It shouldn't be about the Ref.

Four years ago Craig Joubert  was possibly my favourite referee on the planet;  he's probably going to be a lifetime recipient of Christmas cards from Richie McCaw.

Today, however, the closet Jock in me was greatly aggrieved, along with 6 million other Scots, at the decision he made at the end of the Australia v. Scotland game.

I have been known, throughout this tournament, to bemoan the excessive use of the TMO when making decisions.  However, on the one occasion it would seem to be vindicated, it is not used, as a consequence of the RWC's idiosyncratic technicalities.

Scotland  leave the tournament, the Aussies live to fight another day and through the pain, the Scots remained magnanimous in defeat.

Joubert, however, flew from Twickenham faster than the planes flying overhead, having cheated the Scots of a  possible semi-final berth.

I don't doubt that the resilience of the Australians may well have secured them a victory,  they are irritating buggers like that, but to go through on the basis of an official's decision, behind which he appears not to stand, diminishes an otherwise magnificent tournament.

Col Bagging 2015 - part five

Day Five:  1^st July 2015

Crest-Voland to Talloires

The final day of our tour saw us observing another of our customs - the donning of the tour shirt by all; we emerged from our rooms resplendent in our black Col Baggers attire, ready to tackle the final day.

The breakfast at Le Caprice des Neiges featured the standard French faire with the additional option of boiled eggs. The recommended six minutes in the boiling basket resulted in an egg that was best eaten with a soup spoon and which rendered the toast on which it sat somewhat soggy. Having been last at virtually every undertaking during the week, this was not the one in which to be first. Subsequent eggs spent a little more time in the water bath and those of my fellow riders who exercised a little more patience than I got to enjoy an altogether more solid experience.

One of the benefits of not having to ride to a timetable or a route that is governed by carnet stamping requirements, is that changes can be made to reflect the general mood and condition of the group. Whilst we were all still capable of riding the full route planned for the final day, we decided to alter the planned course; instead of riding the Col de la Colombière, we opted instead for the more nostalgically-named Col de la Croix Fry, in honour of 2012’s errant Andorran explorer.

Before re-routing took place, we still had the Col des Aravis to despatch, which was a 587m climb over 11 km from the town of Flumet. Although not many of our party knew it at the time, the Aravis was one of the first cols that Lord T scaled on the back of a bike and was therefore a landmark; it could be rightly considered the col that led to the germination of an idea that a tour of mountainous regions by a Lycra-clad party of middle-aged men was a wise and sensible thing to do. At the top Paul explained how difficult that first climb had been, how it had rendered him nauseous to the point of vomiting. Once again I had pause to reflect on why, after such an experience, he would want to tackle more of the same.

So thinking, I embarked on the second last descent of the day to I know not where, as we had by now departed from the planned route on our day cards. At the base of our final climb, rather than risk delaying the boys too greatly at the top, I set off a bit earlier than the others. Caroline and Sarah advised that the alternative route we were taking was a few short kilometres up a gentle four or five degree incline. They lied.

The road began to rise steadily; 8, 9 and 10% gradients becoming the norm. The sweat began to flow but the distance between me and the next rider began to lengthen. After five days on the road I was feeling strong and the rest of the group were struggling to maintain my pace. I looked over my shoulder and saw the desperation in first Paul’s, then Max’s, Rob’s, Stuart’s, Keelan’s, Diesel’s and Richard’s eyes as they realised that this final col was mine. Even Phil looked pained at the pace I was keeping, and he was in the van. I eased back to give them all half a chance, allowing them to recover their breathing, knowing that I was able to boss the mountain.

As the summit came into view, I could feel them jostling for position, all wanting to be the first man up the last col. First Max, then Keelan, followed closely by Paul and Rob went past me, setting off to claim victory with a final sprint.

It was a brave but pitiful effort – I eased past them all, reeling them in one by one with a demonstration of athletic prowess that left them stunned. It was exhibition cycling at its best; a display of power and poise at which they could only marvel. At least that’s how I remember it, some of the others might recount a slightly different version of events but one thing is for certain, the Col de la Croix Fry was mine!

For the remainder of the day we rode together, yet more generosity from my fellow riders making concessions to my more usual sluggish pace even though much of the final distance was downhill, save for a cheeky wee flat as we neared Talloires, our final destination. We arrived largely on schedule and completed the final acts of the tour before disrobing and donning our togs for a swim in Lac d’Annecy.

We entered the beautifully manicured Plage de Talloires where holidaying families were enjoying the sun and the cool mountain waters from the surrounding alps, their peaceful afternoon just moments away from destruction as I demonstrated the ‘Deffy’ to all who cared to witness. The Deffy is the antithesis of an elegant dive into the water; it is designed to deliver maximum displacement, and with my ample frame I duly achieved my goal, much to the fascination of some of the younger lads who attempted to emulate the splash but, lacking the requisite bulk, their efforts were somewhat lame.

We all paddled for a time, enjoying the cool of the water after suffering in the sun for the previous five days; it was a welcome alternative.

Swim complete, we decamped to a restaurant for lunch. There were nine varieties of pizza on the menu and we decided to have them all, and more than one of some options, sharing them by taking a piece and passing the plate on. The manoeuvre was vastly more successful than our rider circulation in the peloton, and accomplished with aplomb, without a morsel left at the end of the session.

