Swiss roll - day 3

Andermatt to avalanche

There are multiple reasons why elite cyclists don’t drink alcohol the night before an event, primary among them must be that riding with a hangover is mind-numbingly stupid.  Luckily for us, we’re considerably removed from being elite, but wholly qualified to be stupid.

Before leaving the UK, Lord T devised a route that should have seen us leaving Andermatt taking the Susten Pass through to Guttannen about 60 kms to the west.  Our plan was to decamp to Guttannen for the night before returning the following day via the Grimsel, Nufenen and Gotthard passes.  The plan, however, didn’t factor the impact that the previous day’s rain would have on the snow that clung, not so tenaciously, to the mountainside.

At 4.00am, giving succour to his insomnia, Lord T discovered that the road to Susten was closed.  Detail relating to its closure was somewhat scarce (unless you had a fluency in German that we did not possess), so we were unaware of the extent to which it might be closed.  Did ‘closed’ mean only to vehicles or did it extend to cyclists as well?  We decided to find out.

The haze caused from the previous night’s indulgence hadn’t entirely left as we set off that morning.  We were, it is safe to say, not entirely tuning in to the discussion that Lord T, Sarah and Caroline were having regarding the route for the day.  This was evident when we arrived at the roundabout that adjoined the hotel complex.  I had rolled to the front and drew to a halt at some railings where the other three joined me.  ‘Happy to lead Brown?’ chirped Lord T.

  ‘Yep,’ I replied.

  ‘Know where you’re going?’

  ‘First exit towards Furka.’

  ‘No Brown,’ sighed Lord T.  ‘That’s tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Do you want to lead Rob?’ asked Lord T, clearly aware that simple task was beyond me.

  ‘Sure, into town?’ asked Rob, town being reached by the second exit.

  ‘No,’ came the response from a frustrated Turton.  ‘It’s through the tunnel, down the hill,’ he explained, aware he was dealing with idiots.

  ‘I think we should wait for the girls,’ chimed the Pipster.  ‘They’ve got the maps.’

  ‘And I showed them the route we were taking,’ explained Lord T in a tone that was designed to settle the matter.

  ‘I’m with the Pipster,’ I added, piqued that Lord T clearly had no idea what he was talking about.

  ‘Me too,’ said Rob, who shared my sentiment.

The girls duly pulled up in the van.  ‘I thought we were going to meet you at the bottom,’ said Caroline.
That statement eliminated mine and Rob’s options, though in my mind, I wasn’t convinced there was a descent after the tunnel, I was sure we were at the bottom of the valley.

  ‘No one’s sure which way to go,’ said the Pipster, ‘so we thought we’d wait for you.’

  ‘I’m f*^king sure,’ said Lord T.

We ignored him.

I was wrong too about being in the bottom of the valley.  Over the next 9 kms we would drop about 600 metres to Wassen where we would begin the climb toward the Susten Pass.  The cooler air and the speed garnered from the drop made for a bracing start to the day which soon blew away the alcohol-induced cobwebs.  At Wassen we paused; the girls had drawn into a layby and we faffed accordingly.  On stopping, I leaned over to rest a hand on the van.  In so doing, the handlebars of my bike turned, but the wheel stayed straight – my bike’s headset was loose.  I had a momentary flash of horror; a few minutes before I had been cycling at 70 kms per hour on a busy main road.  It didn’t bear thinking about the malfunction occurring on one of the corners.  I’d been lucky.

There is little that is noteworthy about the road up to the pass.  It doesn’t weave or paint gradations on the mountainside, it just unfolds, rolling on and on up the valley.  A significant proportion of the road is visible and far off in the distance, is a towering height that is NOT the end.  The climb is a disheartening sight, seemingly endless; my progress was glacially slow.  The valley, which would have been formed by a glacier, possibly moving a little quicker than me, is spectacular and the shear magnificence of the scenery serves to improve the ride.  The trick is to take in the view without glancing at the road far ahead.  From where we were, it was impossible to discern why there was a road closure.  We, along with the girls in the van, continued our route.

After a couple of hours, we came to one of the few curves in the road and encountered a barrier.  The van could go no further.  Two road signs were displayed, both red rimmed circles with white backgrounds.  One of the backgrounds was clear with nothing on it, the other had the image of a pedestrian.  In the absence of the image of a cyclist, we decided it was completely reasonable to ignore the barrier.  We scootched past, despite the wiser counsel of the ladies, and carried on.

As we rode, the road became increasingly littered with debris; snow and rockfall appearing in scattered patches as we climbed, but no notable cause for a road closure that we could discern.  After 20 minutes we rounded a bend to find a utility van drawing towards us.  As leader on the road they stopped at Lord T and explained to him, in German, what lay ahead.  Rob joined him and exercising his talent for delegation, Lord T told them, in English, to speak to Bradders – which they did, at length, outlining the perils ahead.  At least, we believe that’s what they were saying.  If they were serving a warning, it went ignored – we ploughed on.

It didn’t take us much longer to fathom what they might have been saying.  About 500 metres further on we came to a short tunnel, beyond which, the road was impassable.  A mini avalanche had shifted a not insignificant pile of snow onto the road leaving no route through.  ‘Through’ however, did not prevent ‘over’.  Rob hoisted his bike on his shoulder and began to scale the fallen mound.  Lord T remonstrated with him, using adjectives beginning with ‘F’ and suggesting he suffered a mental deficiency.  Bradders was determined, he kept climbing, we kept pleading, hoping that our views that we had come far enough would prevail.  I for one had already had a surfeit of luck for the day, I wasn’t going to test it further.

