Summer warmth....

Have you noticed how warm it has been lately? It crept up on me really, I had given up on summer for this year, then it was here, clingly and claggy and sticky. The conker trees are in fruit - won't be long now before we can string up a couple and have a few games. Conkers are just beautiful fresh from the shell, unbelievably shiny and new.

Cycling down familiar lanes there is a canopy of branches and leaves that seem stitched together, closer and closer - the result is an almost tent-like roof effect overhead. This living green shuts out the light and creates a tunnel like experience for a few hundred yards. There are foxgloves in the hedgerows and willow-herb, growing together in erect close masses of pale strawberry colour. I pause at a farm gate and climb off the bike - I just want to look around for a few moments, although I haven't been riding particularly hard or fast, I have worked up a considerable sweat. I take off my helmet, hang it from the handlebars and enjoy a few long draughts from my water bottle. I notice goose grass growing in the verges near the gate, I smile, that plant provided much amusement to me years ago as I threw it onto my brothers back.

I mount the bike and move on - no rush though - this is a slow, gentle ride. As I pass through a small village the church bell tolls - the vicar has arrived for evensong, there is a cricket match taking place, I pause to watch, a breathless hush, the field is full of shade, the aroma of leather, mown grass, linseed oil and egg sandwiches. The batsman strikes the ball cleanly and the handful of spectators acknowledge with a few lazy handclaps. And I set off for home as another working Monday arrives on the radar.

As I ride along ancient lanes it seems the past is still reachable, the soft rolling contours, the gnarled, twisted trees and the signs that indicate I'm close to a battlefield - just under my wheels there must be things...... artefacts, bones, the evidence of the past and of man's inhumanity. I wonder if anyone from those times would recognise the landscape now - how different is it some 500 years later?

Devon...

The thing about taking a holiday in this country is that you must be prepared to accept the vagaries of the English weather. Generally speaking I've always had the most fortunate good luck in this respect - whenever I go away I know the weather will, at worst, be okay, but mostly I seem to attract fine, sunny days.

Unfortunately that winning streak ended last week with operatic calamity. A week camping in North Devon on an exposed campsite, with gale force winds, thunder, lightening, a mini-tornado and rats left me shell-shocked to say the least. The night was worst - a repetitive heaving, buffeting, slapping and flapping when the tent felt like it was shortly to launch itself skyward made sleep uncomfortable and at times impossible. It was a shame really, because here is a part of Britain that is nationally protected for the beauty of its landscape. 171sq km of coastal landscape stretching from Marsland Mouth on the Cornish border to Coombe Martin on the boundary of the Exmoor National Park.

The hire bike

I hired a bike. I wasn't able to transport one of my own - I picked up a heavy, steel hybrid from Otter Cycles in Braunton - I chatted to the Scotsman who runs the business, he was truing wheels out in the yard making the most of the warm sunshine. "I've been here since 1970" he said "Worst year I've ever known" I was unsure if he meant because of the weather or the trade "Both" he elucidated.

Despite the scary, apocalyptic nights in the tent - daytime was mainly okay - and we spent time on the beach, building sandcastles, bodyboards in the surf etc - I cycled around the lanes comparing them to the ones I'm used to back home. They are steeper. And narrower. The hedges are higher - and sometimes lower. The flowers are prettier and the sea is never far away - every now and then I would get a tantalising glimpse between trees or hedges - a rolling sheet of shimmering jewels glistening and tempting. But the hills - wow - they are steep. Signs for 25% gradients are common - nasty grinding tracks that heave and push their way up from the coast to the green hills, tense and taunt like wiry veins and each full of walkers and cyclists. Tackling such roads on the hire bike was foolish - even though the bike seemed in good order the gearing wasn't particularly 'full' - I decided I wouldn't be able to get up the steeper climbs and so opted for the easier 15 and 20% routes instead.

After a few miles I felt sick. The heat was unbearable - I was melting - didn't remember hearing anything about a heatwave on the weather forecast? - I soldiered on - and up. Over fords, up tracks with more grass than concrete, over a packhorse bridge, a stile, through the grounds of a firestation... the route was varied and interesting - it would have been much easier on my own bike - but by now I was enjoying the scenery and I'd found a rhythm which was slow but constant.

I came across a fierce track that descended the hill more or less vertically. There was a Mountain Bike Club here, they seemed to be practising being organ donors - each would line up and then launch themselves down the track. I stopped to watch and chat. They talked about accidents with a cheery bloodthirstyness, the way I imagine big game hunters might talk about lion attacks or hippo bites. "We had one kid who went down safely" I was told "Then his Dad followed, hell for leather, came to a jump, lost his nerve, slammed on the brakes, fell on his head. Now he comes to watch in a wheelchair"

I moved off at a sedate pace - cycling is dangerous enough on the roads - I'm not at all interested in hurtling down mountain sides thank you very much. In a short while I arrive at a clearing - there are picnic tables and holiday sized litter bins, and stone slabs for portable barbeques and a cafe for those who can't be bothered or forgot to bring their own. There's a souvenir shop selling clotted cream shortbreads with a dollop of strawberry jam in the middle and glossaries of the local dialect. On the grass a group of pensioners on folding chairs drink wine from plastic wine glasses and help each other with sodoku and crosswords. A group of young people are getting slowly sozzled, laughing and hugging each other. A father throws a ball to his son, another son climbs onto and jumps off a big old stump. People prod sausages and lick ice-creams and a pair of riders walk their horses into the stream. The land lays itself out in the last, soft, warm light of day - like a lush and gorgeous nude, perfectly aware of its own allure and power, the curving secret body reclining under the green mantle of trees.

Skegness....

It was an early start. Up at 6.00am and immediately eat a bowl of pasta made the night before. Then get the bike out, check the tyres, pick up an extra spare inner-tube and make sure a waterproof is packed. Gary would be here at about 7.00 and we are riding to Skegness - a seaside resort in Lincolnshire on the East coast, around 100 miles away.

There was a gentle breeze as we set off, but it was generally warm as we made our way uphill from Thorton to Markfield and then on through some remarkably pretty villages - lots of thatched cottages, a nice restaurant, moon daisies like milk along the verges, and meadowsweet, like the cream of summer, the musty, sweet softness of earth and wood. We went on through Rothley and Cossington and made our way into Melton Mowbray.

Home of the eponymous pork-pie and one of the six homes of Stilton cheese, this is an interesting area. In and around Melton there are 28 scheduled ancient monuments, 705 listed buildings, 16 sites of special scientific interest and several deserted village sites. The day had developed into one of calm warmth. The roads were flat now, and smooth. We were moving like proper cyclists - 23mph for long extended periods. We must have averaged 20mph for 10 miles easily. We passed through a village that was one of those golf-club and ornamental willow affairs - Jags and water features. You could tell it was posh - the 'A' board outside the pub advertised 'Thursday night is Lobster night'

From Melton Mowbray we head out towards Bourne - more easy-going roads, surprisingly smooth, even and flat - ideal really and we made good progress, no headwinds, good weather, mostly sunny - the day was developing into one of supreme enjoyment - everything was going so well. We stopped for a drink and saw the first cyclist of the day. An oldish guy riding a Bianchi bike - moving steadily and smoothly, fast but relaxed. We set off to catch him - this proved more difficult than I first thought - he was probably travelling at the same speed as us - but by the time we got going he was a good 800 metres ahead - we needed to work hard to make up that gap - it was a tough ten minutes of 24mph as we gradually closed in on him - creeping ever nearer as he held his pace. Finally we were on him - and then he turned off!! - heading in a different direction.

We circumnavigated Spalding and approached Boston - the traffic was heavy and slow as we weaved between cars in a tailback of maybe a mile. It was a good feeling zipping past them as they sat, frustrated, waiting their turn to pass through traffic lights around a series of road works. We somehow took a wrong turn at Boston, taking the A16 instead of the A52 - we moved steadily up to Stickney and made a right turn through fenland to Eastville on the way to Wainfleet St Mary and the A52. At this point the road was dirty, rough, broken and to make things worse we encountered thunder and lightening, we donned our waterproofs but for 20 minutes we cycled through some horrible weather.