It was washed down with beer, presentations and anecdotes, a disconcerting number of which involved Stuart’s man-parts and Keelan ‘exploding like a puffer fish’ in what I hope referred to the pizza rather than a reference to Stuart’s anatomy.

Sarah and Caroline provided their summary of the trip and broadly speaking we were generally well behaved, with the best behaved being yours truly, earning a particularly fine bottle of fizz for my saintly endeavours.

With the exception of our marvellous support crew, who would continue toiling on the French roads for a further day and a half, we were all returning to the UK on an evening flight from Geneva. The chattering in the van that had been the hallmark of previous journeys yielded to the snuffles of weary men taking the opportunity for 40 winks, as the equally weary support team once more ferried us along French and Swiss roads. Happily the border guards didn’t challenge us for passports as we entered the neutral territory of the Swiss; there may have ensued a degree of unpacking that would have delayed many a car behind us had that eventuality unfolded.

At the airport we said our farewells to Caroline, Sarah and Phil and entered the terminal to discover, in what is becoming a recurring theme bordering on conspiracy, that ours was the only flight experiencing a delay. It afforded us a little more time for duty free shopping and the ubiquitous Toblerone and gin found their way into my hand luggage.

When we eventually took off for home, we encountered an uneventful flight and set down at LHR for the last rights. Evidently no emotional farewells were required; Lord T and Rob had cleared customs and security, and were probably tucking into the butler’s cucumber sandwiches before Stu, Keelan, Richard, Max and I had returned to the Office Depot carpark to retrieve our cars for the drive home. Diesel at least managed a cheery wave.

On the drive home I had time to reflect upon this year’s ride. At many times throughout the build-up I bemoaned my increasing age and waistline, arguing with myself that this would be the last grand tour I’d do, my commitment to training waning as other priorities emerged. Much of the training I put in was of a solitary nature too, and my propensity to cycle in the garage rather than on the road if the elements were not entirely favourable (as they weren’t for much of the year) removed much of the enjoyment from the sport for me. As I pulled into the driveway though and saw the sign flying from the eaves that Alex and the children had once more made for me to reflect this year’s achievements, I idly considered that there may yet be a little more pedalling remaining in my legs, and a shade more weight that I can reduce.

Perhaps next year will be the last…

Craig’s trip statistics

Day 1          27/06/2015          6hrs, 25mins, 39secs        73.09 miles         9,542 feet

Day 2          28/06/2015          6hrs, 31mins, 25secs        83.12 miles         7,448 feet

Day 3[1]      29/06/2015          2hrs, 57mins, 17secs        24.02 miles         4,298 feet

Day 4          30/06/2015          6hrs, 50mins, 47secs        62.90 miles         9,951 feet

Day 5          01/07/2015          3hrs, 01mins, 44secs        36.07 miles         3,504 feet

---

[1] Abridged day

Col Bagging 2015 - part four

Day Four:  30^th June 2015

Montaimont to Crest-Voland

With a fond farewell from the lovely Isabelle, we departed the Hôtel Le Beauséjour by van to the town of La Chambre, 600 metres below us. Max must have been sartorially subdued, for my notes do not record his attire for the day’s ride. We assembled in the car park at the corner of Grande Rue and Route de Saint-Martin, the road that would lead us up to the Col de la Madeleine.

The drop to the foot of the mountain would mean that a climb of nearly 1,500 metres over 20km would be ahead of us and the heat of the day, already rising steadily, implied a challenging morning.

Mercifully, however, our ascent lay up the north-west (ish) face of the mountain and we climbed largely in the morning shade. The Madeleine, an Haut Category climb, has an average gradient of 9% and was a suitably challenging start to the day. Rob and Paul once more led the field, with Max, Keelan and Stuart close behind.  Diesel, Richard and I completing the touring party.

The ride was largely unremarkable; sheep grazed the hillside, the occasional clang of a cowbell and a relentless climb are all that I recall. Notably my notes for the ascent are sparse, save for the view from the top, where in the distance we could see Mont Blanc, the peak sparkling white with the thick coat of snow that clung to its face vindicating its name. We paused to refuel, savouring not only the culinary delights that Sarah and Caroline laid before us, but also the view.

Nearly 20km of descent led to a further 23km of gentle flats where we demonstrated further faltering form as a peloton, our dance on the pétanque terrain of Day 1 evidently not manifesting in discernible competence riding as a group. The heat had continued to increase throughout the day and we lunched on a riverbank in the shade of trees on the outskirts of Albertville, lying back on blankets that the girls had laid out for us. In such temperatures it was difficult to imagine that the town had once hosted the 1992 Winter Olympics, in which, it should be added, Annelise Coberger won a silver medal in the slalom, becoming the first athlete from the southern hemisphere to win a medal at the Winter Olympics. Naturally enough she was from New Zealand. Sadly, it did not see the return of the perennial trier, Eddie ‘the Eagle’ Edwards, who had trailed the field at the 1988 Calgary Olympics for Britain in the ski jump. Following his epic failure in those games, where he finished dead last with 57.5 points from a 55m jump (compared with the Finnish winner, Matti Nykänen, who recorded 224 points from a jump of 120m), the miserable bastards at the IOC introduced a rule that meant one could only compete at an Olympics if one featured in the top 30% of athletes, or the top 50, whichever was a fewer. The rule, unsurprisingly, is known as the Eddie the Eagle rule. One other interesting fact is that Todd Gilman of Canada, who finished second to last with 110.8 points, actually fell on his second jump which provides further evidence of the spectacular mediocrity of Eddie Edwards’ performance.