We prevailed and, avoiding the debris in the road, returned to where the girls were parked and paused for lunch at a café conveniently located at the same corner.  The woman who ran the café met us at the door, eyeing us warily.  In a manner that was suitably Swiss-German in its directness, she outlined that we were cerebrally challenged.  She also informed us that the signs were there for a reason and that the mountain was unstable and could have wiped us out at any moment.  Dressing down complete, she determined that, despite our obvious retardation, we could be trusted in her establishment and would happily relieve us of some hard-earned Swiss Francs in exchange for egg and bacon served on potato rosti.  A mountain of food was placed before us and the meal was divine.  I don’t think any of us have appreciated a better meal on a cycling stop, it was superb.  If my bike speed went anywhere close to the pace of consumption, I’d have been up that hill in half the time.  I eyed the plates of Sarah and Caroline eagerly, hoping the huge quantity of food would defeat them – I was disappointed, there were no scraps to purloin.

Having been defeated by shifting snow, we decided to go back to the hotel and have a day in front of the TV watching the Tour de Suisse cycling up the Gottard Pass across the cobbles that we had covered the day before.  It was notable, more so for the caution that we exercised and the exceptional athletes that the tour riders are, that their time to climb the cobbles wasn’t too dissimilar to our time for descending them.  Back at the hotel complex, the advance crews of the Tour had arrived.  The Team Ineos (formerly Team Sky), Bora Hansgrohe and FDJ coaches and crew boxes were all parked in the courtyard and there was a flurry of activity as the teams prepared for the riders’ return.

We had a relaxed afternoon in the apartment variously napping or wandering the town.  I chose to explore where the Tour de Suisse teams had set up camp on the off chance that I might spot the riders as they left their team buses.  I missed them but did get an opportunity to witness the mechanics of Team Ineos set to work cleaning and maintaining the astonishing number of bikes that are required to get a team of seven around the course.  I counted 15 in the courtyard, and those were just the ones I could see.  The number also excluded the bikes belonging to Geraint Thomas, the team leader who had crashed out earlier in the event.

At £5,000 for the frame and an estimated £12,000 for a fully kitted bike, I contemplated that the value of the bikes was nearly three times the asking price of the first flat I bought in London (granted, that was in 1994, but still).  I also noted the absence of security and the lack of attention that was being paid to me.  Kenny Elissonde is the littlest member of the Ineos team, if only one of his bikes was handily placed …

That evening, without the addition of a Pinarello Dogma F12 to the apartment, we had an excellent Spaghetti Bolognaise with garlic bread that Sarah, Caroline and Philip had prepared.  We also had a great deal less to drink with the meal and another game of Cards Against Humanity where we learnt that the ‘Jimmy Saville’ card is not only versatile, but impossible to play without being highly offensive.

The forecast for the following day did not look good.  Sarah’s trusty radar app proved to be an accurate indicator of what to expect and it transpired that we had a dry opening between 10am and midday.  As a result, we determined we’d stay in bed a little longer and try to avoid the rain.

Swiss roll - day 2

Andermatt – Gotthard Pass – Nufenen Pass – Furka Pass - Andermatt

One of the nuances of cycling is that it is a largely circular activity.  Sometimes the ‘circle’ comprises a line out and back, as demonstrated by yesterday’s ride to the Oberalppass, but more often, the loop consists of a common start and finish point with GPS tracking tools illustrating that you’ve had a bit of an explore.

When undertaking this activity, one of the primary considerations for any rider should be whether one can make it back.  When cycling in and around West Berkshire, this proves not to be too much of a challenge.  It’s mostly flat, the geography is well known to me and I’m usually riding to a plan that, short of more punctures than spare inner tubes or other mechanical failure, will allow me to get back to where I started.  Day 2’s ride in the Alps was very much a circular route with the plan consisting of a ride from our apartment in Andermatt to the Gottard Pass, a continued schlep to the Nufenen Pass, before tackling the Furka Pass on our way home.

The problem with passes is that they tend to be at altitude, always nearer the top of the mountain than the bottom.  Were the converse the case, cycling in the Alps would be a considerably easier affair, but they are not, and the Gottard Pass was a climb of some 680 metres over 11.7 kilometres.  2.5 kilometres from the summit, the road splits giving options for the traveller up the new, paved route; which is busier and favoured by motorists, or the older cobbled stretch that is a little more meandering and much less busy.  It is a beautifully laid stretch of road, each hand-cut cobble has been intricately placed to form an exquisite mosaic that must have taken the road crew years to lay.  They are comparatively even, more so than the cobbles that feature on the pavé of the iconic Paris to Roubaix road race, but nevertheless, they’re unforgiving.  The rattle of the bike and the jarring of the suspension-free frame shake the arms and legs and is a painful reminder that the bicycle saddle of a road bike has not been designed with comfort in mind.  The saving grace of that ride is that the incline is mild, and the distance is covered quickly.