Then it brightened up again, as we reached Skegness itself. It's a weird place - ram-jammed with red -faced, beery-breathed people - an awful, ugly collection of tattoos, nylon, grease and giro-culture. As we sat at the clock surveying an endless procession of characters from Little Britain it occurred to me that I don't think I've ever seen so many chip shops in one place - literally every shop along the seafront teamed with people stocking up with kebabs, chips and curry sauce. It was like visiting an open audition to the Jeremy kyle Show. I was glad to wave it all goodbye and head for home.

Then it struck me, Skegness should have held the alternative to the Olympics. It would be The Drunk Olympics. There'd be drunken men running down the street, with struggling determination to stay upright. In some cases events might be improved. The intricate interweaving of the track events. The hint of danger in the javelin and hammer. The sheer aerial poetry of the long jump. The intriguing unpredictability of the weightlifting. The cruel beauty of the high diving - Cycling would be the great leveller - literally as contestants tumble to the ground. Urine samples would be more than generous - what could go wrong?

Pride and Hoy.....

It's been difficult to keep up, records being broken pretty much everytime a team GB cyclist rides an event. But last night, as the Olympic track cycling came to its close we witnessed something extra special, poignant and so, so moving.

Sir Chris Hoy became Britain's most golden Olympian in sensational style, storming to victory in the keiran event before a baying 6000 crowd in the velodrome. His latest win took Team GB's gold medal tally to 22 - the most since 1908.

Another 15million watched on TV as Sir Chris claimed his sixth Olympic gold - one more than rower Sir Steve Redgrave. Chants of 'Hoy, Hoy, Hoy' rang out as he punched the air and acknowledged supporters including Prince William, Prince Harry, Princess Anne and Lord Coe.

Shedding tears as the national anthem played, the Scot said "I'm in shock - I wanted to win gold in front of my home crowd and thankfully it worked out" - Ah bless, I for one couldn't help shedding a tear too - I like Chris Hoy - he seems a good bloke.

Hoy became a member of the national squad in 1996 and won his first World Championship medal in 1999. He has since won 11 world and 2 Commonwealth titles. He won his first Olympic gold in Athens in 2004 in the kilo event, he went on to specialise in other disciplines after the kilo was dropped from the schedule for Bejing in 2008. He rode the keirin, the sprint and the team sprint at Bejing and won gold in all three - in doing so he became the first Briton since 1908 to win three gold medals in a single Olympic games. He was voted sports personality of the year 2008 and was awarded a knighthood in the 2009 New Year Honours list. The velodrome for the 2014 Commonwealth games has been named after him.

It is about the team, the technology, the wheels, the preparation, the numbers, the thousand tiny pieces of analysis and insight that go into making an Olympic champion - yet it is also about the man. One incredible man. One man and his unending thirst for success. One man who refuses to be beaten. A six-time Olympic Gold Medallist called Christopher Andrew Hoy. The men and women of Great Britain Track Cycling formed a guard of honour around him when his bike finally slowed down to a halt at the velodrome, and they crowded into the podium area when he stood, head down, humbled, to receive his medal. It was a truly inspiring moment.

French letter...

In ascending order of unbearableness, the French sports fan’s greatest nightmares are losing the Tour de France, losing it to a foreigner, and losing it to a skinny bloke with sideboards known to his friends in Chorley, Lancashire, as “Wiggo”. That an English rider actually won the Tour for the first time in its 109-year history is not just a particular humiliation for the hosts, but confirmation of a power shift that has been emerging for some time.

The British are moving up the field as one of the world’s cycling-mad nations. Success in the Olympic VeloPark and the women's road race event, plus Wiggo's outstanding time trial effort have added to the impetus. For decades the jibes have been flying across the Channel. The French would claim that our cycling talents peaked with Raleigh-mounted midwives, while our chaps scoffed that the most common banned substances among the French teams were soap, deodorant and toothpaste. Behind the sparring, a horrible truth was emerging. Victory by 32-year-old Bradley Wiggins in The Tour made it irrefutable. Wiggo clobbered them on the climbs, flayed them on the flat and drubbed them on the descents. Not only that, but he has given the Tour a lesson in sporting manners. When a rogue spectator scattered tacks in the road, causing a group of leading riders to suffer punctures, Wiggo slowed down to let the others catch up, so earning himself the sobriquet “Le Gentleman” in the astonished French newspapers.

Some consolation has been drawn from the discovery that Wiggins was actually born in Belgium and that his father was an Australian, and, therefore – according to the desperate reasoning that characterises French cultural sensitivity – he isn’t quite as English as he could be. But he is English enough for most of us. And his exploits are more English than, perhaps, even the single-minded Bradley knows himself. Over the past 10 years, we have stopped thinking about bicycling as a cheap way to get about, and begun embracing it as a cross between a sport, a lifestyle and a civic responsibility. To all this, Wiggo adds the further whiff of home-grown eccentricity in his role as the world’s foremost – possibly only – sports-god Mod. A collector of vintage scooters and early Who records, he crafted those sideburns in tribute to his hero Paul – “the Modfather” – Weller. “Very few modern-day Mods appear in the public eye, so those that do tend to be over-scrutinised from those within the Mod scene,” says David Walker of the website Modculture. “Wiggins has been under the spotlight for some years now, but there has rarely been a bad word heard about him when it comes to his relationship with 'Mod’.”

Desperate for something to complain about, the French have accused Wiggo and his all-conquering Team Sky of being boring. The tour, they say, should be about daring and romance, not the calculated, grinding efficiency of the British approach. “Anglo-Saxon teams are more organised,” huffs Yves Blanc, editor of Le Cycle magazine. “Every member has a job to do, serving the leader, but there’s no room for poetry.” And even less room for the French, who, sadly, haven’t won their own Tour since 1985.

So strong is our squad that another Sky rider, Chris Froome, finished second, while their team-mate – reigning world road race champion Mark Cavendish – was used to shuttle water bottles. To understand the scale of this achievement, it helps to know that just seven years ago there wasn’t a single British rider in the Tour. Our absence was partly down to a historical lack of talent and interest, and partly to a sense that the race was unwinnable by anyone possessed of a notional sense of fair play. Cheating has been rife since the first race in 1903 when several riders were disqualified for taking trains, and the taint of drug abuse continues to hang over the event, with star rider Frank Schleck of Luxembourg pulling out of this year’s race after testing positive, and, seven-times winner Lance Armstrong currently facing doping charges in the United States.

The attitude to the Tour began to change after Britain’s spectacular performances in the 2008 Olympics, when Wiggins, Cavendish, Chris Hoy and Victoria Pendleton won gold medals. After decades consigned to dusty corners of the sports pages, cycling was everywhere. As, in short, order, were the nation’s risen cyclists. The explosion of popularity can have few parallels. Membership of British Cycling, the UK governing body of cycling, has more than doubled to 40,000 since 2008 and the organisation expects it to reach 100,000 by next year. A London School of Economics survey suggests that 13 million Britons now regularly cycle, and that the country’s “gross cycling product” is worth £3 billion a year. Long sniffed at as the forced option of people who couldn’t afford cars, cycling has become our most fashionable activity, primarily driven by what the industry calls Mamils (middle-aged men in Lycra), with abundant disposable income and an appetite for healthier, greener lifestyles. Unfortunately, while the pleasure of cheering Wiggo and co up the Champs-Elysées is free, our cycling obsession comes at a cost. For self-respecting Mamils, a bike is as much about image as getting you around town, and a decent one, such as a Pinarello similar to the one that Wiggo rides, with carbon-fibre frame and electronic shifting gear-set, will set you back around £9,000. A small price to pay, as the winner-less French would agree, for a taste of glory.