As I retrieved my bike from the side of the van where is had been resting in the afternoon sun, I spotted that the Garmin was recoding a temperature of 46.5°C. The heightened reading was clearly a combination of the black frame of the bike and sun reflecting off the white side of the vehicle and not, thankfully, the actual temperature. It was, nevertheless, going to be a very warm afternoon as we set off in peloton once more for the foot of the Col des Saisies.

I nestled near the front of the group, regularly calling out to whoever was leading to ease up on the gas. Despite my urging, I thought we were progressing at a reasonable pace, whereupon a mountain biker blitzed past us and suggested that the speed I was requesting was a lot closer to Eddie the Eagle’s standards than Nykänen’s. Philip, who had opted for support crew duties for the day, mocked us mercilessly that evening and would have none of my assertion that although bested by a rock-hopper, the thick-wheeled one did have, nestling beneath his frame, a battery pack similar to Sister Maria’s from Mont Ventoux, which must have substantially contributed to the 25mph he exhibited as he flew past.

Shortly after this embarrassing episode the road began to rise again, gently at first, and I tried to cling to the front of the group. At some point, two or three of our group had paused for a mechanical adjustment which meant that Richard and I rode with Rob, James and Stuart for a time. As the surface inclined, the distances between us lengthened as I fell back.

Ordinarily in France, the density of traffic is worst at the end of July and beginning of August on any given Saturday, as the masses depart for their annual holidays to all corners of the country. On this Tuesday, on the final day of June 2015, an altogether different form of traffic jam was occurring. Caused, it would transpire, by Richard and me sluggishly making our way up the Col des Saisies, creating a 15 vehicle tailback that was so slow that Paul, Keelan and Max managed to pass some of those vehicles as they went uphill. It was a warm old ride, and although the snowy peaks of Mont Blanc kept us company throughout, the chill of those lofty heights were far from us. At the summit of the col, another ski resort nestled and when I eventually joined the group, it was to a party of men sitting outside a café enjoying ice-cold cokes and strong coffees.

After our pause, we mounted bikes for the final descent of the day; 9 fairly bumpy kilometres along some of the worst paved roads we’ve experienced in France to Hôtel Le Caprice des Neiges in Crest Voland, a reassuringly Swiss-looking hotel that was well appointed and welcoming. As is customary on our final night, we indulged in a few more beers and wines than was typical on earlier nights and did our level best to exceed tour budget for food and drinks by downing an elegant sufficiency of the splendid local wine, the name of which I have sadly lost.

Col Bagging 2015 - part three

Day Three:  29^th June 2015

Le Bourg-d’Oisans to Montaimont

We had a very bright start to Day 3 which refers not to the weather, but to the latest sartorial offering from Maxwell House. Ahead of us that day was Alpe d’Huez, legendary in the Tour de France for its swarming orange clad supporters at ‘Dutch Corner’. In homage to the Nederlanders, Max was adorned in his Boldmere Bullets shirt and matching orange trimmed shorts. Maintaining the theme of not quite matching ensembles from the previous day, he wore some socks that we suspect he’d borrowed from his grandfather. The designer in Keelan was most perturbed by the clashing Pantone colours and dug in his day bag for a colour wheel to provide some elementary instruction to Max in how best to avoid catastrophic couture faux pas.
 

It was notable too that, despite offending the entire United Nations the evening before, Lord T had succeeded in delivering an elementary lesson in the mechanics of thermos dynamics; his warm milk was dutifully presented to him by the charming Irish waitress who so patiently looked after our breakfast needs.

A quick glance at our day cards for Day 3 reveals a rather vertiginous start to the day. Just 500 metres from the door of the hotel was the base of Alpe d’Huez, a climb I believe we were all looking forward to tackling. The Alpe has 21 hairpin bends, numbered in descending numerical order from the bottom and each of them carries the name of a former conqueror of the mountain from Tour de France history.

Unlike most other roads up which we traverse, the Alpe is not a col; it leads instead to an alpine village which plays host to some of Europe’s finest ski fields. In the winter, those that reach its lofty heights do so in a coach, the engine whining as it crawls its way up the steep gradient, often for prolonged stretches of 10% to 12%, particularly near the bottom. It is little wonder when one considers the terrain that it is a mountain up which the Tour de France has often been won and lost.

The 15km from the base at 715m to its final elevation of 1,815m leads to an average climb of 7.3%. Blessedly, we began early in the day, before the blistering heat of the afternoon would have an opportunity to affect our ride, but the climb was no less challenging for the cooler temperature.

I settled in to my customary spot at the back of the pack and allowed my breakfast of eggs, croissant, baguette, ham and cheese, with an added bowl of muesli and yoghurt to remind me that I am an idiot, and lumbered up the hill.