The alternative of the paved versus the cobbled is also an option for the descent.  On the route to Airolo at the base of the hill, the cobbles exist for 6 kms and the speed one generates in a descent is considerably greater than the pace of the climb.  Consequently, the arse of your average garden-variety cyclist, such as your correspondent, is considerably more ragged at the end of the road than it was at the beginning.  For the poor old Pipster, whose lack of training meant his backside wasn’t entirely ‘seasoned’, it was an exceptionally painful experience.  I knew to keep my moans to myself.

We composed ourselves on the outskirts of Airolo at the base of the mountain before heading south-west towards the Nufenen Pass and the prospect of inclement weather.  Almost immediately it began to rain and although the temperature was 12˚C, it would drop to 4˚ by the time we reached the summit.  That, however, was 23.6 kms and 1,327 metres of climbing away.

About a third of the way up we grabbed coffees at a roadside café.  The respite from the weather was welcome, as too was the caffeine, and we harboured there for 20 minutes as we warmed through, a pointless exercise as the next two hours would affirm.  On leaving, the heavens opened, and the incline increased.  For the next 15-16 kms we fought a gradient that increased from the gentle range of 2 – 5% that we faced from Airolo to the café, to a sustained 8 – 10%.  When combined with the weather, it was brutal and the respite at the top could not come soon enough.  Soaked through, freezing cold and utterly knackered, I collapsed in a small soggy heap and allowed myself to be served a steaming plate of sausage, chips and gravy which rapidly disappeared.

From the tops of the mountains the clouds rolled in, bringing with them a clinging moisture and a lowering temperature.  Whilst we’d stopped for the best part of 40 minutes, I’d been unable to warm fully, and all my gear was wet.  Ahead of us lay a further 55 kms and 1,085 metres of climbing to complete our circuit.

I began the descent to Obergoms (there is also a place called Goms I’m thrilled to say) but my return to the bike did not last long.  A look on Google Maps will reveal a meandering road that is followed by a tight 180˚ corner which leads to another long straight stretch of the descent.  By the time I had completed this second drag I was frozen through.  I managed one more tight turn and another straight, but on reaching the technical switchbacks, I could go no further.  I had broken the cardinal rule of being able to complete a circuit and we were a long way, and a lot of climbing, from home.  Fortunately, we had the wonderful and magnificent assistance of Sarah and Caroline McDowie by way of support.

We had determined to do this ride ‘unsupported’.  Sarah and Caroline had ‘planned’ to have a relaxing week soaking up the alpine air and supping a few gin and tonics.  Naturally, they knew us better than we did and rightly covered every pedal stroke in the trusty Mercedes van, carrying our spare gear and, as it transpired on this occasion, mine and the Pipster’s bikes; Philip having decided he’d had enough ‘training’ earlier in the day.

Rob and Paul, being hardier souls, determined to ride through the weather and brave the climb up the Furka Pass.  It must be noted that Rob also felt a tad chilled on the descent from Nufenen and took advantage of the paused van to don every article of clothing he possessed.  In packing his day bag for the trip, he clearly hadn’t given thought to stylistic considerations; once fully dressed he resembled a bin man off to the gym in the jogging bottoms he uses for decorating.  There would be no points for sartorial elegance and a great reluctance to provide further support, as those of us in the van sought to disassociate ourselves from him.

The route to the top of the pass started along the valley floor with the road clinging to the side of the mountain for several kilometres before it snaked its way to the summit.  Once the weaving begins, there are few places for a van to stop, so we had no option but to position ourselves about 4 kms from the top.

According to Lord T, this was a great inconvenience, as we had chosen to park on the steepest part of the climb.  ‘A 15% slope is not a good place for you to stop,’ shouted the ungrateful soul.  He is right of course, and in defence, we didn’t; the nastiest piece of that climb only amounts to 9%, but in fairness to him, he had managed to bugger up the Di2 gearing, probably when he was changing his bike saddle, and had lost the lowest gear available to him, so I suspect it felt a shade tougher.  Manfully he and Rob struggled on, attaining the 2,436 metre summit with oxygen still in their lungs and completed the remaining 21.3 kms to the apartment without incident, or the arrest of Rob, who bore a passing similarity to a bike-thieving itinerant.

Having now had two rides on the brand-new bikes and experienced a teething problem with the Di2, we decided it might be prudent to recharge the batteries on all four bikes.  Cycling forums suggest that battery life is good for between 500 – 2,000 kms.  With 128 kms under our belts, we weren’t taking any chances.  In Switzerland, they recognise Corpus Christi as a public holiday, but bless him, the ever-helpful Oliver was only too willing to provide us with four sets of USB chargers for the evening.  They arrived with adapter plugs and cables, but sadly, no instructions.  We discovered that our new bikes incorporated Shimano’s latest adaptation of the Di2 system.  In fact, the latest iteration is so new that there were no online tutorials that we could find that revealed how to charge them.  Three of us poured over the bikes seeking to find the illusive socket that would accept the cable plug.  In despair, we dropped poor Oliver another message, further troubling his holiday and no doubt disturbing him with our inadequacy.  As luck would have it, I located the port before Oliver had replied and we were able to stand him down with our masculinity restored.  For those that might be interested, you’ll find the devilishly small socket in the end of the handlebar drops, tucked behind a tiny door with the printed words ‘I’m here dumbass’.