The Black Horse, Edingale

I set off with the news of Bradley Wiggins’ gold medal time-trial ride pinballing around my head – it was a thorough annihilation of the rest of the field – a superb performance and a fitting finale to a perfect season for (soon to be) Sir Wiggo who is now the most decorated British Olympian of all time – Sports personality of the year 2012 is nailed on!

I was like a little lad as I zipped off, heading towards Overseal on the beer ride – I imagined being Bradley in front of a partisan crowd all screaming and cheering – I’m sure I rode faster thanks to him!

The Black Horse

Tonight’s ride takes us to Edingale, Staffordshire - close to the borders of Derbyshire, Warwickshire and
Leicestershire in an area known as the Mease Valley.

Situated in a rural setting, Edingale lies equidistant from the towns of Burton on Trent to the north, Tamworth to the south east and the City of Lichfield to the south west. In many ways Edingale can be seen as a benchmark for small rural communities - the village shop and post office have passed into history whilst the infant school is still providing an educational grounding for the new generations. And the village pubs are reduced to one – clinging on…..

Looking over the village from the top of the hill, as it has for the past one hundred and twenty five years, is the Holy Trinity Church and, as is usually the case, the village pub, our destination for the evening, is not too far away. The Black Horse has, from the outside, the look of a typical local. Unassuming, maybe in need of a tidy up here and there but generally okay – no reason why you wouldn’t pop in if you were passing and felt like a pint. But inside is a different story. Not at all what you might expect. Everything looks brand new, slate and hardwood floors, oak doors and tables, white leather covered chairs, black wrought iron chandeliers….. it’s all been done with reasonable taste - it's kind of 'Dennis and Fiona welcome discerning travellers to relax, revive, savour and marvel in an atmosphere of timeless rural elegance. No overalls, No Children, Dogs by appointment'

Somehow it all feels over the top. For a small, out of the way, village local it’s punching above its weight – it looks like a fair monetary investment has been made – I wonder whether there will be a big enough footfall to justify the expense. They are clearly aiming at diners rather than drinkers – this was demonstrated by the lack of seating other than dining tables and also the lack of beer! – Only Hobgoblin available tonight along with a dubious ‘Keg’ version of Pedigree.

As we perched on our dining chairs, looking totally awkward and out of place, we decided to order a ‘bowl’ of chips each – at £1.50 per portion they seemed a fair price. What we actually got was half a dozen chips served in a coffee mug – I kid you not. Cyclists and nouveau-cuisine chips do not go together well. I wonder what the rest of the menu is like? - I imagine it will be lacking in quantity.

I think the overall opinion was that the pub was at least trying – and a couple of us described the place as being ‘nice’ I remain unconvinced however. Although I wouldn’t poo-poo a return visit, if I’m passing through on my own I’ll probably keep going.

Fantastic performance from Team GB cyclists....

It just keeps getting better.

Bradley Wiggins fulfilled his potential and his pre-race prediction to take Gold in the men's time trial - in the end it was an amazing performance, a display of perfectly paced cycling against the clock - he won by over 40 seconds, an amazing margin at this, elite, level. Chris Froome  joined Wiggo on the podium to take the bronze medal. Also on the road Lizzie Amistead took a hard earned silver in the Womens Road Race.

As the action moved to the intense, gladatorial atmosphere of the velodrome, once again we delivered. Sir Chris Hoy added another Gold to his already impressive collection with a convincing victory in the Men's team sprint. In the men's team pursuit we pulverised arch-enemies Australia, breaking the world record in the process. Then, another Gold, and another world record, in the women's team pursuit - plus Victoria Pendleton took gold in the Keirin and Ed Clancy took bronze in the Omnium.

There seems to be no stopping British cycling at the moment - we are dominant. And the talent keeps coming. The womens pursuit team - Joanna Rowsell, Danielle King and Laura Trott are aged 23, 21 and 20 - they're going to be around for a while! - its incredible that they have broken the world record (their own) for the past six times they have raced!!!

It goes to show that when the likes of Bradley Wiggins, Chris Hoy and Victoria Pendleton decide to ride into the sunset, worthy successors are in plentiful supply.

Can Wiggo get the Gold??...

At the end of the most surreal week of his life, no one could ever accuse Bradley Wiggins of not putting in one final, gut-wrenching shift to seal his seven life-changing days with a golden flourish.

 

But as he hung off his bike on The Mall, head down and looking utterly shattered by both the physical effort and dejection of failing to deliver for Mark Cavendish, Britain had to hope that after the time of his life, the three-time champion still has enough gas in the tank to launch his last bid for Olympic glory in today's time trial.

 

Wiggins had punched the air like Superman in Chartres at the climax to the time trial to celebrate his historic Tour de France triumph and all the way through to last Friday night when he was invited to ring the giant bell to launch the Games’ opening ceremony in the Olympic Stadium while wearing his 'maillot jaune', the fresh icon may have felt he was living in a weird wonderland that Danny Boyle had invented especially for him.

 

Even lining up on The Mall on Saturday, it must have felt bizarre to find himself on his bike chatting away to the Prince of Wales and the Duchess of Cornwall and then watching as they went over to chat to his mum Linda. Odder still? Just six days after he had stood on the Champs-Elysees hailed as the world’s greatest all-round cyclist, he then found himself effectively being asked to be a dogsbody for Cavendish around the Surrey hills.

 

Wiggins’s efforts did feel little short of heroic. Just as Cavendish had shuttled water bottles around the mountains for Wiggins’ benefit in the Tour, he returned the compliment on Box Hill, collecting bottles to deliver to the troops. He never stopped digging for his pal.

 

Then, long after the Tour runner-up Chris Froome had given up the ghost with 27km left and trailed home over 12 minutes behind, Wiggins was still motoring away with that monstrous engine trying to help Ian Stannard haul back the gap on the run-in to central London.

 

Only with about 5km left, looking spent and realising the game was up, did he finally began to stop trying and coasted home in 103rd place, a minute and 17 sec adrift.

 

Quite indefatigable, Wiggins has pooh-poohed the idea that such a massive effort might compromise his chances in the time trial but he did not have the same luxury of German world champion Tony Martin, who pulled out early to save his energy.

If Bradley Wiggins secures us our first Gold of the games today he will also become Britains most decorated Olympian - overshadowing Steve Redgrave - but can he do it?? - I'm hoping he can - the perfect close to a perfect, historic, record-breaking season. Allez Allez Wiggo!!!!!

Girl power!!!......

After the disappointment of the men's event, Britain's cyclists delivered the first home medal of the Games when Lizzie Armitstead finished second to the undisputed No.1 of women's cycling, Marianne Vos of the Netherlands in the women's road race. The pair, together with the Russian Olga Zabelinskaya, had held off the chasing field all the way from the foot of Box Hill to the doors of Buckingham Palace amid torrential rain and thunder on the Mall. 

Vos and Armitstead fought out the finish side by side, with the Yorkshirewoman perfectly positioned on Vos's wheel as the sprint began, but unable to find the strength to come past. After 25 miles fighting off the peloton at the end of the 80-mile race, with the gap never over a minute, this was a test of pure strength.

It was vindication for Armitstead nevertheless, who is aged 23, comes from Otley in Yorkshire and is a product of the Great Britain talent identification system. She finished last year's world road championship in Copenhagen in tears after a late crash cost her a possible medal, and had gambled on transferring her talents full-time to the road this year rather than trying for a medal in the team pursuit or the omnium on the track, where she made her initital breakthrough. 

As for Vos, she started the race as the overwhelming favourite and lived up to that status, with her team on the attack from the off to soften up the opposition. The Dutchwoman, a former speed skater, has built one the finest palmares in cycling, men or women's, winning gold medals across a wide range of disciplines: road, track and cyclo-cross. This was her second Olympic title after winning the points race in Beijing, and it is the climax of three seasons almost total domination of her sport.

