don’t blame dave

don’t blame dave

If it’s too good to be true. It probably is. I had 3 rides planned on consecutive days. My crankset fell apart in mile 1 of ride 1. Following the Fancy Bears’ TUE hack the wheels have fallen off the Team SKY Deathstar.

STOP. It’s easy for us to get on the moral high ground. What would we do? Professional cycling is cut throat. It always has been. Read any history of the Tour de France. Without so much money in the form of advertising at stake, then the decision to bend the rules wouldn’t be so inevitable.

Why are we surprised?

Sir David Brailsford (then just plain Dave) after convincing his financial backers (SKY) that they would profit richly from a CLEAN British Rider winning the Tour de France for the 1st time had to deliver. Once Sir Dave got under the skin, immersed himself in the world of professional road cycling did he find it opaque, dirty, tawdry? Tough. He had to be successful. You think Rupert Murdoch would allow for anything else?

I don’t know the ins and outs of professional cycling. It’s a guess, having sold the Clean Team Dream Sir Dave had a choice – WIN with:

A) a clean team;

B) an unclean team;

C) a team that rode unclean legally.

We know he chose ‘C’ and called it Marginal Gains. He talked bespoke mattresses for riders and cooling down on rollers post-race he didn’t talk about the use of banned steroids with an accompanying TUE. He didn’t make the rules and he didn’t break the rules.

He did make the choice to take the ethically questionable option, the one that when it inevitably comes out looks dodgy, doesn’t feel right, undermines the Team SKY brand. That will hurt Sir Dave the most. He’s talked about Team SKY being a brand as recognizable as Barcelona FC. He’s not there yet as Teflon brands like Barcelona FC shake off the mud. The Team SKY brand is badly tainted. Less for the usage of PEDs more for their cyclical actions and hypocritical rhetoric.

I don’t blame Sir Dave. I don’t blame the spectators. Race Organisers create sensational parcours – 2 ascents of Alpe D’Huez twice in 1 day – to attract mega global TV audiences for the advertisers that bankroll the sport. They raise the stakes. They make professional cycling win at all costs. Whatever the price. The irony is that when the inconvenient PED truth comes out the brand premium of all involved in cycling is eroded.

How to stop drugs in sport? Stop watching. Get out and ride. (With or without a Doctors Note).

cycling the less obvious

The world faces many problems and believe it or not, cycling cannot solve them all.  UK Government policy regarding cycling is focused on keeping cyclists safe, which is a good thing of course but does seem to generate negative tension between cyclists and the rest of the human race. How to solve that?

A good start would be to make more humans cyclists?  Why would you want to do that? This maybe tenuous, scientifically unproven but a human that cycles is a happier human. Why?  Scientific research has probably proven that they’re fitter, healthier, explore more, socialize more, have more fun.

Don’t believe me?  Don’t see the benefits to the human race? With 1 case study I can’t prove it but here’s a great cycling story to warm the heart of cycling humans and maybe some that don’t.

My 65-year-old father clocks up more mileage in a week on his bicycle than I do. I have to take his word for it as he doesn’t know how to use the Garmin bike computer I gave him to record his rides. And there you have it, the old boy rides his bike for fun and the social life not PBs and post ride analysis.  It wasn’t always this way. His early retirement was spent buying stuff he didn’t need from LiDL, being nagged around the house by mother and itching to open the bottle of wine at 11am in the morning.

Maybe it was being an enthusiastic (if rarely in the right place) support driver for the Bicycle Moaning Collective’s forays into Europe or simply fed up with being trapped in the house and made to do mundane chores, whatever the reason he joined his local Cycling Touring Club.  Now he’s out on his bike 2 days a week and at the weekend with his new bike friends, or ‘old farts’ as they affectionately refer to themselves.

As far as I can tell the routes for their rides are largely dictated by the locations of coffee shops and pubs and with no time commitments, why shouldn’t they be? They navigate by vague memory and something called a ‘map’. They don’t dream of carbon race bikes or shaving off weight with a carbon seat post. No, they want steel Audax style bikes with a triple although according to Dad, his NBFF*‘Old Charley-boy’, who’s 80 has built his own frame and says you only ever need a single speed and he’s officially the fastest up ‘what’s-its name hill’ in the whole County!

That’s all well and good.  Yes, my father is looking healthier and fitter than he has done for years, in less than 12 months the transformation in the old boy is astonishing, he’s lost weight, drinks less (well starts later in the day). The best bit is that I don’t have to listen to the him telling me about the deal of the week at LiDL, instead he is brimming with enthusiastic stories about his cycling adventures with Old Charley-boy and the other old farts.

