You’ve got to be kidding me!

"The Rock and Aquaman sign for NZ Rugby"

My initial feeling was one of righteous indignation; the apparent devaluation of the world’s most successful sporting franchise left me incensed.  That was closely followed by a wry smile as I contemplated the welcome that a couple of Hollywood icons might receive from the opponents of Ngati Porou East Coast and the Thames Valley Swamp Foxes when Dwayne (The Rock) Johnson and Jason (Aquaman) Momoa donned their respective club colours.  I imagined that some of the tackling they might experience would be a little more robust than the ‘People’s Elbow’ flim-flammery demonstrated on The Rock’s WWE showreel.

By the time I’d arrived at my early morning exercise class my position was shifting, as I considered the impact to the profile of the game in the US by the All Blacks signing such recognisable names.  Might it be a clever marketing ploy to bring Rugby to a much greater audience?

Cue the post-exercise dog walk, and I had returned to my original opinion.  My rising ire had restored the outrage I felt at Steve Tew, New Zealand Rugby’s CEO, for selling out the All Blacks.  By the time I was home, this week’s blog had largely written itself.

It must be stressed that Mrs. GOM’s patience was being stretched as I launched into yet another invective.  “When did you read this?” she asked.

  “Today.”

  “And the date is…?”

  “Ah.”

If NZ Rugby wonders whether anyone was fooled by its April 1^st wheeze, they need look no further.  The blog in my head began to fade but was not entirely extinguished.

To set out my stall, I don’t like to see people represent a country unless they were born there.  I know that athletes the world over want to perform at the highest level and that, sometimes, the adoption of another nation may be their best route to achieve that aim.  I also appreciate that circumstances may render my stance ridiculous; an infant being taken by his or her parents to settle in a new country before they’ve started on solid foods is a fair example, but that doesn’t lessen my pig-headedness.  There are times when folding one’s arms in a pub debate and being intransigent is the very essence of the bliss that stems from ignorance.

Don’t mistake my view for fervent patriotism or rabid nationalism.  That said, challenging my heritage as a New Zealander may earn you a poke in the eye with a sharp stick, unless you happen to be a Customs official at Heathrow examining my passport, in which case, I’m a little less jingoistic and delighted to be British thank you very much.  I simply like the ideal that a country is represented by the very best that it has to offer and cannot be enhanced by imported expertise (although if Semisi and Hepi Lomu had had their boy Jonah in Tonga, I’d perhaps bend my rules just a smidge).

What NZ Rugby’s wee jape has brought up though, is the issue of imported players which has long niggled me.  For years I have had to endure taunts about the composition of the All Black team, putting up with jibes from countless Brits and Irish telling me that NZ Rugby steals babies from the cribs of Pacific Island households to improve the national side.  Granted, there have been some brilliant Pacific Islanders that have pulled on the All Black jersey over the years, and there are a few in the squad even now, yet after listening to a commentary during a recent Six Nations match, I could be forgiven for thinking I was listening to a match between Samoa and Fiji.

So, before the next person tries to have a poke at me about the number of Islanders in the All Blacks squad, let me put things into perspective.  In the Autumn international between Ireland and New Zealand, of the 30 players that started that match, 16 were born in New Zealand.  That comprised New Zealand’s entire starting line-up and Ireland’s Bundee Aki who hails from Auckland.  For good measure, South Africa and England were also represented in the Ireland team in the forms of CJ Stander and Kieran Marmion.

But Ireland are hardly the worst transgressors when it comes to not representing the country of one’s birth, the English (or not as the case may be) take a leadership role in adoption.  A look at their squad reveals seven foreign born players: a couple of Aussies (Alec Hepburn and Billy Vunipola), a couple of Kiwis (Brad Shields and Ben Te'o) and the South Pacific is further represented by Manu Tuilagi from Samoa and two Fijians, Joe Cokanasiga and Nathan Hughes.

It doesn’t stop with England though, the top prize goes to the Italians, whose squad of 31 players includes 10 that were born overseas, including one from that powerhouse of world rugby, Germany.

No wonder they’re doing so well.

It’s understandable why they might wish to add a foreign contingent to their side; the pool of local talent isn’t too deep and the game’s heritage and experience, on which other countries are able to draw, doesn’t exist for the Italians, so they have fewer options.  However, countries that are well established such as England, Ireland and, dare I say it, New Zealand, should be doing everything to develop home-grown talent and allow the foreign-born players to rise to their potential in their home nations.  By recruiting players into a national side after a qualifying period, the international game is fostering a transfer market that will see the wealthier nations acquire their squads rather than giving birth to them, which compromises the ethos of international sport.