The trio had escaped after the last climb of Box Hill with 40km to go to the Mall when Zabelinskaya went clear of the peloton on the smaller ascent at Headley, Emma Pooley initially gave chase before Vos made her move marked by Armitstead and Shelley Olds of the US. That set up an intense chase over the next 20km, with the German and Italian teams taking up the pursuit initially, but failing to bring the quartet under control.

Vos always looked the strongest of the four, with Olds giving way relatively early on, and Zabelinskaya visibly struggling, clearly unable to take a full turn at the pacemaking. But it was a brave effort from Lizzie and our first medal of the games - Well done girls!!

The dream is over for Cavendish...

What a bloody shame. After all the talk, the hype, the odds. After self-sacrifice at the Tour de France and with a four year old desire burning strong in his heart, Mark Cavendish's hopes of securing an Olympic medal were left on the narrow lanes of Box Hill last Saturday.

In the morning they had all but hung the medal around his neck. By afternoon Mark Cavendish had left The Mall, his Olympic dreams in tatters.

It had been a day of magnificent promise. The crowds were massive - over a million people was the estimate. Somewhere out on the 156 mile course Mark Cavendish lost his christian name and most of his surname - to everyone along the route he became, simply, Cav. The name was on the country's lips. Reports of the manners of rival supporters, of rival nations, all exuded grace. On the packed train to Box Hill people leapt to offer their seats to older people. One man even offered his seat to an Australian. But in the end, out on the road, there was cruel disappointment and talk that it was impossible to ride such a gruelling race back to back with The Tour de France.

Team GB seemed to be riding the perfect race, controlling the main peloton and appearing unruffled as splinter group after splinter group tried to break them. But behind the impassive faces the toll of providing all the work was beginning to take effect. No other country was prepared to share the hard miles - But why should they? - What would be the point of helping deliver the fastest man in the world to a sprint finish that would all but guarantee him gold?

The message was clear. Teams that could not deliver a gold medallist were intent on preventing Britain from doing so - leaving Cavendish frustrated and helpless.

But nevertheless it was an Olympic spectacle, and Box Hill was a superb vantage point. It had been subject to a fingertip search before the Olympics - not for the caches of terrorism, but for nesting and endangered species. There are two species that are clearly not endangered - the wonderful British sports fans and the great British cyclists.

Some thoughts on the Olympics...

So, just enough time to get our breath back from The Tour and the Olympics are upon us. To be honest, after the first couple of minutes of the opening ceremony I had my head in my hands. The sheep. The Maypole dancers. Kenneth Branagh. The eyes of the world were on Britain, and the world was thinking, "what the hell is this?" But then the twee vision of ye olde England was dramatically, and deliberately, brushed aside by the power and fury of the industrial revolution, and for the rest of the 2012 Olympics opening ceremony we scarcely had time to draw breath, never mind look back.


How to define Englishness, Britishness ... surely it is impossible to define. Danny Boyle managed to define it, in a madcap, eccentric and gloriously self-aware way. With the words “Good evening, Mr Bond” the Queen secured the monarchy for the next thousand years. Then there was David Beckham  - a man who has achieved many things in his sporting career. But no last minute free kick for England could ever have matched the iconography of him escorting the Olympic flame by speedboat down the river Thames. Cool Britannia has never, and never will be, cooler. The climax, the literal handing over of the flame to a new generation of Olympians, followed by the creation and ascension of the Olympic cauldron, bordered on the spiritual.


The NHS, gay kisses; the Sex Pistols, Mary Poppins, the Suffragette movement, it was bewildering enough, at times, to its domestic audience; abroad it must frequently have been plain incomprehensible. But we, in Britain, knew what it added up to, despite its baffling moments: it was Boyle's impassioned poem of praise to the country he would most like to believe in. One that is tolerant, multicultural, fair and gay friendly and holds the principles of the welfare state stoutly at its heart. One that is simultaneously silly and earnest, mainstream and subversive, "high" and "low" in its culture.


So what was projected, through this ceremony, of British artistic achievement? At the outset, it was all about the density of British literary brilliance. There was Shakespeare, of course, there was Blake. Tolkein was invoked through the manner in which that bucolic landscape gave way to industrial gloom, even if he was never explicitly referred to. Fleming had a double hit, with references to both James Bond and Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Carroll, JK Rowling and Barrie were there, the last ushering in the great celebration of free healthcare at the heart of the ceremony. The ceremony showcased Britain's dance landscape, with choreographic sequences, and TV and film got a look-in – aside from Boyle's slightly cheeky references to his own back catalogue, there were clips of those decidedly nonconformist British classics, Ken Loach's Kes and Gregory's Girl. Apart from the vaguely Samual Palmerish landscape of the opening scene, though, there was no visual art: no shades of JMW Turner (and no Hirst or Emin). Music, of course, was the other great element: the soundtrack triumphantly smacked down one classic British track after another, from Bowie to the Sex Pistols. Classical music got fairly short shrift: Nimrod, from Elgar's Enigma Variations, had its moment, and there was Jerusalem and Handel's Water Music, and several nods to Britain's choral tradition. The fact that Sir Simon Rattle was called upon to play a junior role to Rowan Atkinson's comic turn as he conducted the theme for Chariots of Fire seemed an eloquent enough remark on how marginal classical music really is in Britain today. It was also, however, part of the wit and comedy: this was surely the most joke-filled Olympics opening ceremony ever staged. After all, what else can a former imperial power do in its more or less dignified decline than have the good grace to laugh at itself? The Queen herself colluded in the national sport of humorous self-deprecation, and not even the most hardened republican could deny that she did it beautifully.


And in the end, the cauldron is not lit by a lone Olympian from the past, but by seven teenagers whose days of glory are surely yet to come. The torches ignite the copper petals; the petals in turn ignite the cauldron. It is a masterstoke, a dazzling end to a night of wonders and a glorious salute to the democratic spirit of Olympics; enshrining these games as a collective endeavour and a celebration of emerging talent.


And all at once the cauldron is blazing and the games have begun.

Arise Sir Bradley.....

Bradley Wiggins is the Tour de France winner - and he deserved every drop of the champagne, traditionally offered, upon his entry into Paris. But he didn't have time to take too many sips as he worked relentlessly to deliver his team mate Mark Cavendish into a position from which he could sprint to a final victory on this last stage of a historic 2012 Tour. What excitement, a fitting finale to a thoroughly enjoyable and of course memorable Tour.

Cavendish has seen his ambitions somewhat dampened in this years Tour - his usual fistful of stage wins have been reduced dramatically to only two up until today. We have seen him carrying water bottles, stuffed up his shirt, to his team mates in the peloton, working as a 'domestique' rather than a coveted star sprinter and world champion. It's like having Wayne Rooney in the team and playing him in goal. But today Mark looked good - in fact the whole of the Sky team looked fantastic, dominant and all conquering. I thought for a moment that they would be unable to reel in the breakaway, but as the tempo picked up and Brad took his turn at the front of the peloton and wound up the pace it really was an emotional moment.

Sky were looking at fulfilling a dream this year - a dream that has resulted in history being made -Victory in the Tour de France for a British rider. Already the pundits are announcing that this is the singular most important achievement by a British sportsman - ever!

And, if having won the Tour, Bradley Wiggins goes on to add more gold medals to his already considerable collection at the Olympics, he will deserve a place in the House of Lords not just a simple knighthood.

Bradley Wiggins leads out Mark Cavendish on the final stage

Bradley Wiggins - Tour de France winner....

As Bradley Wiggins crossed the finish line to win the final time trial in Chartes yesterday, the victory confirmed him as the first British rider to win the Tour de France, the toughest sporting event in the world - first held in 1903 it has long been thought that no one from these shores could ever manage the feat. Indeed, no Briton has even stood on the podium before, and now it looks a certainty that today we will see a British one-two and hopefully Mark Cavendish will take the final stage on the Champs Elysees to seal a historic hat-trick.