Solutions are not always linear.  An answer can be like a good bike ride with twists, turns and maybe a few dead ends, often heading in a direction that doesn’t make sense until you arrive.  The NHS is at breaking point in part due to caring for an ageing population leading unhealthy lifestyles.  Were the government to stop automatically giving pensioners free bus passes and instead provide vouchers to purchase new bikes not only would they reduce their long term bus pass outlay they would stimulate cycling related retail, encourage pensioners to take-up cycling which would encourage good health, reduce the number of vehicles on the road, save the planet, make roads a safer place to cycle whilst reducing the burden on the NHS.  More humans cycling – whatever their age – can help solve more than just our obvious cycling problems.

(*NBFF: New Bike Friend Forever)

simply the best

Keeping things simple is one of the best things about cycling. Just you, your bike and the road or the trail, maybe a few ride-buddies thrown in and your done.  Then we over complicate things: bike computers, electronic gears, carbon – lots of carbon, aero-isation.  The simple act of cycling becomes mired in confusing jargon, incompatible components, an unnecessary arms-race and a creeping sense of self importance.  The solution is simple enough: ride a single speed.

The reincarnation of my single speed has reminded me how beautiful simple can be. From the simple straight lined steel frame, uncluttered by derailleurs or aerodynamics, to the straight out of the box ride it’s fun and grounding.  It’s hard to take yourself too seriously on a single speed, you’re never going to be the fastest – push it too hard and your legs rebound wildly to no effect – so why bother?  Instead you can perfect a clean, fluid, efficient pedal stroke.  Or you can practice and perfect different cadence’s until you find your groove. Or you just glide along, untroubled without the constant urge to drive on at a furious pace (which my Venge ‘makes’ me do).

Dialling back on the technology seems counter to everything about today. Everything has to be inherently smart and we need to be ubiquitously connected. A phone that just makes phone calls? No thanks.  Despite the smartness and the connectivity loneliness and depression are on the rise.  There’s the fear that smart and connected mean being monitored and controlled.  How does Facebook know who my LinkedIn connectionsa  are?  Then there’s the doomsday scenario: what if the technology doesn’t work? Could we still read maps? Cook food? Make clothes?  Probably not unless you’re over 65 and / or living in the Third World. We’re becoming over-reliant on Google.

Riding my single speed isn’t going to prepare me for a post-apocalyptic Armageddon scenario but it can take me back to basics, remind me that simple is still good and allow me to escape the need to be smart all of the time.

i want. don’t get.

Today’s commute on a shiny new single speed represents something of a triumph. Not a triumph over my growing list of self-inflicted injuries by being back on my bike but a triumph over the irrepressible marketing forces of the bicycle industry and my weakness to resist them.

It always starts in the back of my mind, slowly, quietly to begin with, then nagging, persistent and inevitable.  A familiar siren call that the growing pile of bicycles in my cellar attests – I am powerless to resist: I want a new bike. Within days it has mutated into: I need a new bike. My waking hours become consumed by thoughts of gravel bikes, adventure bikes, aero-road bikes and inventing a rock-solid justification for their addition to my stable.  Everything becomes secondary to searching online for a 2-wheeled silver-bullet – the answer to a gaping chasm in my cycling life, my leisure time, my core existence.

I recognise that this is an affliction, or more likely ‘afflictions’, including: obsessive use of the internet, obsessive yearning for something new, base consumerism, susceptibility to marketing, not being satisfied with what I already have, etcetera. After 3 days of intense internet trawling I’ve found the solution: GT Grade Alu 105. Done.  At 30% discount it represents an outstanding multi-purpose bargain, able to meet all my commuting, winter training and exploring needs in one compact shiny package, effectively a 3 bikes in 1 sensational deal!

It is easy to be seduced. It is harder to resist being seduced.  The marketing men have invested a lot of time, effort and money in making sure I can’t.  The constant bombardment of alluring messages and images cyclists are targeted with daily are the result of research that has identified the most likely psychological triggers that result in firing your credit card details into the website.  Is that controlling, manipulative, sinister? Possibly.  Is it so bad to get people out riding new bikes?