We chose to remain in our digs for supper that evening and our (non-)support crew kindly disappeared into town to obtain a variety of pizzas which we joyfully despatched along with a grotesque quantity of alcohol.  Lord T had suggested that we bring a couple of bottles of wine with us each so that we had something to relax over during our evenings.  I’m not sure any of us anticipated that we’d get through most of it in one sitting, but the entertainment provided by a game of Cards Against Humanity, where we learnt that ‘Firing a rifle into the air while balls-deep in a squealing hog’ is really quite a versatile answer, was enough to encourage our excess.

Swiss roll - day 1

Newbury to Andermatt: Oberalppass

I’ve come out of retirement.  It was a limited lay off.  Following our 2017 cycling tour in the French Alps, I vowed never to cycle another mountain.  The physicality of the activity overwhelmed me and what should have been a fun and pleasurable venture was, company aside, a thoroughly miserable experience.

On my final ride of that tour, up the 29.6 kilometres of the Col du Petit Saint-Bernard, the continuous ascent over 1,220 metres caused me to lose my breakfast at the top.  I reflected that I had paid to be there and, at the time, that seemed to be a remarkably stupid thing to do.

I was categoric in my declaration, making it absolutely clear that I would never subject myself to the ignominy of vomiting at the end of a cycle ride again.  There was no doubting that this was the end of my alpine cycling career.  It therefore came as a surprise, not least of all to me, that I found myself boarding British Airways flight 710 to Zürich on 19 June 2019, with the intention of cycling in the Swiss Alps.

The flight from Heathrow was uneventful, although having left it late to check-in, I ended up with seat 28F.  There is nowhere further back, unless you’re in need of the loo.  This conjured thoughts of delay and images of Paul Turton (aka Lord T), one of my cycling companions, repeatedly asking ‘Where the f*^k is Brown?’  Happily, the airport authorities in Zürich were considerably more competent than their counterparts in Geneva, from when we last had the opportunity to travel together, and I was spared the accusatory lances that followed on that occasion.

With customary efficiency, Sarah Roché was at the airport waiting for us with a splendid Mercedes minivan that would provide transportation to the resort town of Andermatt in the Swiss Alps.  The journey there took us along the shores of the mighty Lake Lucerne, its cobalt blue waters nestling at the feet of craggy mountains that gave a hint of what was to come as we headed further south.

Andermatt appears to be a little slow in appreciating its abundance of natural gifts.  The old juxtaposes the new, with the centre of town housing older Swiss-style resort buildings, shops and restaurants.  To its northern edge is a flurry of development activity that reflects the awakening to its potential and it was at the recently developed Andermatt Reuss apartment and hotel complex that we landed, ready for our first taste of Swiss cuisine.  Our assumption of universal Swiss efficiency was misplaced.  As the only guests, we had an inordinate wait for ham and cheese paninis, although they exceeded our expectations; the lettuce was exceptionally fresh – presumably growing the leaves accounted for the delay.

After lunch we met with the astonishingly helpful Oliver, the man from whom we would hire our bikes for the week, and who restored our faith in Swiss competence.  He was waiting outside the Mammut Store with four Scott Addict SE Disc bikes in sizes to suit and he scooted about adjusting saddles, attaching pedals and trying not to look too alarmed at some of our more moronic questions.  The bikes were brand spanking new, never before used and, therefore, nerve wracking to climb aboard, knowing that if there was any damage, it would be attributable to us.

It's amazing what sitting on a new bike can do to you.  I felt like a six-year-old again, taking my first tentative pedal strokes on a Raleigh Rodeo, wobbling around the cobbles of the courtyard of the hotel complex, conscious of Oliver casting his eye over me like a nervous father, although on this occasion his concern was more for the bike than the rider.  As well as a new bike, I also had to adapt to the gears.  These were Shimano Ultegra Di2s, an electronic system that responds to the faintest touch of the shifters and confirms each gear change with a satisfying mechanical whirr and an effortless movement.  Unless, as we were to discover, you’re Lord T.

Mine functioned fully and, after a short pause to don our cycling gear, we were off on our first ride of the trip, or in Philip Wright’s case, his first ride of the year.  It’s extraordinary that he was on a bike at all, his training for the event was almost exclusively on the Ouse and Cam, rivers in Cambridgeshire, on which he’s spent a lot of time in a hollowed-out stick.  As far as I could tell, the only resemblance rowing has to cycling is that both sports involve a fair degree of sitting.  It should be added that rivers are not particularly mountainous and that the closest Philip got to training for a bike ride was to wear a pair of cycling shorts in the boat.

Despite his lack of preparation, he performed admirably on our first climb from the apartment to Oberalppass, a short ride of 11 kilometres, climbing 617 metres.  At the top we paused for coffee, with Philip choosing to remain at the café for a bit of beard grooming as Rob Bradburn, Lord T and I chose to nip down the other side for a mile to give our climbing legs a little more work to do on the way back.  In short order we returned to the café to re-join the hipster, or in his case, the Pipster, whereupon we all descended to the Restaurant Monopol where we concluded our ride with a few beers.  It was here that we learnt that Rob dislikes Weiss Bier; a primary constituent of which, he explained, plays havoc with his guts.