Wiggins winning margin of 1 minute 16 seconds on the penultimate day was a dazzling display of power and concentration - the emotion as he crossed the line punching the air was palpable as was his post stage press conference. "I'm just Bradley Wiggins" he said "I've dreamt of winning the tour since I was a kid, but growing up in London you never imagine you can do it"

He made it look so easy, carving through the French countryside at an average speed in excess of 30mph - Anybody watching might think - "I could do that" - have a go, it's hard!

Time trials are about maintaining a constant pace, like a continuous hum. But they are also about pain, an agonising heat that you feel in your stomach, a burning that affects your breathing. You get into a rhythm, and when the pain comes, you tunnel into it, exploring it to the bitter end. What with the discomfort and the heat some riders cross the finish line and throw themselves to the floor, it's all part of the same ache. From top to bottom, front to back you need to gather the pain into a small ball that spins around in your mind until the time trial is over. Pain in your muscles, a burning in the sole of your feet, an aching in the wrists, a stabbing in the neck from holding the head in one position. There isn't a second to relax or stretch or move your hands. You have to go on, and on, in the same position. If you need to spit it has to be done by twisting the mouth sideways to avoid moving the head. You fix your eyes on an arbitrary landmark - a tree, a point on a bend, and say Until I get there I'm not going to change position. And before you get there you fix to another point....

Well done Bradley - we're all proud of your achievement!

The Swan Inn, Milton

Once again our Beer ride was threatened by the prospect of dreary, wet weather. All day I kept an eye on the clouds - mid morning it was looking very doubtful as the heavens opened, it tipped down with the force of a waterfall, swiftly followed by a bout of thunder and lightening - I figured that was it; we wouldn't be riding, another night lost. But as the afternoon arrived things brightened up. The sky cleared, the sun made a welcome appearance and suddenly everything looked good.

I got to Gary's a little later than I had intended, Paul from across the road was riding as well and we duly set off heading for Overseal. No time to make the trip to Burton so we'd have to make our own way to tonights venue - The Swan Inn at Milton, Derbyshire.

As usual we made speedy progress, Gary led the way up Gunby Hill and then down to Overseal, across the crossroads and the steady pull up towards Woodville - this route requires some effort!

We crossed the busy roundabout at Woodville and headed towards Hartshorne, taking the left hand turn  onto the Repton Road, a winding, undulating road scattered with flood debris and plenty of potholes. But this was the best part of the ride; rolling green fields and fresh fragrant pine trees, the sunlight catching the rain particles caught on the leaves so that they shone like diamonds.

We arrived at the pub at around 8.00pm - the contingent travelling from Burton were already there. We added our bikes to the burgeoning pile and made for the bar.

The Swan - Milton

The Swan is the only pub in the village of Milton. It's a pleasant enough building, typically pubby, with a large garden area at the rear. There's a restaurant which doubles up as a cafe in the daytime and we pass through a corridor which leads us to the bar. It's a homely place - and what I mean is, it's like being in someone's home. Someones home from the late 50's/early 60's possibly. It has a vague, lost feeling, it's as if we're in a time warp, its 'Darling Buds of May' meets James Herriot with a touch of Summer Wine... with a landlord who bore a passable resemblance to Amos Brearley from Emmerdale. There's a curry night on Mondays, a few random bits of Railway memorabilia and an upcoming concert in the garden featuring Paul (Wherever I lay my hat) Young, what on earth is he doing playing out here I wonder?

The beers tonight were a choice of Doom Bar, Worthington E, or a Dark, black beer that I can't recall the name of. Also there was draught Cobra, Cider and a couple of Lagers. We started with a couple of Doom Bars - I thought it was okay, Gary didn't like it - too sweet. We had three pints to make sure and then it was time to make a move - Chips!

A mile or two down the road is Repton - and the famous Public School. The school was used for the filming of the original version of 'Goodbye Mr Chips' - so it was fitting that we made a visit to the village chippy - 'Goodbuy Mr Chips' - I found the chips a bit greasy, not up to the usual standard, but nevertheless welcome, more so because I hadn't eaten since lunchtime. We sheltered in the chip shop as another vicious rainstorm passed over. By now it was getting dark, already it is noticeable that the nights are beginning to draw in.

We set off for home leaving the majority to head back towards Burton. We pushed hard again, fuelled by the beer and chips and the ride back seemed easier than the one coming.

Overall it was another good mid-week beer ride - 24 miles or so and home relatively dry.

Bradley will make it.....

It is more or less certain now - barring an accident Bradley Wiggins will become the first Englishman to win The Tour de France this coming Sunday in Paris. I was thinking of making the trip over there, to witness it all first hand, soak up the atmosphere, get close to the action..... then I noticed the prices for getting to Paris on Sunday have trebled at least - and anyway, cycling is a sport that works much better on TV.

But what of Chris Froome - he's playing second fiddle to Brad for now but his future ambitions must be to be the leading man. There was the much discussed incident on the climb to La Toussuire last Thursday, when he seemed to prove himself a stronger climber than Bradley until he heeded his sporting director's instruction to slow down, he is, of course, riding to orders to help ensure that his team leader becomes the first British rider to win the Tour. It seems a certainty that Froome will win the Tour one day - and it would be nice to think that if he does, Wiggins will be there helping and supporting him all the way.

Froome is a steely rider "I like to fight alone," he said, referring to his fondness for the solitary effort of time trialling and for the pleasure of riding in the mountains – the two disciplines in which he excels. Even more significant may have been his description of the decision to live in Italy when he was racing for the Barloworld team, to make it easier for his girlfriend to travel to her job in Milan. After they broke up, he told himself: "Now the only thing I'm going to think about is my career as a rider." Team Sky's strategy this month, which has roots going back four years, is to maximise Wiggins's talents and minimise his weaknesses in order to put him on the top step of the podium in Paris next Sunday. It did not work in 2010, Sky's debut season, when his form and the team's naivety combined to destroy the hopes that had been raised by his fourth-place finish for the Garmin team the previous year, and 12 months later an early crash removed him from contention.

This year the 32-year-old triple Olympic champion has a handpicked squad, only slightly compromised by the need to give Mark Cavendish, the team's big winter signing, the chance to mount a token defence of the green jersey while wearing the world champion's rainbow stripes and to attempt a fifth consecutive win on the Champs-Elysées next Sunday. But the wild card, as it turns out, is Froome, who signed for the team in 2010 but is only now making his first appearance in the Tour for the team, having made his debut with Barloworld in 2008.

Although planned down to the minutest detail, what the team's strategy for this year's race cannot account for is the sort of unexpected change that so often happens in the Tour. In a three-week stage race a rider's form, no matter how carefully monitored in the months before the Tour, can suddenly hit a wall. There is also the possibility that the kind of incident that took Wiggins out of the race 12 months ago could repeat itself. Or stages requiring different gifts can expose inherent failings. Wiggins is currently 2min 5sec ahead of Froome, who sits just behind him in the general classification, and the Sky leader can expect to take a further two minutes out of his principal rivals – Cadel Evans and Vincenzo Nibali – in Saturday's penultimate stage, a 53.5km time trial in which the final order will be determined before the ceremonial procession into Paris.

Now that the final mountain stages of the High Pyrenees are out of the way Cadel Evans has waved the Tour goodbye and Nibali has lost further time - it's all over bar the time trial.

For the moment Sky are perfectly placed with their leader and his first lieutenant at the top of the standings heading into the last few days. And orders are orders. But watch out next year - I expect Froome to be demanding a chance of the glory.

The Dog......