The countdown of the corners was a tortuous affair, 21 slowly eked into 20, 20 to 19. At each corner my speed, or lack thereof, was sufficiently sluggish to grant me enough time to read each sign, noting that in some instances, more than one rider’s name appeared; mine is never likely to join theirs, unless perchance a namesake should astound the Tour with his exploits in the future.

As the corner numbers whittled down, I whittled up, ever conscious of the fatigue I was feeling. My preparations for this year’s trip left a little to be desired and it was beginning to tell on me in the early part of Day 3.

Passing through the sprawling lower reaches of the ski resort, I spotted the rest of our party already tucking into coffee and cake, their morning’s effort complete. Gentle encouragement from the touring party was offered, I satisfied myself that I was near the last of the hairpins, although to my annoyance I discovered that the numbering began at 0 rather than 1; I momentarily joined Turton in a spot of French bashing.

Caroline very kindly escorted me to the ‘summit’ of Alpe d’Huez, a somewhat innocuous

sign proclaiming ‘Arrivée’. Notably, the road continues up for another few hundred metres to a higher plane but not the finish point for this ride, a fact that was lost on Max and Keelan who, in taking a slightly different route through the town, managed to scale to a loftier height but, alas, did not reach the ‘Summit’. It is a sad fact which must be recorded, that despite cycling 90 minutes up an iconic mountain, that they failed to complete the ride, a circumstance that they will vigorously deny, but which equally, Lord Turton of Teddington, will remind them of for the rest of the trip, and I am quite certain, in future years. I too shall remind them that, although it took me 2 hours, I did finish the route, which is rather more than can be said for the rest of the day.

From Alpe d’Huez we descended towards Allemond and a lunch stop. Our route saw us clinging to the mountainside as we meandered gently down the valley through yet more inspiring topography. Man’s contribution to nature was again on display with yet another lake formed from damming of the river by EDF. We paused beneath the road bridge that ran on one side of the dam for lunch in one of the few places offering respite from the sun.
 

Many people argue that cycling is as much a state of mind as it is of physical fitness. I’m inclined to agree, because what lay before us was a 27km ascent of the Col de la Croix de Fer and, at 2,067m, the highest point we would reach this year. For much of lunch I was telling myself that I probably wouldn’t be able to make it. The heat of the day, the weariness from the preceding two and a half days’ riding and a stomach that couldn’t decide whether it wanted to contain its lunch, were all weighing heavily on my thoughts.

As lunch concluded I decided that I would keep going for as long as I could, doing my level best to reach the summit, but knowing in my heart that I wouldn’t make it. Wearily I set off, the first three kilometres from our lunch break providing a steady, yet gentle climb. We passed the power generation plant at the end of the lake and as the road curled around it, the steady incline dramatically pitched, to an extent that my Garmin responded with an ‘autopause’ moment - seemingly it believed I had stopped. Normally at this juncture, for it has occurred on more than one occasion, I utter a string of profanity aimed at the inanimate object on my handle bars, imploring it to recognise that, whilst I might be proceeding at an unutterably slow pace, I am still nevertheless moving; there is momentum, it is forward and not, as Garmin would lead me to believe, sideways, falling into the road.

In this instance, however, no such outburst occurred, instead I thought to myself, “You know what Garmin, you have a point.” I decided then, just one ninth into the afternoon’s journey, that I need not do any more. I quickly reasoned that it was unlikely I would finish and that I would therefore not have a Croix de la Fer shaped notch in the bedpost. If I wasn’t going to be able to bag the mountain, what was the need to prolong the agony? In the time I had to think this through, I drew nearer to the van and the waiting Caroline. I drew a hand across my neck. “I’m done”, I said, and with that my day got infinitely better.

Further proving my point that a lot of cycling is in the mind, my fatigue lifted, my stomach ailment vanished and my spirits soared – not so much that I contemplated, even for a moment, getting back on the bike, but I was a considerably happier chap. Departing from the ranks of a cyclist, I joined those of the support crew and took to my duties with aplomb.

Although I’ve been in the van before, this was the first occasion on which I had done so on a calculated, voluntary basis. Last year the cold on the Iseran and the lateness of the hour on Izoard conspired against me, and my misery that first time left me incapable of feeling supportive to my fellow riders. This time was altogether different and I bounded about the van filling water buckets, dousing riders, providing sustenance and enthusiastic encouragement. My joy may have given Richard pause to think a day spent in the comfort of the van, rather than on the saddle of a bike, was an alternative worth considering. To his great credit, his resolve and stoicism shone through and he ploughed on up the mountain.
 

The view from the van provided me with a curious insight into this sport of ours. Universally, the party looked weary, all seemingly tired, pained and suffering. Yet still they powered on, grinding up mountains, fiercely determined to complete the day’s challenge. People have often asked me why I do it; I’ve often enough asked myself the same question, and never been able to satisfactorily answer it, but as I witnessed one rider after another inching ever higher up the mountain, I realised why I do it. Standing at the top of each col, having photos taken beneath summit markers, looking back down the mountain at the wending road up which one has just ridden; powered only by the legs, the lungs and the mind. I recognise that for me at least, it’s the sense of achievement.  What we do is hard, we may all go at different paces, but as Greg Lemond said, “It never gets easier, you just go faster.” For each of us it’s painful, but at the end of the day, when one looks back at what has been accomplished, it is deeply satisfying – or it would have been if I wasn’t sponging down seven blokes from the back of the van.