How does setting out on a shiny new single speed possibly represent a triumph? It’s not a completely new bike but a recycled one, with all the parts of an old single speed (that met a high-speed end on the rear of a Maserati on the Kings Road in the rain) now adorning a new Holdsworth frame plucked from the virtual bargain-basement of Planet X for a measly £90 (RRP £400) – thus illustrating why the over producing cycle industry must conjure up the most seductive marketing mix or face selling its unwanted stock off at stock liquidation prices.

it’s good to be back

It’s my first commute back on the bike (post carpal tunnel operation, post torn ankle ligaments (official diagnosis)) and just so happens to coincide with National Cycle To Work Day which just so happens to coincide with the hottest day in a September for one hundred years which all amounts to: chaos on the roads. At times the commuter peloton was twenty riders long, the bunch sprint away from the lights fifty strong. Chaos.

I’m out of sorts, all over the place. My fitness is down.  I’m struggling to chug along at a pace that keeps in front of, up with or simply out of the way of the disorganised and undisciplined commuter road trains that sweep past.  As I battle to stay upright I desperately cling to a positive, any positive, my loss of fitness proves that the cycling to work builds and maintains a good base fitness. It’s worth it then, the early morning rush out the door, the daily battle with all the other road users (who hate cyclists – too often we give them good reason), the showering at work, the sweating at your desk, the constant risk of forgetting a shoe or pants – either the English or American meaning of the word, both would be awkward.

Losing fitness was expected. I hadn’t anticipated losing my flow, my rhythm, my just knowing what is going to happen next.  Cars cut in, cyclist move out, mopeds overtake. I knew all that.  But it was taking me time to remember the when, where and how.  If I was a first timer embracing National Cycle To Work Day, I’d be terrified.  I risked moving out in the wrong place, cutting in too soon, missing the angles, underestimating the incoming speeds – simply getting in the way.  Walking down the ramp to the garage under my office I was glad it was over.

I was also glad there would be a tomorrow. To do it all again, the blinding sunrise, the mist on the river at Putney, the cool morning air AND the not sweating uncomfortably in a suit on a train.

The Bicycle Moaning Collective Chasing the Tour 2016 (Edition 4)

The Bicycle Moaning Collective Chasing the Tour 2016 (Edition 4)

an article written for the bicycle moaning collective newsletter

The Bicycle Moaning Collective Chasing the Tour 2016 (Edition 4)

Stage 17 | Wednesday July 20 | 17km | Berne to Finhaut Emosson / the BMC: Chamonix

The hotel looked nice enough, attractive décor, pleasant staff, pool, sauna, Jacuzzi, spa – the usual.  None of that mattered as we hurriedly pushed through the Skoda girls mobbing reception to get to our bikes. We had a Tour de France to catch and like a very fast train it was heading our way. With only the relatively small, cute even, Col des Montets and the Swiss border between us it was very catchable.

Cut a long, hot story short – we missed it (again) but the Bicycle Moaning Collective were back, #Chasing the Tour, #Hunting down Cols – that rag bag bunch of cycling desperadoes (some who looked like they hadn’t seen their bike since the last time they were in the Alps). We had the old and the new, it’s always good to welcome newcomers (even if she was faster than most of us!)

Back over Col des Montets Tour catch or not Tour catch (as was the case) spirits were high after the first taste of an alpine descent followed by a quick beer detour into Chamonix before returning to relax around the pool with the Skoda girls and take in the magnificent views of Mont Blanc and its ailing glaciers. Any disappointment of missing Froome & Co race up to the stage finish at Emosson was long forgotten as we tried to concentrate on plans for the next day’s riding.

Stage 18 | Thursday July 21 | 17km | ITT Sallanches to Megeve / the BMC: lunch in Verbier 99 / 2424m ascent

Whilst The Tour riders had the uphill Individual Time Trial to worry about – and being only 17Km long it was a stage that we could realistically complete in full – the BMC headed in the opposite direction to Switzerland (in our vans) passing smoothly through the border (no passports required). Our heads were buzzing with Skoda girls (still) and the logistical conundrum of getting 14 riders, 1 minibus, a van and a car up, down and back up the Col de la Forclaz from Martigny, the apricot growing capital of Switzerland (and maybe of the EFTA).

Finally, it was agreed that everyone but Stevo would descend to Martigny on their bikes and he would drive the van down leaving the minibus and 1 car at the top and then on the way back…that’s as far as we got. In true BMC style we’d sort the getting back bit later.  After a nervous straight out of the van 1st proper warp-speed alpine descent and with the van parked (the 1 now the bottom of Forclaz if you’ve lost track) we started out for Verbier.  This being the Chasing the Tour tour and not a traditional BMC tour the peloton soon splintered – with a high tempo pace set at the front, no doubt to soften up any potential Verbier climb contenders.  A truce of sorts was called and we regrouped at the bottom of the climb, then promptly splintered again on the climb as Strava times were selfishly chased.

