riders were at their limit and could accelerate no more, faster riders had more to give, but had nowhere to go. The effect was as if the peleton was a tube of grease being slowly squeezed. Who came out first was more a reflection of chance than ability.

I was delighted to come away with an 8^th place finish but more relived to come away without a crash.

All that remains is to figure out what I am going to spendmy winnings on. I would gamble it, but I don’t know how. I could spend it onbooze, except I’m off that until the end of the tour. And £15 is hardly likely to attract Miss World.

I do have a notion to plant a few daffodils, mind you.

From Gifford,

n