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

Eh? What?

It's official.  I am getting increasingly old and knackered. To imagine otherwise would be delusional, it's happening to us all. However, there's a difference between blissfully ignoring the ageing process and having it confirmed by a doctor possibly young enough to be one's daughter (always assuming I made a very early start on the reproductive process).

The casus belli of my latest attack on Old Father Time was, I thought, the ceaseless evening roadworks on the A34; which lies just one mile to the south of our home. Lying in bed, readying myself for sleep, I found my slumber delayed by the steady grind of a heavy roller flattening newly laid tarmac in what I believed to be remedial work to the pock marked surface that is our closest arterial route. Night after night this irksome nuisance hummed in the distance, consoling me only with the thought that it may be a terribly nice surface to take the bike onto, save for the cars and trucks flying by at close quarters at 70 mph.

I don't get out much these days, my commute to work was reduced to 14 stairs and a 30 foot hallway back in April, so when I did finally venture forth to the A34, I expected to drive along a velveteen smooth roadway flatter than the Bonneville Salt Flats. What I discovered instead, was the un-remediated asphalt on which I had driven many times before, vibrating through the steering wheel as my car lumbered over its worn and battered surface. At the time I thought little of it, but hearing the sound of the underachieving roller again at the end of the day, I was compelled to consider that perhaps all was not as it seemed.

It was upon hearing the roadworks closer to home in the middle of the day that I determined to investigate. The strident grumble of the heavy machinery saw me flip off my work slippers and don my sandals* for a quick wander to the source of the industry. As I opened the door, the sound vanished.  I returned to my desk; the rumble resumed. I opened the door; it ceased. Either a prankster was silencing the roller as I opened my door or I was hearing things; or not, as the case may be.

The human brain is a remarkable piece of kit. When our hand rests on something hot, the reflex to pull away is almost instant. A cut or scrape is felt immediately with our brain delivering a resulting sense of pain through our nervous system. In the inner ear, hair cells reside in the cochlea and send impulses to the brain for it to interpret sound. When something is awry and the hair cells don't send a signal to our grey matter for interpretation, it decides to check out what's going on and sends its own signal back, this signal is commonly known as tinnitus, and frankly, I would rather my brain didn't bother - the silence would be infinitely preferable.

A short period of research on the interweb revealed that there was little that I could do to stop the noise. I have to confess that I greet most treatment suggestions that begin with the words "to help you achieve a positive state of mind" with a healthy degree of skepticism; even if it is the gospel according to the NHS. Other options proposed included sound therapy to fill the silence with neutral, often repetitive sounds to distract you from the sound of tinnitus. I have a 12 year-old daughter who is relentless in her pursuit of a puppy. Repetitive sounds I can do without - they're hardly a welcome distraction. An alternative was to have the radio or television on, or to listen to natural relaxing sounds. When I experience it most, at the point of trying to sleep, I don't want to watch TV or listen to the radio, the only thing I want to do is generate a natural sound, that of my snoring, albeit, Mrs. Brown will be the first to tell you that that particular noise is not remotely relaxing.

As a consequence, I paid a visit to my GP. He was an older gent and nodded sympathetically as he listened to me through his ear horn. "Well", he hollered at me. "Either you're schizophrenic, or your hearing things. Sometimes, there's no difference," he chortled. "I can't tell!".  

I was hoping he was a better doctor than a comedian. "Of course," he added. "There's bugger all we can do for you." Confirming to me instantly that he might be better suited to a career in stand-up. In turn, however, he referred me to the local audiology department, whereupon I met the adolescent medic to whom I referred in my opening stanza.

Our meeting began with a surreal debate about my age. The hospital, it would seem, had recorded my date of birth to coincide with my 8th birthday. I could read in her face, instantly, that she considered me not to be weathering well. I reconciled this obviously slight to 36 year-olds across the country by considering the further cause of her distress, that before her might be sitting "the wrong patient". The tabloid press in the UK is quick to seize upon stories of healthy limbs being amputated or the removal of the functioning lung as a result of being presented with dodgy data. I worried momentarily that her investigation might be a little more invasive than I had expected, but we quickly established that although her information lacked integrity, I was still there for a routine hearing check.