I admit to ignoring the subtleties of the argument completely and my arms are firmly crossed on this subject.  Counter arguments can be thrown at me ad infinitum, my position won’t change, so it’s as well that New Zealand Rugby was messing with us with their announcement on Monday, which is a great shame, I was rather looking forward to seeing the footage of The Rock being hammered in a bone-crunching tackle by a sheep-shearing loose-forward on the battlefields of rural Ruatoria.

Twitter: @GOMinTraining
Copyright © Craig Brown, 2019

http://www.allblacks.com/News/33913/dwayne-the-rock-johnson-and-jason-aquaman-momoa-sign-with-nz-rugby

Eighteen no more

It is a truth universally known, but largely ignored, that the body deteriorates far more rapidly than the mind is willing to acknowledge.  There are things that I was capable of doing as an 18-year-old that I am no longer able to do today.  One of those, to consume as much food and drink as I like without suffering a consequent weight gain, has definitely passed.

Yet my mind has successfully kidded me into believing that others are not so far beyond my scope.  The madness to cycle in European Alps occasionally overcomes me, and this year is no different.  I have signed up for a trip to the Swiss Alps in June where, on the back of a push bike, I’ll tackle some not terribly flat roads.  In agreeing to this venture, I have committed myself to a training regime that will see me having to ride 150 miles a week, much of it up considerably smaller hills than Switzerland has to offer, in a bid to avoid losing my lunch when I reach the summit of the Matterhorn, or whichever mountains it is that our tour planner has determined we shall scale.  So far, I have managed 57 miles, albeit, that’s the total for the year so far rather than just this week.

I ride largely alone when training; my (lack of) pace and the times that I head out are often incompatible with those that I might ride with.  Occasionally though, I stumble across other riders and for a few brief moments, whilst our routes align, I may have some company.

On one such ride (not this year I hasten to add), when I was feeling considerably fitter than I am currently, I passed the pop-up base station of a road-race.  There was a high likelihood that I was riding on the route of a competitive event and, shortly after passing, I heard the whirr of bikes behind me, closing in on me as I trundled along.  I peered over my shoulder to see a group of perhaps 15 – 20 riders bearing down on me.  Naturally, their speed was significantly greater than mine, however we were on the flat and there was a decent tail-wind, so I thought perhaps I might try to leap onto the back of their peloton.

I have often wondered what it would be like to join the peloton of an elite group of riders and see whether I could maintain the pace.  For those unfamiliar with cycling, this is not an easy thing to do for the amateur cyclist; you first have to build up additional speed so that the difference isn’t so great and then attach to the back of the group without knocking the rear-most rider off his or her bike, before pedalling frantically to gain the benefit of the group’s slipstream.  Fortuitously for me, the road dipped shortly before they were due to pass me, and I was able to grab their coattails.  Benefitting from the slipstream of another rider is one of the great cheats in cycling.  There’s a range of opinion on what the actual benefit is, however, various studies have suggested drag reductions between 27% and 50% depending on the circumstances.  That day, it felt like I was benefitting at the upper range.

There is also an etiquette to road cycling that suggests that riders in a peloton should take a spell at the front of the group to allow those that had been leading to enjoy a little respite and the advantages that come from having someone else do the heavy lifting.  It was clear to me, however, that I would not be able to take a spell in the lead, unless the group fancied reducing its overall speed substantially.  In such cases, it is polite to ask A) whether you can join the group and B) whether they mind that you’re a malingering benefit cheat that will make no contribution to the velo-society that you have just joined.  In both instances, the chap at the rear of the group was agreeable to my requests and I clung on.

Except for descents on the aforementioned Alps, it was by far the fastest I have ever cycled, and the effort to maintain my position at the rear was considerable.  Thankfully, the road remained flat and the wind direction kind.  We were in two lines as we raced along the road and I had made the group an even number, so I had a companion to my right.  He was an affable Welsh chap, a former rugby player turned elite cyclist, having damaged himself too greatly in the former to continue with the sport.  Happily, he was a chatty fellow, content to burble away and receive mono-syllabic replies from me, given that oxygen depletion rendered me incapable of erudite conversation.