It’s not every day you can go to Verbier for lunch. We earned that lunch.  Scorching hot?  Yes. Brutally steep? Yes.  A baptism of fire for some, a nasty reminder for others but apparently easy for Mrs KHC. Luckily Verbier was the end of the road, with only a gravel road over the top (that only Kiero eyed wistfully), it was back the way we had come.  That brutally steep climb was now a devilish descent, awakening our senses – sharpening the eyes, gripping the brakes, tasting flies, smelling Hansford’s brakes and hearing his screams as he hurtled too close to the precipice.

Back on the road to Martigny we concocted an unofficial race, with riders attacking (foolishly) off the front at 60kmph only to be pulled back in by the collective will of the game peloton or more likely stopped in their over eager tracks by the damning headwind of truth and fading, retreating back to the shelter of the smirking peloton; until they were ready to go for the breakaway again. Being an unofficial BMC race – there were no official winner.

The reward for being first was to try again to solve our earlier conundrum of getting 14 riders and their bikes into a van with only 3 seats back to the top of Forclaz, eventually solved by a handful of the overly-keen tackling the penultimate climb of yesterday’s stage (and one of the worst climbs known to the Tour due to its dreary, unrelenting drags with few hairpins until near the summit, to add character or a much needed centrifugal kick). It was a hot, muggy, devoid of visual stimulus kind of climb.

The only interest in the dreary rain was watching the Tour debris clean up-parties removing the evidence that the immortals had climbed the same way the day before, promotional cr#p thrown by the caravan. Whether it was the thunder and lightning that cracked first or the rear half of the peloton but Mrs KHC soon burned the bunch off her back wheel, disappearing fast in the drizzle and low cloud with Stevo (that’s how rumours start…) – chased relentlessly by the Doog.

The sarcastically cheering welcome party at the top didn’t provide much comfort either. The other half of the equation had been solved by Hansford’s ingenuity.  Having foreseen a circumstance where he could avoid a 13km climb he’d ardently volunteered to be insured on the van.  Selflessly he drove the mechanical cheats to the top, blind and shaken around the hairpins in the back of a hot van – just punishment for their cheating.

Stage 19 | Friday July 22 | 146km | Albertville to Saint-Gervais Mont Blanc / the BMC: various 102km / 2053m ascent

Sensing that Tour was reaching its climax the Skoda girls in the hotel made their move, offering the more easily led members of the BMC, finish line hospitality passes for the day’s stage. There was a steely determination at breakfast that this was the day when we were all definitely catching the Tour, whether it be sipping champagne in hospitality, standing on the side of a wet mountain wearing a plastic bag or at the foot of the day’s final climb (when you’ve underestimated how long it takes to complete 2053m over 3 monster climbs and 100km).

The day’s best laid plans lasted all of 2 minutes when the keys to the unlocked minibus disappeared up the mountain (all be it slowly) in Big Carl’s jersey pockets and had to be retrieved. By the time the minibus was secured the BMC were spread out on various roads leading up to maybe Megève, or was it Saint Gervais or quite possibly neither? Maybe the presence of CheeseMap on the mountain had something to do with the directional dispersion. Of course it would all work out in the end – whatever happened we’d all meet in a bar in Saint-Gervais Les Bains, that didn’t even need to be planned for.

Whether it was planned or not, 3 of the BMC set off on a 3 Col super ride: up to Megève, over Col des Aravis – complete with chalets, cows with cow bells in alpine meadows, through half-recognised ski resorts – ticking all the boxes without shredding the legs, onwards and upwards over Col de la Colombière, the day’s biggie. Whilst the pace on the road was good for the moving average, the time taken to drink coffee, chew on baguettes and gorge on tarts in the col-top cafes was hurting the overall average.  As the storm clouds re-gathered and the Tour moved relentlessly towards St Gervais, from the summit top of Colombière the 3 had to lift their game, Miss Daisy Jones had to descend like stone not a feather.  The race was on.

