Stage 15: Flying Solo

I think it is fair to say that my Grandfather was a product of his time. When it came to domestic affairs he was definitely a traditionalist. It was his role to win the bread; my Granny's responsibility to raise the family and keep the home. I guess that would not be atypical in a lot of households of that generation.

That’s not to say that he was incapable of looking after the kids or the grandkids. Its just that his methods were, perhaps, unusual. Freed from the logic of experience and convention, he was, to a degree forced to think on his feet. This made spending time with my Grandfather a wonderful, fun filled experience. Not least because bribery with jube jubes or dolly mixtures was often his preferred method of crowd control. Much to the chagrin of mothers, aunties and grannies who were determined to instill healthy eating habits into their children.

My Gramps worked for Glasgow City Council as an electrician on the trams and later the underground. This meant for long, antisocial hours. Often working the night shift. This meant that he would be at home asleep whilst three toddlers would be running about the house. Added to the fact that Glasgow had an acute housing shortage after the war and Gran and Gramps lived in a ‘single end’, this did not make life easy. For those who don’t know a single end was basically a one room house. The bed was in a recess in the wall and the living space doubled as the kitchen. There was a seat that folded down into a bed. My mother used to sleep across the bottom of bed, my uncle on the fold down seat and my auntie in a cot. As you could imagine space was at a premium. There was no bath and no inside toilet.

My Gran did most of the child raising, however there was occasion where my Gramps would have to step up to the plate. Often, but not always, bedlam would ensue.

On returning from the woman’s guild, or other social event, my Gran was concerned when she opened the door and found the house to be in perfect order. My Grandpa was in the middle of the room reading and, much to my Grannies surprise, the house was a haven of calm.

Closer inspection presented the following scene. My Grampa sat in his seat, a bit of string tied round his ankle. This was attached to the pram where my uncle John was sleeping, being rocked via the gentle movement of my Grampa's leg.

One of the kitchen drawers had been emptied of cutlery and in it, fast asleep was my auntie Linda. My mum was on the floor next to my Gramps, kept occupied with a pot of home made jam, face smeared in conserve but happy as a sand boy.  In order that she couldn’t stray into trouble my Grandfather had nailed her nightie to the floor.

My Gramps (and indeed my Gran), were smart and intelligent people. However, the opportunities presented to them were limited. They both grew up during the great depression, and the collapse of heavy industry hit Glasgow particularly hard. University was never an option for them, despite the undoubted ability to attend. The war too, came at a point when they were in their early 20’s and that cost them what opportunities they did have. My Grampa was a gifted, self taught artist, and I think may have loved to have gone to art school, but that was never going to happen. Aircraft, too, were a passion of his. As a young man he would spend any spare time at the gliding club in Kinross, a cheap-ish and accessible way for him to indulge his passion for flight. The chance to be a professional pilot was not open to people of his background, however.

Yesterday was the biggest day of the tour so far. We completed our multiday traverse through France. Cycling from Brittany in the north west, right through the country to Provence in the south west. The mystical and giant, Mont Ventoux lay in wait at the end of this epic journey. As we have travelled down through the country we have noticed the weather getting hotter and hotter. It was cold and wet by Mont St Michel. Yesterday in Provence was roasting hot, the mercury hitting mid 30’s at least.

The cycle to Ventoux was long – the longest stage to date. It also had an significant amount of climbing, with a number of categorised climbs to negotiate. We arrived at the bottom of the Ventoux at about 1630, after starting cycling in Lyon at 0700.

The Ventoux is a mystical mountain. Perhaps the most famous and feared hill in all the Tours roster of mountains. It is a giant. The last week had been dominated by talk of this stage and this mountain. Everything we have done in the last week has been with reference to Ventoux.

I have a personal history with Ventoux. A number of years ago I climbed it as part of the Etape du Tour. I had no idea what to expect then, and I had no idea that hills could be so long, so steep and so hot. I totally underestimated the task that was infront of me. The experience was a chastening one, to say the least. As I sat, broken, outside Chalet Raynard about half way up the mountain I promised myself that I would pay the mountain the respect it deserved, get properly fit and come back and do it again.

We had a feedstop at the bottom of the hill. After the long journey to get there, I sat under the shade of the tree and took some time to gather my thoughts and catch my breath. I had formulated a plan of how to deal with Ventoux and the other major hills that I will face. I went through it in my mind. Then I was off.