Regrettably, our talent for German was mirrored by our waiter’s talent for English and on the third time of ordering, the resultant beers didn’t entirely reflect our preferred choices and as the cloudiness of the proffered beer revealed, it had been brewed using a healthy dollop of wheat.  For three of us, this was not a problem, content as we were to have a drink that had the word ‘Bier’ in its title.  Rob, by contrast, was having no truck with the offending beverage and sought our waiter to express his displeasure and obtain a suitable alternative.  When the replacement arrived, it was evident that the waiter had fully understood Rob’s request for a different drink and provided him with an equally cloudy, but much darker, Weiss Bier.  Early predictions were suggesting that it might be a long week for Bradders and, as his roommate, an even longer week for me.

With the early evening beckoning and the need to re-fuel becoming increasingly important, we headed to our apartment to shower and change.  We also took stock of our new bikes, with Lord T and I deciding that we would be better served by replacing the bikes’ standard saddles with the ones that we had brought.  It was at this moment that we learnt that Lord T is not a man to which mechanical proficiency comes intuitively.  He is a man who would change a light bulb by grasping it and allowing the world to turn.  His attempts to first remove, and then replace his bike seat was an exercise in awkwardness that he attributed to the equipment at his disposal.  We did not demur, preferring instead to enjoy the spectacle of him flipping the bike upside down and flail about with his inadequate tool.

Our meal, at the Gasthaus zum Sternen, was a straightforward affair with good food, a lovely Swiss red wine and, to Rob’s satisfaction, a wheat free, if somewhat bland, lager.  We plodded wearily back to our accommodation where we retired for the evening.  In preparing for bed, Rob forewarned me that he was a chronic snorer.  Rob added, providing evidence by way of an impromptu demonstration, that he was also likely to be affected by the earlier consumption of the wheat beer.  Having shared the indulgence, I was not entirely convinced that he would be alone and I was proven correct.  What I also ascertained, in the wee small hours, was the corollary effect on Rob’s snoring of my noxious expulsions.  I established, quite conveniently, that every time he started snoring, I could deliver a timely fart that was the gaseous equivalent of Mrs Bradburn’s elbow in his back, which promptly shut him up.  All in all, it made for a restful night.

Eighteen no more - part 2

I recently had cause to visit a Chiropractor – splendid chap, Robin, who practices the McTimoney method of the form.  It’s less invasive than the traditional approach and doesn’t leave you feeling like you’ve paid to have your condition worsened.

The visit was prompted by one of our early morning workout sessions at Dawn Breakers (DB), a high intensity, interval training (HIIT) programme that Mrs GOM, Daughter of GOM (D of G), and I attend each weekday morning.  My injury stemmed from performing an exercise that mirrored the butterfly swimming stroke.  I was perhaps a little too enthusiastic in my approach, making great progress across the mat.  Although, as our instructor, Charlie, pointed out as I withdrew from the class writhing in pain, we were not in a pool, I should have been stationary.

The corollary to this athletic endeavour was that when standing straight, my spine resembled a boomerang.  I suffer periodic episodes of popping my back that don’t normally require intervention, but on this occasion, the injury’s preference was to linger more than usual.  Reg, a fellow DBer, recommended the ‘spine cracker’ and I’m rather pleased he did.  I’m now standing tall once more; 5’ 4” oxymoron aside.

As the weeks have passed, I find myself wondering whether I should pay Robin another visit.  My challenge though, is to prioritise the body part that I would have him adjust.  I’m not sure if I should begin with my left arm, where I find myself nursing a persistent muscle strain.  Muscles aren’t really his bag, but I do wonder if he could do something about my right arm and wrist.  Alcohol-induced sprains to both of those serve as public health warnings against binge drinking and Dad dancing; independently both should be avoided, when combined, the results can be lethal.

My knees, however, are not victims of excess, unless that’s excess of time.  Both routinely feel like they could do with a healthy dose of WD40.  Mrs GOM suggests that I should take cod liver oil, but I worry that the hips will snaffle it before it gets down as far as the knees.  They’re not troubling me … yet; but I fear it’s only a matter of time.  In the meantime, what I could use is a small aperture in each knee into which I could pour oil directly.

Further down, I did think that I might be developing a touch of arthritis in my big toe, but that appears to have disappeared.  It was probably just the stubbing it received on my return to bed one night during my regular mid-sleep visits to the loo.  I’m a little slow on the uptake, but I suspect that drinking a herbal tea designed to improve one’s sleep immediately before going to bed, is probably what’s waking me to pee.

As well as the increasing incidence of aches and pains, I have noticed a marked decline in my flexibility.  In our HIIT classes, there is a stretch that requires us to keep legs straight and touch the floor.  Where once I would have found this comparatively easy, I now find the requirements mutually exclusive.  I can reach the floor with a pronounced bending of the (creaking) knees, or I can keep my legs straight and tap away on my shins.  It doesn’t help that D of G is alongside me when doing this and has the palms of her hands firmly placed on the floor with her legs ramrod straight – that used to be me.

When I was 18, a work colleague and I visited the gym during lunchtimes to supplement the football that we both played.  I was lean, fit and found exercise easy.  One of the company executives, who was probably the age I am now, would also be there each day, dragging his exceedingly bulky frame onto a treadmill, generating a phenomenal sweat, as he ran for thirty minutes.  We found it impossible to reconcile his results with the effort – he remained a puddin’.