The solution was obvious. The Doog was put to work on the front, his panting ignored as he dragged the chase group back to St Gervais.  Despite some shameless shirking (from this author) they made it to see a Romain Bardet and domestique race pass en-route to deliver a rare French stage victory, followed by battered, bruised and bloodied Chris Froome, jersey ripped but holding on to his third Tour win.  That wasn’t the highlight of the day though.  That belonged to the Quintana as he got to descend with the BMC back down the mountain to the tour buses (his was the one with the on-board shower but no stop for beers before the hotel).


Stage 20 | Saturday July 23 | 146km | Megeve to Morzine / the BMC: Taninges to Les Gets 78km / 2361m ascent

Last day of the Tour proper and last day of Chasing the Tour. The split in the group was well established by now.  Roughly along the lines of those who wanted to enjoy themselves and those that wanted to enjoy themselves by hurting themselves a little bit more. There’s more people into this than you might think and the selection evened up into a 60:40 split.

For Team Leisurely Ride there was just the small matter of the notorious Col du Joux Plan before finding a bar to watch the final mountain showdown of the 2016 Tour. As it was the 2 groups had very similar days with the exception that Team Max Mosley had to haul itself up Col de la Ramaz, a nasty climb, steep and spiteful especially through the dark tunnel section but with a quite magnificent open bowl before the true summit providing a 2-mile-wide amphitheatre to watch the tour play out (if you were stopping to watch the Tour that is). Instead the BMC raced down off Col du Ramaz, a messy thin ribbon of tarmac, rutted, scarred with untidy bitumen repairs mixed in with gravel, greasy white lines and rollercoaster hairpins – steep and banked like a natural velodrome.  The race wasn’t a fair one, DrewVo had split, proving once and for all Dad’s descend slower.

Whereas Team Leisure got to have a jolly old time in a bar in Les Gets, Team Max rode back from Morzine in the rain (there’s a moral in there somewhere…I’m just not sure what it is). Both teams got to descend into Taninges, pace-line like hell to Samoen then crucify themselves painfully on CdJP.  Except Stevo who found some new skinny French bike friends to climb with. CdJP is tough, even tougher when the grim faced gendarmes make you cyclo-cross across a muddy ravine in cleats across the summit (wrecking Strava times in the process…the stewards inquiry rumbles on for this one).

With the 2016 Tour’s final climb bested there was still it’s final descent to look forward to…except if you were Team Max who were forced to descend in a sadistic thunderstorm at a pace so sensibly slow as to defy gravity, so slow that to date only Descending Miss Daisy Jones had been able to achieve on a consistent basis (whatever the weather). The road down becomes a river; we tip toed around the hairpins until we entered the barriers that marked the last 3km to the finish line. We almost certainly shouldn’t have been. You’re not allowed to drive your car around an F1 circuit before the race starts.  Under the gaze of the massed Tour spectators as the Tour closed up its mountain shop for the year, so did we.


Crossing the same finish line, roared home by the same crowd (in our dreams). As Froome’s Team Sky steam rolled the opposition into the melting tarmac with a pre-ordained inevitability the BMC showed its always best to get out on your bikes and make your own fun.

running on empty

running on empty

This wasn’t the plan. Subconscious-cycling has become the subconscious-running (after a small operation – photos available on request).

Sure there’s more to life than riding a bike. There’s running too. It’s easier to put trainers on and just go.  Why don’t I go for a run? No cramming pockets with inner tubes, tyre leavers and energy bars. Out the front door in 5 minutes.  Simple, quick, easy. (In theory “who’s moved my headphones?”).

To make a positive from a negative my bikes have been consigned to the cellar and a brand new pair of trainers purchased (positives from negatives) and I’m running to work and back to reclaim my running legs – which have previously been consigned somewhere similar to the cellar on a long term basis.

Home to office is 9 miles.  My goal is to work up to running back from the office to home in 1 go.  I’ve already decided I’m not going to do there and back in 1 day – I know my limits.  Over the 6 week cycling ban I’ll extend my run back a station at a time: Waterloo, Vauxhall, Battersea, Clapham Junction, Wandsworth Town, Putney and finally on past Barnes to the finish line: Home.

Sound like a plan? How’s it working out?

Is it possible to unlearn something? Apparently so.  Not gilt-edging my running past, I wasn’t ever that good but I wasn’t ever this bad. Cycling 100km holds no fears whilst running just 10km currently appears unlikely.  I used to cook a mean Thai green curry but I’ve lost that ability, swapping cooking dinner for reading bedtime stories (a good swap).