I confess I was at my limit.  My cycling computer recorded my pedalling cadence in three figures, when typically, it sits in the 70s or 80s.  My heart rate monitor was flashing red, reminding me that, at my age, the next beat will very likely be my last, and the fellow next to me was asking the group if anyone was a qualified first-aider.  My determination to stay attached to the group, if not to life, was great and I continued to cycle as hard as I could.

Blessedly, gravity came to my rescue in the form of a short hill.  Carrying 31 pounds more than my 18-year-old self once bore meant that the drag efficient of a peloton, on even the mildest of inclines such as the one before us, is reduced almost to nought.  I knew that in a few short turns of the wheel, I would be lost to the group.  I summoned up all the energy I could to explain my plight to the Welshman.  “You’ll drop me at the hill ahead.”

  “What hill?” he asked, clearly believing that the 4% gradient coming up was no more than a bump.

  “That one,” I said pointing to the barely perceptible mound before us.

  “Hmm,” he offered, finally registering that I was somewhat out of my depth as he began his disappearance over the horizon.

  “I hope the race goes well,” I shouted after him.

His response will forever remind me that I am no longer eighteen.

  “Oh this isn’t the race mate, this is the warm-down.”

Twitter: @GOMinTraining
Copyright © Craig Brown, 2019

What’s it gunner take?

In resurrecting the GOM, I had hoped to write light-hearted pieces that might bring a wee smile to a few faces, but there’s nothing remotely witty to be drawn from this week’s subject.

It’s been a week since we woke to the shocking news from New Zealand of the heinous attack on our Muslim brothers and sisters in Christchurch, where 50 people lost their lives.

Since then, the news in the UK has reported a terrorist attack in Utrecht where another three lives were taken and in the United States, where mass shootings are now so commonplace that an incident barely registers media attention, there have been six mass shooting incidents since Friday that have resulted in six deaths and 22 injuries.

I received a message soon after the Christchurch attack that included a comparison relative to population.  By extrapolation, the 50 souls lost in New Zealand would be the equivalent to 3,412 deaths in the US, an astonishingly high number.  What is sobering though, is that since the start of the year, that is not far off the actual number of deaths due to firearms in the States.  At the time of writing, and according to the not for profit Gun Violence Archive, shootings have cost the lives of 3,030 people and a further 5,226 have been injured.  Included in the statistics is a staggering 320 “Unintentional Shootings”.

Yet the differences in the response from the two countries could not be more different, which was summed up in a tweet I read from @Fitz_Bunny the following day:

US: “Thoughts and pr-“

NZ: “Semis are banned.”

US: “-ayers. Wait, what?”

Under the inspirational leadership of its Prime Minister, Jacinda Ardern, the country has already moved to ban the sale of semi-automatic weapons which came into effect at 3pm yesterday.  In addition, she also proposed a gun-buyback scheme for those who already own such weapons, citing that “fair and reasonable compensation” would be paid.  The scheme is estimated to cost the country somewhere between NZD100 million and NZD200 million and the government will still need to develop plans on how to fund it.

Further reform is needed to include elements relating to licensing, registration and storage, and the NZ cabinet will be presented with proposals for consideration on Monday.  With no central gun register in NZ, Ardern stated that the immediate changes are intended to address, urgently, the critical need to remove such weapons from circulation.  She also said there would be a shortened select-committee process for the legislation and that she expected the amendments to the Arms Act to be passed within the next session of parliament on Monday.

Yet New Zealand doesn’t have a proud tradition of gun control or amendments to its firearms laws.  After two shootings by police in 1995, the government ordered an inquiry into police procedures for storing and using firearms.  The police reported in May 1996 that the system was sound and that no major changes were needed.

That outcome led to a government decision in August 1996 to order an independent report, this time led by former judge Thomas Thorp.  Thorp made detailed recommendations covering 28 areas including restrictions on legal gun ownership, restrictions to ammunition sales, license renewals on a three yearly basis and establishing a Firearms Authority.

The government subsequently made four attempts in 1999, 2005, 2012 and 2016 to amend its firearms laws, all of which failed to become primary legislation.

This time, however, things are different and the demand and momentum for change is significant.  As well as Ardern’s firm commitment to implement change, the country has seen cross party support from the conservative opposition National Party.  It’s leader, Simon Bridges, has stated that

“National will support firearms reforms. We have been clear since this devastating attack that we will work constructively with the Government.”