Whilst I have dropped a few pounds since I started DB a year ago, the slower metabolic rates of today’s GOM now make me appreciate why the fella on the treadmill was the fittest fat bloke I knew.  It’s bloody hard to shift those pounds, which poses a wee problem for me next week.

You won’t hear from me as I’m taking time off to go cycling with some buddies in the Swiss Alps.  Although I missed it last year, it’s something I’ve done every year since my mid-life crisis manifested in a desire to wear lycra.  This year, as we head to Andermatt to cycle up mountains that don’t remotely resemble the rolling hills of West Berkshire, where we’ll travel distances each day that are greater than my current weekly average, I will find myself carrying more weight to the foot of each climb than ever before.  It hardly needs mentioning, but this is not a good thing, even if much of it is now muscle.  It’s great for the descent, as a surprised motorcyclist I once passed on Col du Galibier will attest, but it’s a bit shite on the way up.

I do hope my fellow cyclists are exceptionally patient.  They might find themselves with a little time on their hands as they wait for me at the top.

Twitter: @GOMinTraining
Copyright © Craig Brown, 2019
14 June 2019

It's just not cricket

Falkland Cricket Club sits in a quiet corner of semi-rural West Berkshire.  As venues go, it doesn’t get much better.  The perfectly manicured ground boasts a county-quality wicket, the western edge of the ground is lined with poplars which then drops away to reveal a magnificent country landscape.

The Bowler’s Arms pub and restaurant operates from the ground, serving a selection of draft ales and a menu that delivers a great British pub experience.  On any given weekend throughout the summer, a short stroll is rewarded with a well-earned pint that comes with the additional bonus of entertainment in the form of a game of cricket.  The reassuring hum of summer is augmented with the occasional thwack of leather against willow followed by polite applause from the dozen or so people lounging around the boundary.  It is a defining example of Englishness and it is difficult to imagine a more genteel celebration of the game that is the world’s second largest spectator sport with an estimated 2.5 billion followers.

This scenario unfolds across hundreds of English parks each week; loungers or blankets are laid out and devotees of the sport relax and enjoy the air.  There is an etiquette that accompanies this scene.  Silence is generally observed as the bowler runs towards the batsman, and the most cardinal of sins would be to walk behind the bowler as he runs in to deliver the ball.  Any movement behind the bowler is very off-putting to the batsman, who’ll likely take a step back to signal that play should halt.  In that moment, there will be tuts of disapproval from the spectators that are almost audible to the transgressor.  If the protagonist was a newly walking toddler, it would quite probably be the only time in its life that its parents would discourage these fledgling efforts.

I was at a match on Wednesday where I sat behind two English gentlemen – at least, I’m assuming they were English.  For the eight hours we watched the game they did not speak to each other (or anyone else), move from their seats, eat, drink, or acknowledge any of the play on the field before them.  As an exercise in self-restraint, it was remarkable.  As a demonstration of Englishness in cricket spectating, they achieved a zenith, albeit I was tempted to check each chap for a pulse.

This performance is even more remarkable given that the game was a one-day international played in London at The Oval between Bangladesh and New Zealand as part of this year’s Cricket World Cup.  I was one of a smattering of Kiwis in the ground, a little more vocal than the fellas in front of me, with a willingness to show appreciation of players’ performances, occasionally muttering, “Nice shot,” or “Well bowled,” at appropriate times.  I even stood to clap a couple of particularly excellent moments in the game, doing my best to be non-partisan, which is considerably easier when your team is doing well, as the Kiwis were at the time.  Ordinarily in such situations, the supporters of the team that is underperforming is reduced to silence or at best, quiet lamentation.  Not so the Bangladeshis; they operate to a somewhat different set of rules.  The support for their team was relentless.  Every scurried single was celebrated as though the ball had crossed the boundary rope.  If their team was wavering, which they often were, they banged drums, waved flags, encouraged, cajoled and generally abandoned all forms of restraint. 

They came in their thousands.  The Oval holds about 25,000 spectators and the Bangladeshi diaspora was out in force, occupying two-thirds of the ground.  About two hours from the end of the game, the two people next to me left the stadium and no sooner had they vacated their seats than green-clad Bangladeshi supporters took their place.  It was as though they were reproducing in the stands.

Bangladesh batted first and their team put 244 runs on the scoreboard.  For those familiar with the game, the Kiwis should have easily chased that score and completed the task with little bother.  This view was evidenced by the absence of many of the Bangladeshi fans from their seats when New Zealand started their run-chase 30 minutes later.  During the first few overs there was a quiet trickle of supporters returning to their seats, the tell-tale white plastic of an empty seat gradually giving way to another green-clad torso.

New Zealand’s opening batters started at quite a clip, scoring 35 runs in the first five overs and in the face of the Kiwi onslaught, the Bangladeshi fans were finally rendered silent.  Until that is, Shakib Al Hasan bowled a good length ball outside the off stump which Martin Guptill promptly despatched down the throat of Tamim Iqbal.  The place erupted.  The noise was extraordinary and not remotely English.

There could not have been a greater contrast to the reserve of the two chaps before me.  I suggest they probably disapproved, but it was impossible to discern given their emotional retardation.  I suspect that, amid the Bangladeshi joy, they may have tutted – loudly.