Some days when you are cycling, you feel great, your legs feel strong, you feel relaxed, you feel like you can conquer anything. Yesterday was one of those days. I have been riding well within myself for the last couple of weeks, well aware that the difficult days are all in the last week. Starting with The Ventoux. The preceding stages are really just a warm up, leg softeners to ensure that the giant hills of the Alps are as painful as possible.

I executed my plan to the letter. I caught and breezed past many riders who had started the hill a long time before me. I passed the point where I dry wretched back in 2009, past the point where I had to lie down fearful I would pass out, past the point where I had to sit for 45minutes and eat gel after gel and try and get some energy. I danced past those memories and two weeks into a grand tour, I wasn’t even trying. Then I got to Chalet Reynard the only flat bit on the whole hill, where I had made that promise to myself, years ago. A few of the riders had stopped there for a break. Stopping wasn’t part of my plan, so I kept on keeping on. My plan had been to slowly increase my effort from Chalet Reynard. The last 6ks of the climb I was allowed to ride progressively harder, but never as hard as I could go. I looked round to see one of the faster riders on my wheel. I steadily increased my effort for then next k. when I looked round again, he was dropped, far back down the road. As I reached the summit I reeled in and passed many other riders, first passing them slowly, then racing past them as I increased my speed. By the time I reached the top I was flying.

Not only had I slain a giant, I had laid a ghost to rest and I had done so with plenty left in the tank. I crossed peak of the hill feeling strong enough that I could do it all again.

I waited at the top of the mountain for the rest of the Autobus to summit. As I was waiting there were a number of broken bodies who crossed the line. Everyone of the Autobus crossed with a smile on their face, dancing up the hill and all finished in good time. I had a feeling of immense pride and delight for everyone of them.

People talk about climbing mountains being a spiritual experience. I have never quite got that, but each to their own I guess. I love being in the hills though, I love climbing mountains on my bike. There was some emotion as some of my friends crossed the line and as we stood to get our picture taken at the summit. Handshakes and hugs were exchanged, backs mutually slapped. There was emotion that no one had expected. I began to understand what people meant when they talked about spirituality.

After I had crossed the line, I sat with my back against the wall. The Kempervan had followed me over the top. I watched as glider circled the summit. My Mum came over to congratulate me.

‘There’s Grampa’ I said pointing.

‘So it is. Do you know?’ she said ‘That looks just like the glider he used to fly’

We watched it in silence as it flew round the other side of the weather station.

Mum turned to me ‘Well done son, that was great. Can I get you anything?’

‘A wee can of coke would be champion, mum’

‘Righto’

As she disappeared into the shop the glider passed for a second time. Closer this time. At eye level. Close enough to see the pilot and to hear the swoosh of the wings as he flew past, almost close enough to touch. I touched my cap and gave him a wave. And I swear he dipped his wing as I did so and gave me a wave back.

I would never admit to being emotional, but I did leave my sunglasses on for longer than I perhaps needed to.

Thank you Ventoux for the perfect day on a bike.

From Bedoin,

N

Postscript.
October 2013
There were many wonderful things about the Tour. It sounds twee, but one of the best was the people that I met. The memories of France will undoubtedly fade, but I hope that the friendships will be lasting. 
I remember the first time that I met Chris, a few weeks before the beginning of the Tour. During a cafe stop I started chatting to him and enquired as to what cycle club he was a member of.
'Cycle club? Nah I'm not a proper cyclist. I don't even like cyclists' he replied, laughing. 'I'm just someone who likes to ride my bike'
The Autobus have met a few times since we came back from the Tour and it is common for the conversation to turn to France, then inevitably to the Ventoux. I still try and find it difficult to understand why that mountain was, and is, so special. Why it is different? Why was there so much emotion on the Ventoux that day? Grown men, hardened cyclists, sat at the side of the road  with their head in their hands and openly wept. I can't properly explain why.

Maybe it is because the Ventoux is so much more than a great sporting amphitheatre (Shadow Boxing with Major Tom). It is a place of pilgrimage. For cyclists it is a place where we mortals can go and pay homage to the spirit of the great champions like Coppi, Poulidor, Hinault, Merckx and Tom Simpson. We can never emulate their feats, but we can share in their suffering. And although it might not seem so to outsiders, in its own way, our suffering is as noble and glorious as theirs. Perhaps the pain that we felt whilst climbing the mountain is akin to a bare foot pilgrimage of old?