Prior to our trip, Max had circulated a YouTube clip of a wiry young cyclist making an ascent up the Col de la Croix de Fer with barely a pause to draw breath. He narrated the climb as though sitting in an armchair rather than on the back of a bike up a brutal 27km long incline. He made it look ridiculously easy, a lesson in cycling that I could only marvel at. He was as fresh at the top as he’d been at the bottom, showing no notable fatigue at what he’d just done. By contrast, our party looked a little jaded and indeed, possibly addled; no one more so than Stuart who, ever keen to evidence his prowess in descending, set off to enjoy the spoils of his labour. Happily for Stuart, due to my somewhat more relaxed afternoon, I was a little sharper than I might otherwise have been as I noticed him head off in the wrong direction.

I spent considerable time as an errant youth mastering the art of whistling and as I watched him disappear, I put my fingers to my mouth and blew. The ear piercing screech that followed registered with Stuart and he turned back to see me waving violently in his direction. Cue taken, he returned to us, to his undeniable shame. Stuart is a master when heading downhill and had he gone, even though we’d spied him, there would have been no way of catching him until the bottom of the mountain. Suffice to say, Stuart topped the points table that evening for his near miss and tales of an unscheduled visit to Andorra once more prevailed.

It had been a tough day and having ridden two massive mountains, it was determined that the day, if not the overall journey, be foreshortened.  Our hotel, the fabulously sited Hôtel Le Beauséjour, was a further 600 metres up the Col de la Madeleine, the first of tomorrow’s climbs.  Had the group climbed that 600 metres, the following day’s ride would have begun halfway up the col.  It was agreed that by beginning at elevation, the climb would not be completed in a single attempt and we would therefore be ‘cheating’.  Instead of making the final climb of the day as planned, the group dismounted and bikes were put into the van for a drive to the hotel, a prudent enough decision, but one that  Max and Keelan thought was a bit soft. After all, they were still fresh from not having completed Alpe d’Huez.

Cycling aside, the day was made by the team at the hotel. The welcome from Isabelle, our maître d’, was generous and the service superb, all delivered with a healthy bon viveur, flowing beer and delicious food. The dog on reception, as Lord T declared in what we thought was yet another of his slurs, proved to be just that; a terrier whose preferred resting spot was on the top of the reception desk, adding to a very quirky air, and the setting, on the side of a mountain with majestic views, was unparalleled and for once I wasn’t too knackered to enjoy it.

Col Bagging 2015 - part two

Day Two:  28^th June 2015

Lagrand to Le Bourg-d’Oisans

Having been unsuccessful in gaining chilled rosé the evening before, Lord T decided he would adopt a different approach and seek a warmer liquid at breakfast time. Détente cordiale had been restored, if not efficient service, and eventually Paul got his hot milk for his porridge oats.

Max’s appearance at breakfast, was quite literally, something to behold. His top of blue hued camouflage, black and blue cycling shorts, and grey and blue Fred Whitton cycling socks were all matching, unfortunately not to each other, but presumably to some other cycling kit that he had failed to bring with him. He had us pondering the environment in which blue combat fatigues might be useful. Regrettably we didn’t have Brigadier Strickland with us this year who may have been able to answer the question.

Early morning musings aside, we set off for our second day’s riding, this time a schlep of 137km and 2,994 metres of climbing, according to our day cards, from Lagrand to Bourg-d’Oisans at the foot of L’Alpe d’Huez, but that is for Day 3.

Day 2 featured two main climbs; the first the 50km jaunt to Col du Festre and the second, much later in the day, up Col d’Ornon. In between were a couple of blips on the day card, the Col de Rioupes and a peaky little unnamed number at 109km, which all-in-all made for a pleasant enough day’s cycling.

The Col du Festre was a rolling ride up the 1,442m col. We cycled through scented pine forests and witnessed fields gloriously scarlet, awash with blooming poppies. There aren’t many views for which we pause to take photos (although Keelan took many without said pause, all remarkably well composed despite his momentum), but the burst of colour amidst the towering landscape was one that drew many of us to a halt.

What wasn’t quite as pleasant was an alternative form of company.  Conscious that I could reduce the wait for the others at the top of the mountain if I set off early, I began the leg in splendid isolation at the front of the field.  In saying isolation, I am referring to the absence of fellow riders, what I wasn’t short of was fellow passengers.  The warm conditions provided the perfect environment for the proliferation of flies, thousands of them.  At 12-13mph and above, the speed is too great for the little blighters to cause too much trouble other than as the odd protein supplement when one is involuntarily ingested.  Below 12mph, down to 8mph, they happily buzz around one’s head and body, akin to the appearance of Peanut’s Pig Pen, a swirling cloud of nuisance.  Slower still, a feat I was now achieving, they alight on helmet, hands and bike, an experience with which I was becoming increasingly familiar.