Our modern world would struggle to match the engineering feats of the Egyptians.  Even substituting slaves for modern machinery I doubt we could replicate their pyramids.  Or match the engineering and artistic feats of our medieval forebears who built our grandest cathedrals either.  Technologies and skills gone forever. Lost or forgotten through neglect, laziness, new distractions or lack of demand.  Unfortunately, just like my running ability.

empty head

empty head

My bike and I are on Cycle Super Highway 8.  My head is still in the Alps.  It’s the same when I’m sat at my desk at work.  It hasn’t been easy to fit back into my normal life.  Whilst 3 weeks on Froome & Co have moved on to Rio, I’m still looking at my col top photos, planning routes for future col conquering trips (I like the sound of the Circle of Death in the Pyrenees) and my head is still a whirl of cycling cliché ridden flashbacks, flickering like movie reel, playing over again and again.

Our unofficial race from Verbier to Martigny (the centre of the apricot growing universe) with riders attacking off the front at 60kmph only to be pulled back in by the collective will of the rag bag peloton or more likely stopped in their over eager tracks by the damning headwind of truth and fading, retreating back to the safety of that same rag bag peloton; until they’re ready to go for the breakaway again.

The world has an infinite ability to move on.  Look at the news.  The bloodless coup that saw Cameron’s clique ousted not by the coup leaders but by Teresa May’s puritan posse. Forgotten.  Labour leadership battle, hardly newsworthy, not even the intriguing undercurrent of plotting Trotskyists lurking in the shadows.  Syria and its refugees a footnote.  All overshadowed by the Rio Olympics.

Stevo pulling a neat line of us up Col du Forclaz, Wout Poels like, until the elastic snaps and I fall off the back, legs pounding out squares rather than spinning effortlessly like Christine’s as she floats past.  My stomach is cramping with hunger pains, a sure sign of hitting the wall.  I’m blowing up, with a low rumble of thunder the skies open bringing refreshing rain, part washing off the ingrained grime and sweat.  Forclaz was so bad it was almost good, the climb itself wasn’t too tough but the long grinding road lacks visual drama, making it a mental rather than physical haul to the top. The top is a relief, bathed in sunshine, the storm has passed over in the time it’s taken me to ascend.

The Olympics brings us wall to wall joy, hope and over achievement.  A rainbow of colourful drama to banish the recent darkness from our lives.  It’s almost as if it planned.  The economic fallout from BREXIT, conveniently unreported, what we don’t see can’t hurt us.  The American car crash Presidential Election.  Actually that’s still receiving of column inches because it’s entertainment: Presidential Election Reality TV.

Descending off Col du Ramaz, a messy thin ribbon of tarmac, rutted, scarred with untidy bitumen repairs mixed in with gravel, greasy white lines and rollercoaster hairpins – steep and banked like a natural velodrome.  I’ve no idea how to ride them properly, maybe like a mountain bike berm, that’ll do, not too much speed scrubbed off.   Stevo and DrewBear have gone, disappeared down the road, its’s still worth chasing them, attacking out of the hairpins for the hell of it, to do the brutal climb justice, to pay back the legends who inspired in memorial posters on every hairpin on the way up – Coppi, Anquetil, Merckx, Hinault, LeMond, Indurain (no poster for Armstrong, he’s been erased).  It’s a good one, with the road as good as closed we can confidently-ish use its whole width, not as good as the descent of Colombier the day before but we’re in the alpine descent sweet shop so no need to compare.

Olympic flavoured Dopamine for the masses.  The Developed World masses – investment in Olympic glory does little to alleviate the pain and suffering outsides of the medal table top 20.  Even in the top 10 countries what do all these medals achieve?  A satisfied population?  Unedifying glory on the world stage?  It beats going to war.  It beats being miserable.  State sponsored escapism can be good.  Our sportsmen are our modern day warriors, adventurers, heroes.  They don’t need to defeat an armada to earn a knighthood. Which is progress of sorts.

On the road between Taninges and Samoens we’re at Tour peloton pace, or close enough.  A disciplined pace line hauling 45kph, racing in the suppressive heat of the valley floor, taking our turns on the front, sun burnt noses in the wind, team time trialling to the foot of Col du Joux Plan before it gets closed.  That and hunting down coffee and pastries (plural). It’s a brutal pace, we’re being made to work hard in the chain gang.  I let them go as we arrive at the outskirts of Samoens, saving myself for the climb, besides I know where the best café in town is.  They’ll have to wait for me.