Happily I was not advised to adopt aural therapies, instead, she confirmed the worst; that I am suffering what is otherwise known to millions across the planet as hearing loss. "What's that you say?"
  "Hearing loss dear. You're going deaf".

The great news is that I've got at least five to ten years before I'll require the installation of an hearing aid. The decline in auditory capability she says, is simply part of the aging process. Yep, she was young, and in the young, the aging process is something that's greeted with enthusiasm. First it gets them to a driver's license, then to an off-license before graduating to a marriage license; but not necessarily in that order.  

An alternative view, once one has achieved those milestones, is to look at life through the lens of certification - birth certificate, marriage certificate and... let's not go there.  

Instead, let us content ourselves that there is a decline over which we can grumble. After all, there's much worse in this world than the gradual deterioration of one's hearing. Personally, I will content myself in the knowledge that when Pippa next asks us to get a dog, I can respond, with the sincerest legitimacy, that I didn't quite hear what she said.


* For the record, I continue to cling to youth by sporting bare feet beneath my sandals.

It's not just on the pitch he doesn't work...

Having been a tad critical of the boy Balotelli in my recent letter to the lad, I was a touched surprised to find a response sitting on my doorstep a few days ago.

I needn't have been.  The chap's so lazy that he failed to:

     a) Use my address
     b) Add a date
     c) Personalise the salutation
     d) Write the letter himself

Presumably the club didn't want to wake him from his nap, or perhaps, as he so frequently does during a game, he was hiding.

Balotelli's fearsome fungi

Mario Balotelli

c/o Liverpool Football Club
Anfield Road
Liverpool L4 OTH

1 October 2014

Dear Mario

I’m sure you can appreciate that, as a Liverpool fan, I was somewhat disappointed that the team failed to gain a point against Basle tonight in the Champions’ League.

Bitter pill as that was to swallow however, that is not the reason for my note; what follows has more to do with concerns for your health.

I noted, during the course of this evening’s game, that you appear to have a growth atop your head which isn’t perhaps entirely natural.

I have done some considerable research on this phenomenon and can only conclude that you have developed a nasty fungal infection leading to the ivory colouring coursing the centre of your bonce.

Further investigation has revealed that your disfigurement has probably emerge as a result of immobility; borne of your natural tendency to remain stationary during the course of a football match.  There are some nasty airborne infections one can acquire when stood motionless in the open air for prolonged periods and I would hazard that you are more prone than others to be affected given your regular stasis.

In the interest of your wellbeing, I have consulted with a number of experts in the field and, universally, they are of the opinion that if you moved during the course of a game you would not only avoid the fungi finding refuge on your noodle, but you might also contribute to the team’s performance; the corollary of which might be to influence a result that is somewhat more positive than the one I witnessed tonight.

I presume that movement is not a natural state for you and that you would perhaps benefit from some guidance on how best to do this.  May I suggest that you request recordings of some of last year’s games where you can review the work of Luis Suarez, who will, l assure you, provide you with a master class in how to perform on a football pitch.  Do however stop short of adopting his more carnivorous instincts, you’re likely to develop a gastric complaint if you embrace all of his tendencies.

You may note that many of your teammates are a little less static than you and also, that none of them have been similarly afflicted.  May I propose that you follow their lead, move about a bit and see what unfolds?  I suspect that not only will you manage to shed the fungus, but you may also find yourself part of a team capable of delivering more favourable results.

For the sake of my health, I beg you to do this.  The increases to my blood pressure that your lack of effort engenders is of considerable concern to my nearest and dearest.

Yours sincerely

Craig Brown
GOM in Training

Almost... but not quite

"Amazing", Jamie said, as we watched Rory McIlroy tee off on the first hole on the third day of The Open Championship whilst having breakfast this morning.  

A short flutter of joy coursed through me as I considered that, finally, he was showing some appreciation for sport.  Then he continued...

"We have managed to invent a game even more boring than cricket."

<Sigh>