I wasn’t alone in this experience, but I did seem to generate more than my fair share of the noisome beasts and because of my slower speeds, I wasn’t able to execute the strategy that Max did to be rid of them.  When passing another cyclist, a wave of the arm and a shake of the head could displace one’s supply of flies onto the unsuspecting pedaller about to be overtaken.  A number of poor victims suffered the experience when House sailed by and given the abundance of flies surrounding me, I may well have been one of his targets.

Having dispensed with the flies, we had lunch not far from the summit and could spy through the trees the glistening hints of a lake that promised yet more spectacular views and photo opportunities. Murmurings amongst the group broadly tilted at agreement and we paused at the base of the descent at an imposing dam that served to create the impressive lake. We stopped on the bridge above the dam briefly, mainly to recognise the traffic lights that governed some nearby road works, and retrieved iPhones and Galaxies to take a couple of pics, but they weren’t particularly representative of the scenery, showing but a fraction of the lake. We felt we would be better served a little further along the lakeside so we continued to cycle.

Diesel led off, taking us along the road that lined the lake past several promising vantage points, ever higher and to my growing consternation, further from the lake. Given that I ordinarily lose time on the group, to spend a moment on the roadside alone taking a photo would mean losing contact very early, never being able to recover it, so I chose to ride on. Diesel, it would seem, had had enough of the faffage and didn’t hold to the sentimentality of a pause to take a picture of the glorious Lac du Sautet. It must therefore remain but a memory. Climbing the Col d’Ornon, six riders managed to stay together, enjoying each other’s company. Leading from the back, Richard Day and I managed a degree of separation that would never quite lend to convivial conversation. In the evening we were quizzed to establish if there was an antipathy between us. The reality was far more simplistic; we could never manage to ride at a mutual pace, each of us having to find an independent rhythm.

The d’Ornon descent proved to be a healthily technical pursuit, with Stuart once again demonstrating a nerveless and faultless technique, guided by the occasional flamboyant gyrations from Phil giving direction. What remained then was a short flat stretch to our hotel at Bourg-d’Oisans and Keelan chose to race with Caroline in the van. It was a mightily impressive turn of speed he displayed, made all the more staggering in its athleticism by coming at the end of the day.

Our accommodation that evening was at the Hotel La Cascade at the very foot of Alpe d‘Huez, run by a Dutch couple who, when not providing room and lodgings, must have spent all their time cycling the mountainous region around them. There appeared not to be a kilometre of road our host had not travelled, and his knowledge of the routes and options we could take was encyclopaedic. His advice on what lay ahead and how we could adopt alternatives to the tortuous route we had planned was, on my part, greatly received.

More points scoring occurred in the evening. Rob, who once more had led the field to the top of each col had the dubious position at the top of the leader board for some spurious indiscretions that Caroline and Sarah conjured up over the course of the day. Many copybooks, including mine, were blotted due to carb-influenced flatulence. Remarkably, Turton managed to keep his record largely clean, which is all the more extraordinary when one considers that throughout the course of the evening he managed to insult the majority of the EU membership through some imaginary slur or another.  His non-PC statements addressed the Frogs, the Bosch, the Wops, the Dagos and a great deal more beside, most of which were within earshot. As a member of one of the convict classes, I too took a good-natured hammering. It is wonderful to know that the British Empire is alive and well in at least one far-flung corner of Teddington.

Col Bagging 2015 - part one

Day One: 27^th June 2015

Althen-des-Paluds to Lagrand

An 11 pound baby is massive. People wince if a new mother declares she has delivered a cherub of such scale, both in recognition of the pain of delivery, but also the discomfort of having carried such a burden in the latter stages of pregnancy. It’s the equivalent of 10 large packs of butter. Stack those up and see how long you can carry them around with you for the day. Better yet, ingest them, allowing the fat to build up around your body. In effect, that’s what I’ve managed to achieve in the 12 months since we last set off on our annual cycling effort; a gain in weight, largely flab, of 11 pounds. When I don my Lycra for a day’s riding, I now look even more like a badly made sausage.

So it was, being slightly more rotund than in previous years, that I set off on our pilgrimage, this time heading north, broadly from Marseille to Geneva. I say broadly, we drove an hour from the airport on Friday night to our hotel in Althen-des-Paluds then, in the morning, dispensed with the initial 30km of our planned ride, driving instead to Bédoin, the small town at the foot of Mont Ventoux, a move that filled me with more than a little joy at the thought of having reduced our day’s ride to a mere 117km. It did mean, of course, that I was immediately lugging my somewhat overweight carcass straight up one of the most daunting climbs that features in the Tour de France. The same mountain that, on the 1967 tour, claimed the life of the British rider and World Champion (so no slug on a bike) Tommy Simpson, who quite literally keeled over off his bike and died, just one kilometre short of the summit. This, therefore, is not a climb to be taken lightly. More significantly, it’s also not a climb to be taken heavily, which with my 11 extra pounds, was precisely what I was about to do.

Mont Ventoux stands proud in the heart of Vaucluse, Provence. It’s an oddity, rising from surrounding plains and standing majestically, towering above the landscape. At the top stands a transmission tower, visible for miles, and the nearer you get, the more imposing it seems. As we neared it, the banter in the van subsided as we contemplated the challenge ahead.