Maybe it was because we knew that if we got to the top of the Ventoux then we could get to the top of any hill. For those of us who had suffered through the winter and long months of training, we finally felt like we were going to make it. The collective mood changed after the Ventoux. Trepidation and fear was replaced with determination and quiet confidence.

Maybe it was because of the vista at the top. On a clear day they say you can see the Med. That day, despite the storm clouds rolling in and obscuring the view, I was sure I could glimpse Paris.

Or, maybe it was all of those things and none of them.

Or maybe, Chris, just maybe it was because that day all of us became cyclists. Yesterday we were just riding our bikes.

Stage 14: I'm off to Slay a Giant

I am sitting outside my hotel room, which backs onto a grassy court. The sun has just set, the sky still has an azure hue, but will turn to black very soon and the stars will start to appear. It is warm and the insects are beginning to bite. My bag is packed, my kit is laid out and I am ready to jump out of bed the second my alarm clock goes at 0500.

Tomorrow is the longest stage of the whole tour. 242kms, which in itself hold no fears, but at the end of the day, after our legs have been tenderised and boiled in the all day Provencial sun, we will head up The Ventoux.

This mountain has gained mythical status. Tom Simpson (after whom this blog takes its name), died on its slopes, the great Eddie Merckx needed oxygen at the summit and countless others have floundered on its steep slopes.

Before the route had been announced, I had hoped that the Giant of Provence would feature on the itinerary. It does, and I cant wait to get started.

It's late and I have an early start. Wish me bon chance and bon courage. Its gonna be stinking hot tomorrow – I might need all the courage I can get.

From Lyon,

N

Stage 13: The Spanish Inquisition

The Grand Boucle celebrates its 100^th running in 2013. It was first run on 1903, but breaks for the two world wars mean that it has had to wait until this year for its 100^th race. One year it goes round the country in an anticlockwise direction and the other year in a clockwise direction. I cant figure out whether it’s clockwise or not this year. It kinda starts off clockwise starting in Corsica at 6 on the clock and makes its way up to 12, at Mont Saint Michel then back to 6 at Ventoux, as clocks are apt to do. But then instead of turning right to head back up to 12 in a clockwise direction it turns left and goes anti-clockwise. Maybe in this most traditional of tours there has been special dispensation to fly in the face of tradition. I’m all for some traditional face flying personally, it spices things up a bit I always find. However, we must be wary of the risk that when we get to the bottom of France autopilot takes over and we turn right instead of left. Need to be ever watchful for that one, taking a wrong turn at that point in proceedings would be almost too much to take.

In the run up to the tour I was always fearful of getting injured. That something disastrous would happen which would mean that completing the tour would be impossible. What I had not really thought about was the attritional nature of the task that is in front of us. Legs are beginning to feel tight, backs are painful, hands are blistered and arses are chaffed.

As unpleasant as it might seem arses are perhaps the cause of the most discomfort. The first 20 minutes of a ride are uncomfortable and getting Jimmy and the Twins to stop complaining takes a bit of time.

The organisation that goes into the Tour has been incredible. We only see a part of it, I’m sure, but we have everything, and more that we need. That includes the provision of medical, physio and massage support.

I had never had a proper massage before, and I’m not sure that I want one again. I went in thinking I was a super strong athlete and came out a broken man, whilst suffering physical pain in the interim.

Once I was on the couch I was pounded to within an inch of my life, before being told that my body was so out of kilter that it is a surprise that I was able to cycle at all. Apparently I am somewhat of a miracle and not in a good way. Evidently, the right side my body is significantly larger than my left. To such an extent that it’s a wonder that I don’t spend the whole time cycling in circles. At first I received this news with delight. The velodrome was immediately brought to mind, you cycle in circles in that, after all. Perhaps my physical ineptitudes could infact be the perfect adaptation for the ‘drome. Alas, it is my right side that is significantly larger and therefore my natural bias will be all wrong. Flying in the face of tradition is one thing, but cycling the wrong way round a velodrome might be frowned upon by the cycling cognoscenti.

I was also informed that I was to cease henceforth with hot showers. From now on, I am to come in from a ride sit in a cold bath and then have a cold shower. To stop the swelling in my non-uniform legs, apparently. Any small pleasure that I had taken from a long hot shower after a equally long hot day on the bike has now been removed.