It's been a couple of weeks since the last 'beer' ride - the weather just hasn't been kind enough for me to make the effort - a poor excuse but that's how it is. This week, a random day of sunshine caught in the intestines of incessant rainfall, like trapped wind, meant that an evening ride was at last possible. My working arrangements of late mean it is too much of a rush to make the arranged rendezvous point in Burton on Trent. Instead I am faced with a solo effort through the leafy lanes of Leicestershire, Warwickshire, Derbyshire and finally into Staffordshire and the destination for the evening... Whittington - the entire ride made into a wearing headwind that made me decidedly miserable. On top of that it felt cold, and I was overtaken by a girl.

I got to the pub, The Dog Inn, at around 8.15pm - there were a few bikes chained up in the garden, I added mine to the pile and headed indoors. Norman, Tim, Ken and Richard were all there, about halfway down a pint glass. "Don't mention the Tour" were the first words to greet me from Richard. Apparently Norman had recorded the days stage but hadn't watched it - he didn't want to find out that Bradley Wiggins had retained Yellow and was looking increasingly likely to make history later this month.

The Dog

The Dog Inn at Whittington is not a pub I could ever enjoy, a soulless, tedious and unispired place with cloudy beer (Black Sheep) that tasted past its best. Not many people there, always a bad sign, the bar staff seemed preoccupied, it all seemed like too much of an effort. It's one of those new-fangled restaurant style pubs really, a confused, stuttering statement of pubby nostalgia and pretentious gastronomy. But it doesn't hit the mark, not by a long shot.

The main group from Burton arrived at about 8.30 - there were loud hushes as Gary started talking about Bradley's performance in the Tour. By now there were eight of us. There should have been nine but Graham - who looks like 'Suggs' from Madness, had suffered a broken spoke and went home to change bikes. Gary told us that on the way to the pub they had approached a group of young women on the canal bridge - a couple of them pulled down their trousers revealing their pants - and shouted out to Pete "Nice legs". This struck me as a bizarre incident. Women revealing their undergarments on canal bridges to passing cyclists must be quite rare. And Pete's legs are over 70 years old.

Suggs turned up in the end - he really does look like him - and he has a Madness tribute act to prove it. Upon arrival he spent an inordinate amount of time at the bar , it transpired he was ordering food - He came back to our table with a big smiley face "I'm having a proper chip butty" he said.

Chips have become a necessary factor on these bike rides - in fact they are almost essential to stoke up the boilers for a speedy return trip. Gary, Barry and I decided to join Suggs - we raced to the bar to place our order - £4.25 for a proper chip butty, a bit steep, but, we were assured, these were proper.

Alas, what arrived was far from proper. A big bundle of lettuce leaves filled the plate, artificially inflating the presence of the main event - the chip butty was a couple of pieces of sliced bread but no butter (how can a chip butty be so described without butter?) The chips were tasteless, scorchingly hot, no salt, no vinegar, no ketchup, but instead a vase-like recepticle of mayonaisse - it was all very dissapointing - by far the worst bike riding supper I've ever had. Nevertheless we wolfed it down.

The ride back started off cold - and dark. Gary and I headed to Fisherwick, up to Elford then Harlaston, Haunton, Clifton Campville and up the hill to Netherseal. The wind was behind us and we moved along at a reasonable pace. After leaving Gary I had a further 13 miles or so to go. By now it was proper dark - and I mean proper, unlike the chip butty.

I was home by about 11.30pm - 48 miles covered. Not bad for a Wednesday evening.

Bradley does the business....

Come on Brad!!! - All the pre-tour build up and hype seems justified now, Bradley has the yellow jersey, almost two minutes ahead of Cadel Evans - and he gave a blisteringly perfect performance on the time-trial stage yesterday.

However, as is sometimes typical with Brits doing well in sporting events, the press always look for a negative. The heckles, in the form of poisonous, abusive and anonymous tweets have been arriving since Wiggins looks like the dominant force in this years race. At Monday's press conference, when Brad had taken the yellow jersey for the first time, he was provoked by tweets comparing the Sky squad to that of the USA Postal Team, whose leader Lance Armstrong is currently at the centre of an alleged doping scandal - the inference clearly suggested that Tour riders are drug takers.

Bradley's response was an expletive laden rant "I say they are just fu**ing wa**ers, I cannot be doing with people like that, it justifies their own bone-idleness because they can't ever imagine applying themselves to do anything in their lives. It's easy for them to sit under a pseudonym on twitter and write that sort of sh*t, rather than get off their arses in their own lives and apply themselves and work hard at something and achieve something. And that's ultimately it. Cu*ts.

His outburst was, ultimately, heartfelt, reactive and understandable. Here is a rider who has sacrificed a lot for his sport. An Olympic champion who's dream, from when he was a young boy, was to win the Tour. I don't blame him - in fact his response received a round of applause. The sceptics should put up or shut up - cycling is cleaner than ever - the most tested sport in the world, let's major on that and relish the thought of a British rider winning the Tour de France - for the first time ever.

More floods.....

Rain continues to dominate the weather - there is a lot of flooding around here, lanes are blocked and there is general disruption to travel and outdoor events. I went out this morning in sunshine, but the effects of so much rain over the last few days is all around. I came to a halt facing a dirty brown sea that used to be the road to Congerstone. I stood for a few minutes trying to work out how far it went (it disappeared around the corner) and how deep it was. Then I saw two cyclists heading towards me pushing through the water and creating a wake as they did. As they turned the pedals, each revolution meant that their feet went under the water - "Should have come out in my canoe" said one of them as they dripped past me.

It was my turn now, the first few yards were ok - then the water deepened and quickly my feet were soaked too. At least it is a warm bright morning, I figured it wouldn't take long to dry out. I headed out towards Market Bosworth and then through Cadeby and Sutton Cheney taking the left hand turn up over the canal bridge to Daddlington and on then to Stoke Golding. My mission, in addition to just riding my bike, was to check out the village fete at Stoke Golding - there was a line up of local musicians/bands advertised and the usual fete-type attractions. When I arrived at the field there was the obligatory pasted-up notice " Event Cancelled" - I thought that would be the inevitable outcome, the land is totally saturated, add people and vehicles and it would quickly turn to a quagmire.

I carried on a circular route, passing a few cyclists and generally trying to push on. The verges are rich, thick and lush, there are flowers bursting with bright colour and swollen from rain. I pass a large Elder tree, its branches heavy with blossom and weighted by rain, bend towards the ground. The rain starts falling again and I seek shelter by keeping close to the high banks - clouds skud swiftly across the sky framed by the branches of overhanging bushes. The rain beats against the trees like waves against the shore, the warmth though, is such that the there is an overwhelming feeling of freshness, clean, bright and new. This is rain to savour and enjoy - I feel happy, I look up and let the rain into my eyes and over my face, it is totally invigorating and not at all unpleasant. Soon the shower stops and the heat of the sun and the gentle breeze quickly dries me. A large brown butterfly flies past; fast and erratic in flight, it races past me. I follow its progress and contemplate why it does not collide with anything? - it flies as though drunk. It is a painted lady, an array of dark, rich bars and creamy spots. The wind behind me blows up in a sudden strong gust. At first I think it is a vehicle approaching, I even look round to check. It is the type of wind that builds up, sweeping me along and screeching like a train. Another gust approaches - I hear it long before I feel it. The blast releases the scent of pines which hangs like an unseen phantom, I listen and breathe in the fresh aroma that sweeps around me.

Although there's much to moan and grump about this summer, there is also beauty and rich rewards for those who dare to venture out to look.

The Queens Head - Newton Regis

With France a fading memory, the cold, wet roads of North Warwickshire made an unwelcome return to our cycling schedule for the beer ride. I was running late and opted to meet the peloton at Clifton Campville, it was an impressive turn out. Norman, Baz, Paul from across the road, Pete, Ian on his Brompton, another chap I hadn't seen before and Ken. We cycled up to Thorpe Constantine, then across the usually busy Ashby Road to Seckington and from there an easy saunter to Newton Regis.