It’s an enormously popular destination for cyclists and hundreds of us pumped and grinded our way up the hill. I have never been terribly quick to ascend, so am quite comfortable leading our group from the back, offering gentle encouragement or a convivial “bonjour” to the many dozens of riders that pass me on their way to the top. I did, however, consider throwing the towel in early when, sitting bolt upright on a town bike, laden with two full paniers, a woman in a flowing floral frock went flying past me, merrily chatting to her husband as I gasped for my next lung-full of air. I took some mild consolation from the whirr of a battery pack attached to her bike frame, obviously providing an element of power to her which I didn’t possess, but nevertheless, my immediate thought was that perhaps I might have been wise to lay off the beer and peanuts in the months preceding our ride.

As Sister Maria and Captain Von Trapp sailed off into the distance, I contemplated our surroundings. The climb begins through arable land where orchards with cherry trees, laden with fruit, nearly tempted me to dismount for a quick snack.  Occasionally, appearing through gaps in the tree line, stands Ventoux, brooding and menacing, a reminder that adding a shade more weight might not be the sensible thing to do.

It’s just 21km to the summit of Ventoux, with an average gradient of 7.8%, but in the early stages, stretches of 10, 11 and 12% test the legs as you leave the orchards behind and enter the forested region. Fuelled with the adrenaline of the first day’s riding of the annual tour, it doesn’t take long before the effort is felt. The heat also plays a part in draining the energy and, before too long, the monstrous churn of the pedals assumes control. Through the forest, the landscape begins to change; the trees become stunted, as if the effort of climbing that high up the mountain to grow has robbed them of their ability to realise their potential; I felt a certain kinship.

Beyond the dwarf conifers, patches of scrub grew, circular shrubs against a gravelly, sand-like mountain

landscape. It was like an inverted golf course, the green foliage looking like bunkers amidst a sandy background. Soon, not even the scrub survives and Ventoux’s landscape becomes desolate; just the bare, bleached face of the mountain, radiating the blistering heat of the sun, conspiring with strong winds that roll down the mountain into the faces of the riders, making a difficult challenge even more so.

As I’m nearing the top, approaching the point where Chris Froome annihilated the field in the 2013 Tour de France, I am even more amazed at his achievement that day. The mere contemplation of application of speed at that point finds me considering a comparison, not to Froome, but to the unfortunate Tommy Simpson. Instead, I trundle on, knowing that soon I will be pausing at the shrine that is a permanent reminder of that fateful day in July 1967.

The memorial to Simpson is a modest affair, a granite block atop a dozen or so stairs. A brass plaque alongside the carved wording signifies the visit of his daughters on the 30^th anniversary of his death. Others have also left their marks and offerings; flags, water bottles, inscriptions and other paraphernalia respectfully litter the steps before the chiselled monument. After a brief pause, it’s back on the bike to complete the final 1,000 or so metres that Tom Simpson didn’t make and eventually I reach the 1,911 metre summit.

A big part of our trips are the pre-ride declarations, usually reflecting the imagined sporting prowess that is about to follow. Max Hymas, or ‘House’ as Lord Turton has christened him; reflecting the latter’s background as a public schoolboy, where tenuous connections to the arbitrary lend themselves to wonderfully inventive nicknames, is particularly prone to bold claims of the endeavour that will follow.

House’s bravado extended to the claim that he would be first to the top of Ventoux. What follows is hearsay from the boys that were tucking into their second coffee at the top while I was still trundling up the mountain, but apparently Max may not have claimed the top spot on the podium as he predicted; indeed it went to Rob Bradburn, a newbie for this year’s trip who, Turton claims, was granted the victory for the day on account of it being his first ride out. Only Lord T will really know the truth of the statement as he finished a not too distant second to Rob. House, it should be noted, did not live up to his pre-ride banter and finished third, the other two, according to Lord T, having disappeared over the horizon long before Max.

Descending Ventoux was a joy. A few kilometres from the summit, we took the road towards Sault where we encountered an exquisite road surface that allowed us to roll speedily through the blossoming lavender fields. We weren’t riding through at peak season, the flowers on many plants were still waiting to unfurl, but occasionally, for reasons probably only known to the farmer, a field of the most vibrant purple would unfold as we rounded a corner, providing a visually stunning setting to our descent.

The drop from Ventoux to Sault differed from so many of the downhill rides we’d experienced before; instead of needing gilets and arm warmers to guard against the cold, it was like riding through a fan-assisted oven, and worse was to come.

As we cycled from Sault toward the Col de Macuégne, I watched the temperature rise on my Garmin. It was a proper Wimbledon moment, when the commentator observes that the temperature on the Centre Court is considerably higher than the ambient heat. It was the first time I’d ever experienced a rapid descent that was exceeded by the Celsius scale; at 38.5mph, it wasn’t the fastest I’d ever cycled a bike, but at 39.5°C, it was certainly the hottest.

We trudged on and I took pause to consider that perhaps we were going the wrong way. The road signs for Col de Macuégne were notably absent, instead signs for the somewhat ominously titled Col de L’Homme Mort were prominent. I had plenty of time with my thoughts in the ungodly heat to contemplate the provenance of its name. Suffice to say, it didn’t require a great deal of imagination.