 The media decides the news that we see.  Have they decided it’s time for us to be happy?  Or what are they trying to hide?  We should be suspicious of the 4th estate as any of the other 3.  What news will shoulder its way back into the limelight when the Olympics has ended.  The old stuff or new news?

The crowd are closing in on top of brutal col du Joux Plan, the gap in road no wider than a meter.  I’m in the crazy footage you see when the pro riders climb Alpe D’Huez, Ventoux, Galibier and the spectators, close in, over step the mark.  I’m not about to hit anyone.  This is too exciting and I haven’t even started the descent.  Then I do and so does the rain.  Lots of rain starts.  Thunder too.  The road down becomes a river; I tip toe around the hairpins to scared to regret the lost opportunity to push max speed.  I can’t see much other than huddled spectators waiting for me to slip/slide off the road.  They don’t mean me ill; they’ve just had a long roadside wait of nothing much too see.  Satisfied that I’d cashed in a month’s worth of risk cheques in 1 sodden descent I was in the barriers.  The barriers that mark the last 3km to the finish line.  I almost certainly shouldn’t have been. You’re not allowed to drive your car around an F1 circuit before the race starts.  Under the gaze of the massed Tour spectators I don’t know whether to look serious, grin like an idiot or concentrate on not losing it on the still wet corners until crossing the finish line where my grin is unstoppable.

That’s better.  My memories have been backed up to the hard drive.  Time to sit back and enjoy the Olympics.

cycling the new rugby

cycling the new rugby

This is the fourth year the Bicycle Moaning Collective have been Chasing the Tour.  I don’t know who came up with the name – Kiero I think (our club photographer and mechanic – talented guy, if only he could climb as fast as his wife).  The idea wasn’t strictly mine either. I stole it off Ned Boulting (“How I won the yellow jumper” circa 2011).

As a journalist, Ned, gets to follow the Tour de France (TdF) from ringside. Initially he was employed to bravely/foolhardy-ly chase down Mark Cavendish (who’s interviews pin-ball between exuberant, venomous or banal (or all 3 at once)) for a post sprint sound bite.  This year he’s progressed to the role of ITV 4’s ‘voice of the tour’ providing excellent commentary alongside David Millar (I have to admit Ned is something of an inspiration to me).

I saw no reason why I couldn’t get close to the action too – even without a media pass. That’s the great thing about the TdF – you can.  In 2012 we did.  CheeseMap, Stevo and I loaded our bikes into the Volvo and chased the tour from Col du Girond in the Alps, via Mont Ventoux and on to the Port de Lers in the Pyrenees.  And we’ve been chasing it very year since. The only difference is that there are more of us Tour Chasers each year. 14 to be exact, 1 short of a rugby team.


Looking around at lunch in Verbier (yes lunch in Verbier on a Thursday), even though we’re pretty much all resplendent in the Bicycle Moaning Collective club kit we’re all individuals, different sizes/personality/background – that’s what I like about this bunch.  Even though we’re wearing our cycling kit these Bicycle Moaning Collective Tour Chasers look more like a rugby club than a cycling club. We drink like a rugby club. OK – maybe that’s an exaggeration but we’ve got a couple of 2nd rows, a centre, a few wingers and definitely some flankers.  That’s how rugby used to be, a game for any size and any shape. That’s not so much the case these days but it still can be with cycling.


Is cycling the new rugby?  It’s been the new golf and the new mid-life crisis.  If you have to have a mid-life crisis, then riding your bike in the mountains must be one of the best.  Our big guys might not climb as quickly as the whippets but if they’ve got ‘big balls’ (as Sagan so eloquently puts it) – they’re catching everyone up on the descents.  It’s their rear wheel that the whippets desperately cling onto when the power is applied and the pace lifts on the flat gradient of the valley floor. In the end, over the course of a ride, it all evens out, we all arrive at the bar at the same time and all have stories to tell.


Lots of stories. We’ve nearly got it perfect this year. No shivering on a mountainside in sleet, no riding the wrong way up the mountain and being stopped by unimpressed gendarmes (all 2012 errors).  Sure there are always wrong turns and dead ends (more accurately the gravel roads over the top of Col de la Marlene above Verbier – all are integral to the adventure and those stories.


another way

another way

I’ve learnt a new word. It was repeated multiple times on the mountain roads I cycled during this year’s Tour de France (when France welcomes the World). It was strangely familiar, I’d heard and spoken a similar sounding word myself before.