The duck pond - Newton Regis

Newton was the northernmost village in Warwickshire when it became a Royal Manor of King Henry II in 1159. It was privileged to take the title of 'Regis' and the estate was granted to Geoffrey Savage and his heirs. Like many villages Newton Regis has lost its range of 'trades' - a century ago there was a shoemaker, a tailor, carpenters, wheelwrights, bakers, butchers and a grocer - all with apprentices. Today all are long gone. and the village dozes around its duck pond with the Queens Head sitting slightly back from the road.

It seems a pleasant enough pub, low, beamed ceilings, a fireplace, locals dotted around the tables and a few people eating. There was an interesting poster advertising 'Pie Night' and also a Quiz Evening.
Beer was just OK - nothing special really and not a great choice. We opted for Timothy Taylor 'Landlord'.

The Queens Head

I brought back some pieces of stone that I'd gathered from around the Tom Simpson Memorial on Mont Ventoux - I handed these out to those who were interested and Gary and I told our tale. There was another rider there who met us at the pub - We see him rarely, maybe once or twice a year, but he too had ridden up the Ventoux. In fact he has ridden up most of the Alpine mountains, and completed the fabled 'Marmotte' Sportive - probably the hardest bike ride in Europe or even the World. The route is 174Km and features over 5180metre of climbing over the Col du Glandon, Col du Telegraphe, Col du Galibiers and then finishes on top of the most famous Tour de France climb, Alpe d'Huez. Oh, and he's also climbed the Matterhorn and been up the foothills of Everest. Suddenly our efforts seemed unimpressive.

After three pints and a bag of crisps we were on our way home. The light was fading by now and with a long ride ahead, lights were needed. I split off from the main group and made my way home via Austrey, up the sharp uphill stretch past the radio mast towards Appleby Magna and then out to Snarestone, Shackerstone, Congerstone and home, I made it back well before midnight which was pleasing - and I certainly slept well that night.

Can it be done?.....

Today sees the start of the Tour de France and this year could see a piece of history being written. Bradley Wiggins has a realistic chance of becoming Britain's first Tour winner.

After victories in the Paris-Nice, The Tour de Romandie and the Criterium du Dauphine stage races this year, Wiggins appears to be on top form. Plus he's a time trial specialist - and there is around 100km of time trialling in this years Tour - the omens are good - if he can avoid crashes he must be in with a great chance.

Really looking forward to seeing how it all turns out!

Good luck Brad and the Sky team!!!

A week in Provence.... part 5

It's the light really, the endless hot-bright sunlight - that's what I'll remember most about this trip. The Provencal light is intense, a blessing, a beneficience. People stare out of their windows from lonely rooms or perched on quiet balconies and are baptised by an almost celestial light. Light is a solid thing here, an emotion, the sunlight blesses all and everything equally and the vines reward those who are happy to sit and wait, and the olive and cherry trees too. The sun scrubs the land here, bleaching it and drying it, creating clean, flat panes - it is the unequivocal good. And yet there's still plenty of green, faded, muted and understated compared to our rich meadows but green nevertheless.

We took a day trip to Avignon to wonder at the Palace of the Popes and walk 'sur le pont' - it's a bustling, cosmopolitan city housed in a big medieval village. The atmosphere is thick with history and adventure and there were lots of accordion players. Ah, now I remember what France is famous for. The most stressful thing in the entire world is to be shut in a room with a questing French accordionist. I watched a great gypsy accordionist press his way through the tables of tourists. He circled a hapless Japanese couple. They shrank in terror and numb incomprehension as his nut brown, oiled face, with its slick black pate and golden grin, loomed over them. He winked a terrifyingly dull eye that rolled back in his head and with one fluid movement, too fast to decipher, he was among them with Sweet Georgia Brown. It was calculated, a virtuoso performance. Piercing notes of psychotic dexterity, wringing screaming tremolos and monumental vibratos from every riff. The air was filled with sentimentality. There is no known defence against an adult male gypsy accordionist in an enclosed space: in the streets of Avignon there is no one to save you.

Paul & Gaz in the Gorge

We decided we'd have another ride before coming home. Gary had heard about a 'Gorge' - we found quite a few on the map and decided we'd give the nearest one a try. We saddled up just outside Sault heading in a vague direction towards Bedoin. There was maybe few kilometres of uphill but then the most enchanting drop down through The Gorge of Nesque. Probably 20km of exhilerating, twisting descent with craggy precipitous rocks to one side and a deep, deep drop on the other. This is exceptional landscape, a wild canyon with tunnels carved through rock and the heady scent of lavender filling the air. The gnarled peaks may be small in size, but in presence and spirit they are huge. They dominate the local landscape and constantly draw the eye. The contrast of their hard cragginess with the flat fertile lands of the valley makes a visual delight. Though in reality their form is fixed, the rocks are tricky shape-shifters, their profiles altering almost unrecognisably when viewed from different places on the road and their colours, billowing towers of rose and apricot changing with the light and shade. The whole thing makes you wonder what God might have managed if he hadn't rushed to get the job done in a week. Nature is natural here - meticulous and endlessly captivating.

With our mood and spirits leavened we made our way slowly back to Bedoin and the promise of another alfresco dining masterpiece. I have to say that the most enjoyable food of the entire trip was the simple, rustic fare we prepared ourselves and eat, sitting in the warm evening sun, at the villa. Olives, sun-dried tomatoes, bread, garlic, ham, cheese - simple, unprocessed, wholesome food. It was much more edyfying than some of the 'restaurant' offerings we saw, of which the laminated menu sheets told the dull story.

We had a great time in the south of France - I don't often feel the need to return to places i've visited on holiday, except for a few, rare exceptions - Provence may be one of those.

A week in Provence.... part 4 - Mont Ventoux

Like all great journeys, trysts, campaigns and fresh starts, our task on Sunday morning began at dawn. I didn't sleep well. I had woken a couple of times through the night. In the end I got up, dressed and went outside to check over the bike. The weather drifted out of the sky like paint dripped into a glass of water, opaque filigree swathes and fretted blots whitening out the miraculous landscape. The mountain, Mont Ventoux was just there, beside me, staring down, a 6,273ft lump, its peak hidden by a veil of nebulous vapour. I wouldn’t fancy going up in a car - let alone on a bike. - it is shocking, stupendous, formidable. and confrontational - it just stands there, towering upwards, the king of all it surveys. In the early morning dawn there is a ghostly feel, clicking cicadas and a feint sound of traffic. I feel a slight keening apprehension that sends a shiver through me. As the light grows stronger the thick creamy clouds that lie peacefully over the mountain begin to fade. The peak begins to show and sharpen, the radio mast catches the sun and radiates like a bright white beacon.

Gary appears. His bike has a flat tyre - a bad omen maybe? Quickly it is fixed and we check our supplies. Three water bottles each, one on the bike and two each in the car. We will be followed up the mountain by our 'support team' for the ride. Their job is to take photos, shout encouragement, carry spare parts and water bottles, and offer a quick exit should we fail.

About to start

At 9.00am we make our way down the track to the main road, pushing our bikes over the rough, broken ground. Like new recruits going up the line to the Somme we have no idea what really lies ahead - but riding this mountain is obligatory for any serious student of the alchemy of suffering on a bicycle.