I have also been given a tennis ball that every night I am to run up and down the outside of my thighs and across my calfs. I had been under the false pretence that my legs had been in the rudest of health. Strong, lean, fit and above all painless – or so I thought. However, one revolution of the tennis ball up my IT Band (physio speak for the outside of my thigh), disabused me of that notion. My legs are infact wrecked, the yelps of pain elicited by the tennis ball bear testament to that.

I had never thought of a tennis ball as an implement of torture, before. But my impressions have soon changed. See if the pope had a cupboard full of tennis balls and knowledge of where the IT Band was situated, during the Spanish inquisition? Well all I am saying it that Galileo would be swearing blind that the Earth was flat and the sun orbited the moon.

Alas the massagers haven’t been able to do anything about my raw undercarriage. It's not that kind of massage therapy, apparently. So forgive me if I cut this short. If the thighs will take the strain, I’m off to dangle Jimmy and the Twins in a cup of iced water* in the hope that will persuade them to shut the **** up and stop complaining.

From somewhere in deepest France,

N

*A very large cup. Possibly even a bowl, infact might need to crouch over the bath.

Stage 12: Riding with Jimmy and the Twins

Jimmy and the Twins. Chris, me and Trevor.

When Scott set off on his wee trip to the Antarctic, he made sure that none of the kit that he used was new. Everything had been tested, everything had been used before. After all when your out in the frozen wasteland you can’t just pop into your local Blacks of Greenock and pick up a new pair of woollen underpants.

Bike kit, these days is pretty awesome. You can get some really well designed and useful stuff, which varies massively in price and complexity. From feather light frames that are made from the most exotic materials like angels hair and cobwebs to gears that shift electronically (electronic gears… on a bike? Who’d have thunk it?) to my personal favourite piece of kit, bike pumps that are ‘fired’ by compressed air.

Regardless of how well kitted out you are, however, some days, the fates just conspire against you. The gods will be looking elsewhere and every thing that can go wrong seems to. On days like these you just have to shrug your shoulders and sigh,

‘C’est la vie’.

Today was such a day. It was supposed to be an easy day. 214ks of pan flat French country side, with scarcely a pimple on the profile. Mile after mile of flat and not much more. It should have been a piece of piss. We managed to contrive to make it a precipice.

Our misfortune started early. Within 500m of starting one of our group had punctured. Big Dr Col (one of the rider leaders), waved us on and said he’d catch us up. After all 20 riders cannot fix a puncture any quicker than 2.

‘Don’t worry about it, it’s just straight on’ he imparted.

So we followed his instructions and went straight through the next round about. We were pretty much straight into the country side by then and so we kept on keeping on. One of the team vans passed us with a toot of the horn and a friendly wave.  We were keen to catch up with the rest of our pals and ride with them, so we pressed on hard, as we knew on a long flat stage cycling in a group can save you significant time and, more importantly, effort.

All through the tour, the organisers have done an incredible job of marking the course with arrows. We were getting concerned that we hadn’t seen an arrow. However, we were comforted by the fact that the team van had gone past us. Surely that meant that we were on the right track. Then after about 15ks out of Fougeres, the van appeared in the other direction, to tell us that we had all taken a wrong turn. They offered to take us back to the start in the van, which after little consideration we accepted.

Chris, Trevor and myself clambered onto the van and found a place to perch amongst the assorted luggage. We decided there and then that although this was a set back, provided we didn’t have any more mechanicals or other faff, then we should be able to pick up the rest of the gang, sooner rather than later. We agreed, there in the back of the van, that there would be no more mess ups.

After we had been dropped off, we swung our legs over our steeds and pushed down on the pedals. I had barely managed one pedal stroke when a stream of voluminous invective spouted from Chris’s direction. His brand new, beautiful looking, Italian stallion has been causing him problems from day 2 of the tour. A ‘Singing’ bottom bracket and an inappropriate set of gears being his main concerns. This has necessitated the De Rosa being granted a permanent bed in the sick bay.

This time, however, he had somehow contrived to pick up a puncture from his bike being in the back of the van.  I thought that it was going to prove too myuch for Chris. Thankfully he managed to keep a lid on it and further the van had a track pump in it, so once we had changed the inner tube we were quickly on our way.

Another 5km down the road, Chris again turned the air blue, using words that I never new existed – he is from Leith after all. I turned round to see his bike already upside down and him working feverishly to remove the back wheel. He had punctured again.