Happily, nearing the summit we encountered a T-junction and turned left away from the dead bloke. A few metres later and the day’s climbing was done. What followed was a gentle descent for about 30 minutes to the hotel and we mastered a superb peloton through the majestic Gorge de la Macuégne, although those in the support crew had the temerity to suggest that our style left a great deal to be desired. It was a debate that would rage through the evening and the week ahead.

There was also some dispute about the distance remaining for the day’s ride and also the elevation of the terrain. We discovered that the gentle pootle to our accommodation was a little further than we believed and we were caught a little by surprise at the final 500m over a gradient between 8-10%. It served only to make the beers taste finer at the Auberge de Lagrand where we settled for the evening.

We discovered that we had fallen in the midst of two wedding parties which, all things considered, was quite remarkable for a place so small, and it created a vibrant backdrop for us to enjoy, although not for the maître d’ whose stress levels appeared to rise with every order we placed for drinks. Lord T had the audacity to suggest that the rosé wasn’t sufficiently chilled which was just about enough to tip the poor fellow over the edge. It transpired that the surfeit of guests had depleted his supply of ice and his source of fresh ice stocks was on the blink. He duly instructed us to take it or leave it.

The evening was laced with banter as the newbies on our trip, Rob Bradburn and Keelan Ross, were introduced to some of the highlights of previous sorties with a certain unscheduled trip to Andorra featuring heavily. Caroline and Sarah then introduced us to a highly complicated and extremely arbitrary points system that reflected our behavioural tendencies. I can’t complain as I was close to the top of the leader board after the first day, having been the sole rider among us to stretch at the end of the day and not get caught urinating in public – the benefit that comes from being so far behind the others. It was at this point that we learnt that our peloton skills did not reflect the finesse that we were certain it possessed. We were, according to the ladies, utterly useless, and what soon followed was as exercise undertaken on the gravel of the pétanque terrain in how to best ride as a group. It was a skill we were utterly unable to master on foot and it would prove beyond us on our bikes in the week ahead. 

Was it something I said?

http://www.bbc.co.uk/sport/0/football/32982449

I'm sayin' nuffink...

Smiley GOM

Assault and Blattery

Mr Sepp Blatter
Fédération Internationale de Football Association
FIFA-Strasse 20
P.O. Box 8044 Zurich
Switzerland

29 May 2015

Dear Mr Blatter

Firstly, congratulations on the retention of your presidency of FIFA.  Personally, I’m mightily pleased; I’m not sure that I could have approached the Jordanian fella with my issue.  He doesn’t look entirely cuddly and grandfatherly like you do (which, I’d hazard, is probably the secret to your continued tenure).

Anyway, I hope you don’t mind me writing, but I was out with my mate from next door this evening; having a couple of pints of Spitfire at The Woodpecker, when he outlined his dilemma to me; the timeliness of your re-election, despite some of the scurrilous rumours that surround it, has prompted me to drop you a line.

My friend has a ten-year-old who is deeply passionate about the game of football.  He’s never out of the garden, constantly knocking his balls against the fence, pretending he’s scoring the winner in a World Cup final at Wembley (which as you and I both know is hardly likely to happen on your watch, but that’s an altogether different issue).  Yet despite his efforts, he remains resolutely useless.  I’ve seen dachshunds exercise more control over a football than the lad next door, but I don’t want to break his or his father’s heart in pointing out the obvious.

The boy is desperate to get a place in the AFC Newbury under 11 squad, but just can’t get a look in.  Admittedly, it’s a very good side; they’ve just won the Under 11 Colts PHYL (Peter Houseman Youth League) & League Cup "double", the Under 10 League Cup the year before and another double as Under 9s in 2012-13; nice kids too, they were also Fair Play Winners that year.  But despite them being lovely, there’s no way they’re going to make room for the talentless (albeit enthusiastic) twit next door; which is where I need your help.

Given their astounding record, it’s clear to me that they could quite easily “carry” someone with the limited talents of my neighbour’s son.  I’m sure they could pop him up front alongside their target man and he could chase the ball all afternoon without causing too much damage to their pursuit of another championship.  Simply put, however, they are unlikely to do that unless there is an influential intervention.

I appreciate, of course, that such matters are a little beneath your sphere of activities.  However, I don’t doubt that you would be able to have a word in an appropriate ear to ensure that the authorities of AFC Newbury were cognisant of their need to widen the appeal of the game to a larger audience (the boy is a bit of a puddin’).

I realise that this would naturally divert attention from significantly more pressing engagements (and I suspect you may well have one or two of those on the horizon) so I contemplated sending fifty quid with my letter to compensate you for your time.  However, my good lady wife rightly asserts that you’re likely to delegate the task to one of your associates; if you’d prefer then, I’ll direct the funds elsewhere, just let me have the account details and I’ll wire the money to the appropriate account.

I know it’s only a small thing for you, but it would be a huge thing for the lad next door and his dad.  Not only that, but it would get the kid out of his garden and onto the pitch at AFC Newbury, meaning he’d stop knocking seven bells out of my fence and dislodging the blossom from my creeping Hydrangea in the process.  That would please me no end.

One last thing, have you considered dispensing with the democratic process at FIFA?  The charade around voting is just a little unseemly, it’s not terribly becoming of an organisation that is so much a reflection of the man who runs it.  Just a thought.

Yours sincerely

Craig Brown
GOM in Training