We are at a defining moment, not just for New Zealand, but for the rest of the world.  Ardern and the New Zealand government is poised to demonstrate leadership that can only be dreamt of in the United States.

Contrast New Zealand’s approach to an article from the Associated Press on 16 March which reported that Republican state Rep. for Missouri, Andrew McDaniel, has proposed measures that would force adults to own handguns and young adults to own AR-15 semi-automatic rifles in a level of idiocy that goes to eleven. That’s akin to increasing the speed limit outside a school and believing the children will be safer because the cars are not taking as long to go past.

The AP report suggested that the Missouri Lawmaker’s Bill is not meant to pass and that he’s trying to make the point that mandates are bad.

“The other side of the aisle loves mandates, so I’m trying to get them to make an argument against mandates.”

If that’s the case, and that was his intention, then surely, he could have been a little more inventive, coming up with a mandate that everyone needs to wear non-matching socks; using eccentricity to highlight his point rather than promote a reckless and irresponsible bill that, potentially, could still pass into law.  By any standard, what he has proposed is moronic, utterly insensitive and ignores the wider issues that we face.

We live in times where extremists in many forms are perpetrating violence on our societies at an alarming rate.  Ultra-right nationalists, Islamic fundamentalists and other terrorist organisations are poisoning our societies with hate-filled rhetoric and malignant beliefs that are contrary to the good, decent values that most of us try to live by.

Worse still, those beliefs are fostered and given succour by some of our world leaders.  Soon after the attack in Christchurch, the Turkish president, Recep Tayyip Erdoğan, exploited the attack in his local election campaign by screening video footage of the assault at his rallies.

In the United States, following the death of Heather Heyer and the injury to 19 others in Charlottesville in August 2017, the mendacious President Trump, who had been shamefully slow to condemn the white nationalists and neo-Nazis at the “Unite the Right” rally, flipped from the forced denunciation in the White House prepared statements of a day earlier and defended the white nationalists who protested, saying they included “some very fine people,” exposing his inherent racism and also suggesting that the counter-protesters deserve an equal amount of blame for the violence.

At the other end of the power spectrum is the disgraceful vitriol spewed at Chelsea Clinton by students at a vigil at New York University for those who lost their lives in Christchurch, blaming her for the killings.  Leen Dweik confronted Clinton with the words

“This right here is the result of a massacre stoked by people like you and the words that you put out into the world. And I want you to know that and I want you to feel that deeply – 49 people died because of the rhetoric you put out there.”

To her credit, Clinton maintained her dignity and responded with the words

“I’m so sorry you feel that way.”

Dweik’s view, as insane as it is, with no causal link save for a spurious connection to Clinton’s condemnation of anti-Semitism, is an example of the unbridled anger and hate that serves to exacerbate the self-fulfilling state of violence within which we find ourselves.

New Zealand’s bold approach to legislating changes to its gun laws may well address the risk of a future attack, but it doesn’t address the underlying issues that led to the incident.  People were murdered by hate.  We should spend our time fighting that instead of each other.

We can start by not ignoring racism, or other forms of “ism”.  It’s not easy; we must park our sensibilities and our fears and call it out.  The focus shouldn’t just be on egregious cases, but also the subtler forms of prejudice that routinely pervade our lives and we all too often ignore.  We condone those actions with our silence and give strength and power to the offenders.  By voicing our condemnation, we erode their power.

In response to the backlash that followed his ill-informed propagandising, Erdoğan has since tried to diffuse the ensuing diplomatic row by stating that Ardern’s empathy after the deadly mosque attacks in Christchurch was an example to the world.  He further counselled that

“We can’t solve problems by sweeping them under the carpet. We cannot treat social diseases by ignoring them. We can’t get away from problems by hiding. We cannot respond to the issues that threaten us and all humanity with silence.”

Whilst I agree with the sentiment he expressed, that is tempered by how his rhetoric might manifest; he could quite easily adopt the principles he promotes with his customary trampling of human rights.  Instead, I would rather leave the last words to Jacinda Ardern, a woman who exemplifies leadership and who has demonstrated to the world what it means to serve her country.  Speaking in the immediate aftermath of the massacre, she unambiguously espoused a simple and profound ethos that should be embraced the world over when she said

“New Zealand is their home.  They are us.”

Twitter: @gomintraining
Copyright © Craig Brown, 2019

A new day

Today is the first day of the rest of my life, which of course, can be said of every day.