I cycled back to him and was able to impart the happy news that I had a compressed air pump in my back pocket that I could use to get him back on the road in a jiffy. Whilst this news wasn’t received with the unbridled joy that I had perhaps expected, it did illicit a grunt of what I thought might be gratitude. You see, Chris was in no mood for joy. He was an angry man.

Whilst Chris and Trevor worked feverishly to get out the inner tube. I, with a flourish produced my compressed air pump. Again, I didn’t feel that my flourish was sufficiently appreciated by my companions. So, with a further and more dramatic flourish I attached the compressed air canister to the pump head and told the guys to stand back. Unfortunately through my incompetence, or the poor design of the pump the canister exploded in my hand and let the compressed air out at a gallop. I’m not sure if Chris and Trevor were impressed by my flourish, but it certainly left an impression. For about 30 seconds the escaping CO2 generated enough ‘smoke’ that it looked more like a flare than a bicycle pump, and I looked a bit like a prat.

‘Hmmm… I think that air was supposed to make its way into the tyre’ I said apologetically.

We had to revert to the old fashioned hand pump to get us back on the road.

We rode hard for the next couple of hours. Chris riding angry as he was pissed off with life. Me riding angry because I looked such a prat.  Trevor, enjoying the tow from two angry riders. We busted ourselves getting back to the group, but we managed it.

What should have been an easy day became amongst the toughest to date.

I’m not sure where it is recorded what bike Scott chose to take to the Antarctic, so I don’t know whether he chose steel or angels hair. Ill bet you he had the sense not to use a new compressed air pump, however.

From Tours,

N

Stage 11: Cycling with John

I can never make up my mind whether John Knox was a hero or a villain in Scotland’s story. I guess it depends on through which prism you view the past. There is no doubting his influence though, and it still runs deep in Scottish culture and the Scottish psyche for good and bad.

Knox’s was an interesting life, even before he took up with the fire and brimstone. He spent time as a French galley slave. I remember not what transgression he performed to merit that punishment. But there is little doubt that it would have been a hellish existence. I don’t know in what regard he held the French after his sojourn in their navy, but I think it is a safe assumption that it was not high.

Today was time trial day.  The Contre la Montre, the Race of Truth, the Chrono, the Test.

A route that took us from Avranche to Mont St Michel. ‘Only’ a short 35km, but time trials are as difficult as you make them. 35km in a time trial can seem like a long, long way. The problem, or I guess the beauty of Time Trials is that there are no team mates to draft, no one to pull you up a hill, no one to help pace you, no one to race against. It is just you, alone with your pain, against the clock.

If you are going to do well in a TT then you are going to have to suffer, the guy who wins is the guy who is willing to suffer the most. There is one given in a TT, it’s really going to hurt. It has often srtuck me that this is the most Calvanistic of endeavours.

Of course, we are not racing so we don’t need to suffer more than is absolutely necessary. We could take all day to do the 35km if we wanted. There is no rush – other than the fact that no traffic is allowed on the causeway that leads up to the Mont. Sarah, our tireless and indefatigable tour leader is a master at getting round piffling little obstructions such as the law and had hatched a plan to allow us to cycle along the causeway – because that is what the pros will do. It was a simple plan, as all the best plans are. It involved us starting the TT early enough that we would get to the causeway before the Gendarmerie were out their beds, and, god willing the last of our riders would be across the causeway before the alarm was raised. I am not sure how Sarah elicited the intelligence as to what time the French PC Murdoch gets out of his bed. In this case it is perhaps best that I don’t ask…

My plan had been to ride the TT gently, at ‘recovery pace’. Not to stress the body to continue to take everything easy and gently. The weather this morning was foul. Driving rain and strong winds. The first inclement weather that we have had on the tour so far. A slow cycle did not seem very appealing and when I turned the pedals this morning, my legs felt great. I decided to allow myself 10km of hard cycling. But when I hit 10k I wanted to keep going, so I said to myself I would ease off after 20k. But I still felt great at 20k. So I decided to just keep going hard. If you would allow me the literary latitude to mix my metaphors, I didn’t go full gas, and I didn’t climb completely inside my pain cave, but I certainly brushed my teeth with the pain toothbrush. And, it felt great. To feel the snotters stream down my face, to taste the blood in my saliva, and feel the lactic burn in my thighs. Strange as it may seem but, it felt fantastic.