Normally it’s French words that are anglicised to effect a certain Je ne sais quoi. This time the French have adapted the English word: FREXIT. Maybe in Germany (DEUXIT), Italy (ITXIT) and Spain (ESPANXIT) similar words are daubed large in heavy set white letters on their mountain roads for cyclists to read. Why are they telling cyclists that they wish to free from the supranational shackles of the EU? Is it because as cyclists we’re continually seeking a freedom of sorts too? More probably because the eyes of the World through the lens of TV cameras suspended from multiple hovering helicopters, will be focused on the mountain roads too. 

Against the mesmerising mountains it looked alien, ugly and in your face: FREXIT (Libre Savoie was much less so, cute even). Out of place in the context of the inherent internationalism of the Tour de France. Riders from America, Russia, Columbia, Scandinavia, France, Italy, Spain & Great Britain (the Great somehow seeming incongruous and out dated) in the same peloton even in the same team working to achieve a collective goal. How often does the Breakaway get away? How many GC contenders solo to victory without their team? Not impossible but not often.

Spectators from all over the world flock to France, supporting riders from countries other than their own, looking past nationality to the heart of their chosen rider, backing them because of their riding style, swagger, temperament, their feats in the face of pain, even just the bike they ride or their record (Palmares (exotic French word)). We’re free to choose, not restricted to just supporting our fellow country men.

So why, when a nation becomes discontent does it turn inward and dismiss the outside world? Nationalism is portrayed as the answer to but it has all so often turned ugly. Whilst technology is pushing aside national boundaries, breaking down barriers, racing towards globalisation, deep down human nature leans towards tribalism. When disenchanted, seemingly threatened we seek identity and safety within our own pack.

Politicians know this. They are skilled in creating fear of ‘the other’. During the EU Referendum, our ‘other’ were the ‘job stealing immigrants’. Trump is championing Muslims as his ‘convenient other’ threatening the American way of life. To be honest we’ve got history in Europe, we’ve written the book on the politics of fear, using fear to gain popularity. We’ve readily walked that thin line that leads towards ethnic cleansing and genocide before.

Don’t worry, we’re sophisticated, developed nations. We won’t fall in to that trap again. We learn from our mistakes, history doesn’t repeat itself, does it? The true success of the maligned EU project has been its success in preventing (another) catastrophic war between ever squabbling nations. I am not sure why that is not more widely acknowledged.

Tormented by the hard climb, tormented by Dom and The Doog disappearing up the road above me, tormented by FREXIT, my mood has turned black as I finally crest the summit where I celebrate with a drink (stale, warm electrolyte), take my summit photos (monumental), another drink (chocolat chaud avec expresso – I’m introducing Café Mocha to France a Col at a time), eat an energy bar (soggy). No time left for a baguette jambon et fromage as the others have scoffed in the time it has taken me to catch back up to them. Clip in and descend.

This is true freedom. Pure excitement, earned and paid for. Nothing else matters other than staying away from the precipitous drop, the slippery white lines, the cracks in the road surface, gravel in the corners and soft, melting asphalt. Nothing other than enjoying the controlled exhilarating madness of descending a hair-pinned, switchbacked, off camber, mountain roller coaster from mountain top to valley floor.

Within the safety of the gorge, a tumbling meltwater fuelled river to my right I’d forgotten about FREXIT/BREXIT. On the mountain I’ve found the answer. When life becomes a cruel, endless grind, misery and resentment builds. When life is exciting, exhilarating, challenging it dissipates. Politicians don’t need to stoop to stoking the flames of fear to create unity. There is another way: energise and excite, create that elusive feel good factor that can unite a nation. Of course politicians know this too. It’s a space race or other vanity endeavour (like hosting the Olympics).

Conveniently we already have our national project: BREXIT. Rather than use it to curl up into an isolated little ball, closing out the outside world, it could be the vehicle to re-tool, re-focus, re-build, re-energise our curmudgeonly, insular, stuck in the past, clinging to former Imperial-glories nation. Make it current, on trend, world leading, prosperous even. BREXIT is a legitimate ‘once in a generation’ unifying challenge, adventure even, more legitimate than going to Mars or bagging a fistful of gold medals.

Our BREXIT project should have our children’s futures at its core, it can be exciting, collective, deliver national pride. What about a British-devised solution to climate change, cost effective supersonic travel, mass water purification in the Developing World, a new sustainable fuel source etc etc? That’s just the stuff I came up with at 60kmh on the down side of the Col de la Colombiere. There’s no limit to the potential, only our ambition.