The Bangladeshi celebrations continued unabated and intensified when a short while later, Colin Munro succumbed to the same bowler after an excellent catch by Mehidy Hasan.  That brought Ross Taylor to the wicket to join his captain, Kane Williamson, and between them, they whittled away at the supporters’ enthusiasm.

The noise in the stadium gradually abated as it became clear that the New Zealanders were on course to secure an easy win, but as all the worst sports pundits will say, ‘It’s a funny old game’.  Bangladesh came roaring back and so, quite literally, did their fans.  Two wickets fell in the 32^nd over and another four fell as the innings progressed, with three of those going near the end of the game, the last with New Zealand still six runs short of Bangladesh’s total.  The Kiwis clung on for a dramatic win.

The tension in the ground led to the most extraordinary atmosphere I’ve ever experienced and thanks to the fans in green, the cacophony was brilliantly unrelenting.  Through all of it, the two gents before me remained unmoved, no doubt thinking that this sort of behaviour is just not cricket.

I agree, it’s much better than that.

Twitter: @GOMinTraining
Copyright © Craig Brown, 2019
7 June 2019

Rolling in it

Spam filters can be somewhat annoying.  I recently made an online booking and when looking for the details later, couldn’t find what I needed.  Prompted by Mrs GOM, I looked in the junk folder to discover the missing email.

What I also discovered, which I didn’t know before today, is that I am the beneficiary of some quite substantial sums and I am worth millions.  I also learnt that there are quite a few people who have been acting kindly as custodians of my considerable wealth.

The first, Peter Ofili, the Senior Finance officer of the Nigerian Ports Authority, (also known as Frank Brown according to his email address), has $12.5 million waiting for me and wants to transfer it directly to my bank account “for our mutual benefit”.  That last sentence is a bit of a shame; I guess that means I’ll have to kiss goodbye to half of it, still, $6.25 million is better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick.  Happily for both of us, Mr Ofili has “every arrangement relating to this transaction diligently worked out hence you can be rest assured of 100% risk/hitch free transaction.”  What a top chap.

As if that news wasn’t joyous enough, you can imagine my surprise when, three days later, Mark David wrote to me with news that the late Edwin Gabriel has made me “a beneficiary to his WILL” (I’m not sure why he shouted that last bit, but with ten million dollars coming my way, it was worth trying to grab my attention).  This one could be a little tricky though, amongst various other details he required, including the name of my first pet and my favourite colour, he wants my fax number.  I haven’t had one for years, but I’ll be nipping out to Dixons PC World later this morning to address the deficiency.

Charles Bailey of the Union Bancaire Privée in Jersey has also been in touch.  He’s a lovely fella; very concerned with my mental health as he writes, “I know that a transaction of this magnitude will make anyone apprehensive and worried, but I am assuring you that all will be well at the end of the day.”  He tells me he’s been with the bank for 15 years, beginning as a junior clerk in 1983.  Once he’s sent me the $37 million from the pseudonymous Karl Henning (who is really the deceased Ferdinand Marcos, but I mustn’t tell anyone in case his family find out), I’ll send him a calendar.

As much as I appreciate his concerns for my health, I think his sympathy would be better placed with Mr’s (sic) Caroline Pascal, the widow of Dr George Pascal who worked at the French Embassy in Ouagadougou, the capital city of Burkina Faso (it is, I checked, you can’t be too sure about these things).  Mrs Pascal’s in a bad way, her doctor recently informed her that she only has “seven months due to cancer problem”, albeit she adds, that the ailment that “disturbs me most is my stroke sickness”.  The poor love.  Her benevolent husband deposited $10.9 million that was destined for charity work to help people in the street.  She’d like me to hang on to 30% of it and distribute the rest to orphans.  Frankly, I’m already $53.25 million up for the day, the orphans can have the lot.

Burkina Faso seems to be a rich source of funds, Bekiana Kipkalya also has $5.2 million for me, and I can keep half of it if I help her get a place at a decent university.  What a shame the Trump University is now defunct.  Its focus on asset management, entrepreneurship, and wealth creation seem to be just the things that Ms Kipkalya requires; it might also teach her to be a little more prudent in the management of her hoard.

Astonishingly, there’s a lot more that’s heading my way – my share of the $63.8 million available is $27.1 million, although Jacques Dassa, of the “Sahelo-Saharan Bank for Investment and Trade Benin Republic” (which, if he’d spelled it correctly, would exist) has somehow learnt that I’ve got a few bob heading my way.  He’s provided me with the bank details of Bill Douglas, an American who is, according to Mr Dassa, my next of kin.  In what has come as an additional surprise to me, Mr Douglas has informed my correspondent that I am seriously ill in hospital and I need to send him $1.2 million, presumably to pay my hospital bills should Nigel Farage ever get his way with the NHS.  Although I’m over $80 million better off than I was when I woke this morning, my health seems to be okay, so I’ll keep that cash in my pocket.

The first of these emails arrived with me on 8 May and I’ve had 12 more since.  Whilst I’m keen to get my sweaty little palms on the cash, to be on the safe side, I’ve forwarded them to NFIBPhishing@city-of-london.pnn.police.uk, the email address provided by Action Fraud, the National Fraud & Cyber Crime Reporting Centre.  As amusing as I have found these clumsy attempts to elicit my details and raid my account, they do represent genuine fleecing activity and a look on Action Fraud’s website provides details of other fraud scams that are frightening in their sophistication.  If you feel you’re at risk, or are concerned for someone that might be, their website is a useful resource.