And it was then that I was reminded of John Knox and I wondered what he would have made of it all. I am sure that he would probably approve of the time trial, which would appeal to his edict of hard work and no joy. Although I doubt he would have approved of the location, nor of my sartorial choice. Bright yellow shoes and polka dot socks, it would all have been a bit brash for him, I fear. Surely if he had been alive today, he would be turning in his grave.

Tomorrow sees us start our long traverse down, through the centre of France. We travel from Fougeres to Tours. Some 218km. The profile looks to be pan flat, but regardless of this it is likely to be a long day in the saddle. Hopefully the weather will be much drier and warmer than today and with any luck we will get the fair wind that has so far eluded us on this tour. It will be a day for getting into a group and sharing the load, as well as some banter and bonhomie, to make the miles tick along. Luckily I know just the group of coves that can offer both. I’m looking forward to a long day on the bike.

From Fougeres,

N

Stage 10: The Wheels on the Bus... Stop

There is truly nothing like it. When a group of riders is motoring along at a fair old clip and there is no sound, other than the silent whoosh of tyre on tarmac, the gentle rattle of chain on cog and the occasional clack of a gear change.

Today was an easy day. A benign stage of only 190 odd clicks. No hills to speak of. After a rest day yesterday this has been a good and enjoyable couple of days. The mood in the group has noticeably lifted. I think people are relieved and happy that they have made it past the first few stages and confidence is growing.

The next 4 stages consist of a time trial and three long but flat stages. No one will win the tour on these stages, but they could well loose it. I guess it is similar for us. Getting into a group and working well together will become increasingly important.

We have managed to get a group that works together, l'Autobus Ecosse, as we have been christened. On these long and flat stages it is important to have people who can share the load as well as being able to enjoy some banter along the way. It certainly helps the dead miles skip by easier.

Everything was going well today, until the last couple of miles when my very expensive wheel seized up and the wheels came off the Autobus. Another trip for the bike to the sick bay.

From St Malo,

n

Rest Day: Into the Badgers Set

Today is a rest day. We started the day in Tarbes in the South West of the country in the Pyrenees on the Spanish border. We will sleep tonight up in Brittany, On the North coast. Home to Bernard Hinault, the last great French rider. The journey has involved an 8 hour bus ride. Given the transfer this has meant that the rest day has not been as restful as perhaps we would have liked. Mind you, I guess it’s preferable to do it in a bus, rather than on the bike. I have a stack of laundry to do when I arrive. I assume that most of the group will be thinking similar. So, by the time I get round to resting then it might well be time to go to bed.

When I was preparing for the tour one piece of advice I was given was always to be thinking three days in ahead and riding with them in mind. This rest day has been the focus of much of my attention for the last few days. ‘Get through today and your rest day is one day closer’ has been a constant maxim. And here it is. I have survived to the rest day, but I’ve done more than survive. I feel strong, I have been riding well within myself and my legs feel strong.  I have had the confidence and discipline to let other riders go away from me if they are riding harder than is in my plan. That has been more difficult than it sounds, sometimes it’s hard to ride your own race. I have had to check in my ego, I keep having to remind myself that the objective here is Paris, not to chase an ephemeral Strava King of the Mountain. Perhaps I could do both, but the risk of blowing myself up is not worth the scant reward. Paris is the gold at the end of the rainbow and that is where my focus is, all else is just noise.

As each day passes my confidence increases. If anything I think I might have been riding too gently. However, the plan has worked up until now and I don’t see the need to change. I will have to work hard to temper my natural competitive urge but If I can get to the next rest day feeling as strong as I do today, then I will be ready to take on the Alps. If I can give my body proper opportunity to recover, who knows, perhaps I can be even stronger than I was in Corsica.

And so the first 9 Stages have been completed. The first chapter is done. The next section, will be slightly easier than the first, I think. We have a rest day today and a flat, although, long section tomorrow. Then a time trial. I am viewing these days as a chance to rest and recuperate. I will try and ride tomorrows stage in a group (L’Autobus Ecosse) and take it slow, not getting much above a recovery effort. The time trial too, will be nothing more than a recover ride for me. Some of the group will try and race it. I would dearly love to have a blast and rip up the course, but I can ride a time trial anytime, so I will keep a lid on it. We then have 4, mainly flat, long stages that take us right through the heart of France. Which will finish in a crescendo atop the Mont Ventoux. Again the watch words will be conserve, conserve, conserve so that I arrive in Bedoin as fresh as possible and ready to renew an old acquaintance. I am licking my lips in anticipation already.

From Brittany,

N