We cycle down to Bedoin, already there are cyclists buzzing around, warming up, meeting friends, sitting drinking coffee. We pass a large group all with numbers attached to their bikes, some sort of race perhaps, they look fit. I shout to Gary that they will be passing us soon. The first few kilometres are relatively easy, a 2-3% gradient past vineyards and green fields. Then the road gradually ramps upwards, still reasonably comfortable though, I resist the urge to shout to Gary that this is okay... somewhere within me I can feel something is about to change. We swing left to Les Baux and Sainte Columbe there is a sudden steep section, this feels more like it - we're on the mountain now, there is the distinct clunk of gears shifting, chains scraping to find the teeth of larger cogs, we've slowed down now and the road is distinctively upwards. As far as cycling goes and mountains in particular, this is the great, grey daddy of mountains, the last Alpine mountain ridge before the Rhone plain and one of the toughest climbs in France. It dominates the landscape and constantly draws the eye. The road twists and turns in gradual curves we push up to each corner only to be faced with further, relentless, uphill road. There can be no talking now, every frantic breath falls short of its intended purpose, it's hot, we're sweating, pressing and pushing ever upwards. The gradient is 9 and 10% for the next 9 kilometres or so - there is nothing we could have done in England to prepare for this - it is unforgiving, relentless torture.

Through the tree section

After about 12K we stop - We both have mouths like the Kalahari desert and find it impossible to drink while desperately trying to breath and keep the bikes moving. My ears have popped a couple of times with the altitude and the small wooded glade with a couple of picnic benches on the right seems like a good place to take a breather. Gary is somewhere behind - by the time he reaches me I have regained some composure - he approaches me with glazed fish-like eyes, the bilious green hue of his complexion and the waxed sheen of his brow testament to the effort so far. We take on some water and then something strange happened. I suddenly felt incredibly dizzy. I sat down at one of the picnic benches, I was light-headed, my face felt clammy, I felt cold.... for a moment I thought I would pass out. I checked my pulse, it was fine, low if anything and my breathing was okay. But I was convinced this was the end of the ride for me - I wouldn't risk continuing feeling like this - in my mind I could see the grainy black and white footage of Tom Simpson crawling up the Ventoux in July 1967 - he died on this mountain. Mountains command respect. Take mountains seriously - if you don’t they will take you. That is serious.

Then, within a couple of minutes I felt okay again, the dizziness had passed, I sat for a few minutes longer and sipped at my water bottle. I decided I'd carry on and see how I felt back on the road. The team car was with us now and help was close if I needed it. So onwards and further upwards. Getting the bike moving again on these gradients is tricky - it requires effort and energy, clipping in to pedal cleats adds to the problem and causes frustration and anxiety - but we managed. Now the climbing continued, brutal and unremitting, the heat and thin air combining to make the effort harder still, every pedal turn is a slow struggle by now and we teeter as each revolution threatens to be the last. I see the team car up ahead but don't feel like stopping - I have a rhythm, its slow, but I feel like carrying on. Gary stops and is approached by a rider who turns out to be German, Gary offered a salutory "How are you doing?" to which the German replied "F**king mountain..."

The Dutchman

The silver-bright sun was fierce now, upwards we climbed through conifer groves balmy with resin and sun-roasted pine cones. It was extraordinary just how many cyclists, walkers and runners were out there that day. There were also a fair number of motorcylists and we saw a procession of old 60's Mini's - looking like an outtake from The Italian Job. There was a Dutch guy who seemed to be climbing up at about the same speed as me, except he was riding a contraption that looked like a big scooter combined with a stepping machine - he had a number on his shirt so I suspect he was one of the group we saw way back in Bedoin. It looked hard work on his 'stepper' each of his thigh muscles looked like a baby hippopotamus stuffed into his shorts.

As I soldiered on I spotted a curve to the left up ahead, the apex looked like it flattened out for about 6 feet - I decided to stop for a drink, figuring that I would at least be able to get started again. Of course it wasn't flat at all, just less steep, I snorted and cursed as my feet slipped off the cleats and I struggled to regain momentum. Just around the corner though was a welcome sight - We pass out of the tree-lined wooded area and approach The Chalet Reynard, at about 1400 metres high. This is a ski resort and the ski lift is open at this time of year taking mountain bikers up the mountain and enabling them to hurtle down again. It was tempting to think of hitching a lift. We stopped at the cafe for a well earned break, Coffee, then another - Gary had 6 spoons of sugar in his "For energy". They were selling some good quality cycling clothing in the shop and we decided we'd perhaps drive back on another day to buy something to remind us of what this climb had been like.

The Chalet Reynard - a welcome rest!

There were a group of walkers making there way up to the summit, one of them shouted over "No doping" - Gary replied "Have you got anything?" We all laughed. It's understandable why cycle racing has for so long been a sport that has relied on stimulants. When I think that a Tour de France rider would ride up this mountain in just over an hour, having already climbed one or two equally tough mountains, and then do the same again tomorrow and the next day.... 21 days in total for The Tour, how else could they do it?

I felt gruesome, dogged by a chilling sense that i’m not going to make it - I remembered reading that many great climbers ride the mountains quickly - because the sooner they reach the summit, the sooner the agony stops. But the thing about riding a mountain like this, the main thing, is that it seems to take forever. We set off again with about 6 or 7 kilometres to go to the summit - the road is immediately steep. We're soon puffing and panting again, this is by far the longest continually rising road I have ever seen. I just have to keep pressing on the pedals, romancing about what the rider in a long, lone break must feel like.  By now we are reaching into physical and mental reserves that we didn't know existed. We're riding on the edge, on the limit of what we are capable of - there's a great feeling of eventual euphoria and impending collapse. The road just seems to go on and on - marked with yellow and black snow poles. It is stark up here now, the landscape is littered with a moonscape of bright, white limestone. It is an unremitting, gut-wrenching, demoralising slog.

The Simpson memorial

And then, perched up on the slope to our right, just off the road, is something I knew we'd see. A granite monument on which is cut, in relief, a polished image of a cyclist hunched over his bike riding at speed. This is the permanent memorial to Tom Simpson who famously lost his life at this spot on 13th July 1967. I stop and climb the steps for a closer look - there are two or three cyclists there and I take photo's using their phones and camera's, there is no need for conversation, I have no idea what nationality they were. Scattered in front and around the memorial is a wrack of dried flowers, various club badges, bits of tyre - like exotic flotsam washed up on a rising tide.

Gary joins me and we toil on exhaustedly, entering the existential phenomenon know to most cyclists: The 'what possessed me to do this' syndrome. The sun is burning and yet it feels cool up high, my wheels won't move... are my brakes binding? The air is thin, not enough oxygen, every particle of my body is being stretched, pounded, pushed and shoved along these last kilometres. I feel like I could be overtaken by snails, it nearly finishes me, it is cruel to a power beyond rational grasp, I desperately cling on, literally clinging on.....

Gary on the final push

At last I see the radio mast and station ahead - just a few more bends to go, I hope my tortured lungs and feeble legs will hold out - surely they will... slowly I edged upwards by now slightly exhilerated by the sheer adventure of it culminating in a fantastic salvo of strength and buoyant energy. And then at last I'm at the summit - and with it a most palpable feeling of relief. I feel grateful that the end has come it is incredible that so many kilometres took so long to disappear under our wheels - but now we’re at the line where up turns to down. Gary is behind me - I am sure I could hear him before I saw him, the clacking wheezing sound of a broken accordion heralding his arrival. But here we were - we'd done it! - and when at last we reached the top all time slips away into an airy vastness as we survey the valley below. It is a transcendent experience, a link between physical and mental triumph and a wonderous exaltation of the spirits.

There are people out there, aliens, sadists, inhuman who will ride this terrain none stop for maybe 100 hours - I am in no haste to join them - if I am to suffer a serious bodily and mental abuse on the bike then I also insist on ample social recovery time. In this case that will involve wine and cheese. Talking about a route is a bit like talking about sex. Fanciful, prone to exaggeration and a long way from the real thing. This was a vicious, nasty ride. The mountain eats away at you like a rash, the gradients worm their way relentlessly up between your lungs and your sense of humour. This knocked the stuffing out of us. We needed wine to quell the latent agony.


Now it was all over, in a foaming lather of sweat, tears and schmaltz we hugged each other and surveyed the view. Gary summed it up "That was the hardest thing I've ever done"

a view from the top

Made it!!

Well done!!!