Of course, if you’re wise to these fraudsters, you may just prefer to enjoy the treatment given to them in his ubiquitous show Joe Lycett’s Got Your Back.  I’d do something similar myself, but I’m going to be far too busy keeping an eye on that junk email folder…

Twitter: @GOMinTraining
Copyright © Craig Brown, 2019
31 May 2019

All things being equal...

The Women’s World Cup starts next month, and I am looking forward to it mightily.  I’ve had a life-long love of football and Mrs GOM despairs whenever there’s an international tournament during the Northern Hemisphere’s off-season, as the brief respite she gets from having to suffer the sport is foreshortened by the summertime coverage.

She does have the good grace to allow me to watch and has occasionally accompanied me to fixtures that she’d rather not sit through.  One such fixture was the 2012 Women’s Olympic final at Wembley, where not only Mrs GOM, but both the junior GOMs were hauled along.  Surprisingly, the enjoyment was unanimous.  We saw a brilliant game between the USA and Japan with the USA triumphing 3 – 0 and Daughter of GOM got to wave the flag of her birth-right with pride.

Despite the score, it was a very competitive match, played at high intensity and with all the skill and technique one would expect from an elite football match.  Joyously, the only thing lacking was the histrionics of the men’s game.  Tackled players popped to their feet without resorting to a quarter-length pitch roll à la Neymar; the absence of the theatrics did not diminish the theatre.  So, if you’ve never taken the time to watch the women’s game, I urge you to switch on the TV on 7 June, encourage your nearest and dearest to perch on the sofa with you, and enjoy the unfolding events.

Unfortunately, this year’s competition won’t be graced by Ada Hegerberg, who has been voted the BBC Women's Footballer of the Year 2019, an award which follows her win in 2018 of the inaugural Ballon d'Or Féminin, a prize determined by football journalists, that arguably crowns the best player in women’s football[1].  She has also just helped her club team, Olympique Lyonnais Féminin, to their fourth consecutive Champions League title, scoring a hat-trick along the way, in their 4 – 1 defeat of Barcelona.

Ada hails from Norway and would likely be the first name on the team sheet in every national manager’s team if they had a player with her talent.  She won’t, however, be attending the World Cup.  Not because Norway didn’t qualify, they did, winning their group.  She’s not injured either; judging from her performance in the Champions League final, she’s in the form of her life.  No, it’s much simpler than that.  Ada Hegerberg will not be attending the World Cup because in 2017, she walked away from Norway's national team after growing increasingly frustrated with its set-up and what she called a “lack of respect” for female players.

She’s a little reticent to go public with the specifics of her concerns; she fears distortion and has stated that “... things are going to blow up everywhere” if she speaks.  She has also said that she has been clear in her points with the Norwegian Football Federation (NFF) about what they need to do to improve equality in the game.  Bear in mind that the NFF was the first in world football to offer women pay parity with the men’s national team, but as Hegerberg said in a recent interview with the BBC, “It’s not always about money.  It’s all about attitude and respect.  We are talking about young girls, giving them the same opportunity as boys, giving them the same opportunity to dream.

“If you change those attitudes in the beginning, things will automatically change as well.

“The men in the suits cannot see that.  They’re going to understand one day that this is more about society than modern football.  It’s so important for me, that I can’t sit and watch things not going in the right direction. And it would be easy for me to perform, do my thing and just stay quiet.  But I think it’s so much bigger than that.

Martin Sjörgen, Norway’s coach who confirmed that Hegerberg would not play for the team said, “We tried to solve it, we had meetings, but she decided not to play."  Clearly, he and the men of the NFF did not try hard enough and have failed to address their much deeper failings.

The BBC interview and the comments from Sjörgen point to a more nuanced argument than one that can be addressed by mere structural changes, although pay parity is a small step in the right direction.  Fundamental change begins with a shift in attitude, a recognition that equality is needed regardless of gender.  Hegerberg’s voice is important and she recognises it, “Winning all these individual trophies or with a team, all the success gives you a voice.  And it’s not about me.  It’s never been about me.  It’s about getting the change that needs to be done for sport.”

But it’s not just in sport, it’s in all walks of life.  Change is required in schools, the workplace, and in society.  Equality isn’t a women’s issue.  It’s one for all of us, we have a shared responsibility to address the everyday imbalances that exist; in health, education, care giving, treatment in the media, representation, pay and opportunity; all are areas that need attention.

Ada Hegerberg has taken a bold stance, sacrificing her career as an international footballer.  Her voice is important, as are the voices of millions of other women, influential or otherwise.  What’s equally important is the need to listen to what they’re saying and to act.  That, I would argue, is very much a job for the men.

A postscript from Mrs GOM: In what is a rich irony, I gave the GOM one job to do today – to hang out the washing.  Needless to say, whilst he was advocating for women’s rights, the machine remained full until I got home from work to empty it.

Twitter: @GOMinTraining
Copyright © Craig Brown, 2019
24 May 2019

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[1] FIFA has a separate award for the women’s best player that last went to the Brazilian, Marta, a six-time winner.