This one, however, is a little different.  Today I become a Writer.

I’d love to be able to say that I’m an Author, but that would suggest that I’d actually published something, and I don’t believe that my canon of published works (which consists, in its entirety, of the grief driven and highly sentimental, Together Again: a momentary memoir, that I wrote following my mother’s death) really counts.

Nonetheless, I’ve crossed the Rubicon and, as Julius Caesar said, "alea iacta est” – the die is cast.

A blank canvas lies before me that is both intimidating and terrifying.  I have nothing to suggest that I’ll be any good, save for a sense of self-belief and a very supportive family.  I have amassed a mole-hill of ideas that seem splendid in my head, but which need to be crafted and committed to paper.  The prospect is daunting, but it is a long time since I have felt this excited.

In 1988 I dropped out of university, flush with the confidence that comes from youthful arrogance, knowing that I was doing the right thing and that I was about to embark on a stellar writing career.  I had two great friends visit me at the time, Sally and Kate, imploring me to stick it out. I should perhaps have listened a little more closely to what they had to say, for the ambition was never realised, half-heartedly pursued, and instead, I trod a more conventional path that led me to a moderately successful, yet not entirely fulfilling, career.  Along the way, I have made some great friends and I won the lottery in meeting my love and my soulmate, Alex.  We’ve been blessed with two wonderful children who are our great joy and the foundations for happiness have been solidly built.

Until today though, the final step in realising that happiness has not been taken.  I have not pursued my passion and have burdened myself with excuses for why it hasn’t been possible.  They’ve always been plausible and until now, I’ve always believed them.

There were catalysing events that led me to today.  An old friend, Rodney Strong, who I met in my first job after leaving university, published his first novel.  I took that, and his second, away with me on holiday to read.  Every time I picked it up, I reflected that he’d done it; he’d stepped off the treadmill and started following a new path; it might be forked, have precipitous sides, or appear to be never-ending, but therein lies the adventure.  It was a journey I started to mull.

Another was the imminence of my 49^th birthday, the age at which my father died.  Reflecting on mortality and the absence of creative output gave me pause; we have no idea what tomorrow may bring, and carpe diem never felt more timely.

I was also intensely dissatisfied with both the predictable work life imbalance that I faced and staring at the world through a profound window of boredom.

I don’t know what the future holds, but I am greatly looking forward to bringing Daniel Fielding to life in “No One In Particular”, of seeing whether “Dignity’s” Malcolm Beaumont is able to live out his dream, or what messages we’ll discover in “Video Postcards”.

As I begin my new adventure, there is only one regret that I plan to have, which is that I didn’t start it sooner.

GOM in Europe

A little bit of travelling in the week brought out the inner GOM in me, perhaps reflecting that 4.00am starts don't really agree with me.

Apologies to those of you that have seen my post on Facebook already, but this was the first of three small incidents that piqued me on Tuesday.

On my flight to Geneva I was sat next to an elderly woman with indeterminate accent. Just after the safety briefing she asked me if I'd ever been involved in a plane crash. When I answered "No" she declared she had. "The safety briefing's a load of shit", she said. "My plane came down in three bits and I can assure you the fucking safety lights don't work".  I ignored her as the nutter I believed her to be for the rest of the flight, but I can't help wondering if I missed the opportunity for a really interesting conversation.

Rather than returning directly to Heathrow on BA, I had a meeting the following day in Manchester, so had a different return route, and one that took me via Brussels. 

Brussels Airlines, it transpires, charges for its food and drink on short haul flights. No problem with that per se, it is increasingly the way of the world.  What I didn't have, however, was a menu card in my seat pocket, so I didn't know the choices available to me.  I listened a little and heard the person in front ask for a chicken wrap, so I thought I'd have the same. Asking for one, the air steward asked if I'd like "Caesar or Tandoori". "Tandoori please", I answered. "I'm sorry" he says, "That's on October's menu, we've only got the Caesar". Really! Why ask?

So having had a lovely, overpriced, and decidedly diminutive chicken Caesar wrap, I later found myself wandering Brussels airport in search of further sustenance.  I spotted an outlet selling  'Belgian Waffles'.  With the flight attendant having given the slumbering GOM a nudge on the flight, I couldn't help but find myself thinking; with a degree of irritation that was entirely disproportionate to the situation, "Is the prefix really necessary"?

Perhaps it's best that I'm not let out very often...

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

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[1] Abridged day