L'etape du tour

The result of a day on the road

- hot, tired, exhausted

Lying by the side of the road half way up the Col du Tourmalet was not how I had planned this event. My thighs were cramping up and the muscles stood like bow strings, my legs locked solid by the agonizing spasm. I sat up and lay back down as the spasm hit me again. The heat was intense - nearly 90 degrees away from the shade – and so far I had downed nearly 8 litres of liquid. The electrolyte fluid now made me gag, the sickly-sweet taste cloying my mouth and seemingly coating it with fur.

To get to this point I’d ridden well and hard, the climbs of the Col du Marie-Blanque and the Col du Solour were good. I’d sat in a strong group and worked well. The early climb of the Marie-Blanque was marred by a 20-minute queue as riders seemed want to walk up the first climb, but otherwise the start had gone well.

But this later agony seemed a long way from the start, where cold mist had hung in the air and a blue-velvet sky was illuminated by the soft pinks of the sunrise as 10,000 riders lined up in a pack for the 2010 L’etape du tour. I’d had no problems getting to this point, especially after a minor technical issue with my gears had been sorted by the yellow-clad knights of the road, the Mavic Neutral service bike. There had been plenty of crashes happening around me after the start, leaving riders to be bundled into ambulances or patched up and sent shakily in their way, but I had continued with the pack. The Tourmalet, the giant of the Pyrenees, had, however, bested me. The cramp kicked in, crippling my legs, as I tried to push passed a group near Bareges, a small tatty village part way up the climb. The section through the village has a gradient of around 10 per cent and as I stood in the pedals the searing pain had rendered my legs useless.

After nursing my muscles back to life I started moving again, one painful pedal stroke after another. Time stood still, the sun beat down, my arms sparkled in the light as the sun dried the sweat and salt crystals formed.

Nine kilometres to go, only nine, my thighs screamed in protest with every revolution. Silent tears escaped my stinging eyes, the smooth pedalling motion reduced to clumsy motion as I carried on, ever upwards.

Roadside supporters poured water over my head, the relief welcome but oh-so fleeting. Children, unable to reach up high enough, poured it on my legs and my shoes squelched. Loud music pumped from caravans and motor homes, flags of every nationality were on display and the new black road surface was daubed with the names of cycling gods. It all blurred into a loud, colourful swirl.

Then I could feel my legs being punched by someone: an elderly lady was holding my feet up and wobbling my legs as my bike lay beside me Where the hell was I and why was I staring at the sky? “You 'ave zee cramps" she stated. Wordlessly I mouthed “yes”. She continued her work as I yelped and winced. Her husband smiled at me and said: "She is good, yes? Her 'ands are like magic, non?". I laughed at the indignity and the surreal nature of my predicament. "You 'ave four kilometres to go" she said, holding up eight fingers ... no four ... no eight. I shook my head – it was definitely four fingers. “Go now, fly like the wind,” she urged. I sat on the bike, her husband held me upright and with the strength of a thousand men pushed me up the road to get me started.


I battled every pedal rev over the last 4km arguing with my feeble legs. Eventually I rounded the last hairpin to be greeted by the final insult that the Tourmalet saves for you - a 15 per cent ramp to the finish. My body rallied itself for the finish, summoning up reserves from a deep part me of me I’ve never tapped into before and I rolled over the line. This had been a battle royal. The mountain had won this one, I think, but at least I’d reached the top in almost one piece.

Of the 10,000 starters only 6500 finished. This was a brutal ride, the heat and height seeing many off. But those that finished, in whatever state or time, can be proud to have taken on the giant and, if not beaten it, at least to have gotten through it.

Fashion police

Let’s face it the French are a stylish lot so, when in France image matters. It’s important to look right and nowhere does it matter more than on a bike!

Look at the pro teams. Everything works together, jersey, shorts, helmets and frame colour. Although the current Footon-Servetto-Fuji kit of pale gold and black that makes their riders look naked is just so wrong.

With the weight of the fashionistas on my mind I have carefully chosen my outfit for the Etape. I’m riding for the multiple sclerosis society and they have their own colour scheme – it’s orange! I scoured the fashion magazines to see what might work with orange to find that, strangely, the fashion world ignores this particular hue. With a lack of inspiration I turned to fashion god Gok Wan. I studied his programme How to Look Good Naked and listened to his advice. “Choose clothes that flatter your frame,” he advises. Luckily I chose the Cervelo R3 frame which is white: it won’t clash with the orange jersey, thankfully.

After much head scratching and digging around in sports shops I’ve put together the perfect team kit and I’ve paid attention to the detailing and accessories, just as Gok Wan says I should. The orange and black jersey is set against black Assos shorts (which incidentally have an orange chamois), Nike black socks with orange detailing (so anti-euro rules!), a white cat-like whisper plus helmet (ironically I waited 9 months for it but if I’d wanted the orange one it would have arrived next day!) The all important shades are the Oakley jawbones in white with orange lenses. Hopefully I will look the part, although I’m worried that when my face goes purple with effort I will be putting in to get over the mountains it will clash horribly with my kit!

The Etape du Tour

Caffeine helps me widens my eyes as I stumble from the front door to the waiting taxi. The first stage of this year's etape is the most hideous sleep-deprived amble, lacking strength, feeling and any joy. Gatwick, boarding card, smile blindly at the security camera, then shoes off, belt off, all my pockets emptied and through without a beep. Then its to the gate. Twenty six minutes, pretty swift from home to gate, all the while being comatose.

Back to Biarritz, former home to black-tied high rollers and now the entry point for etape cyclists. The plane is full of us, hawk nosed and all a little too thin. Tanlines in the shape of Oakleys mark us as not tourists.

It's funny that in two days time we will be joined in suffering as we slog our way up the mountains of the Pyrenees, fearfully looking over our shoulders for the broom wagon to eliminate us. Yet at the gate no one utters even the slightest word.

During the transfer silent hellos are nodded between strangers, gradually the odd word breaks through, and slowly, united by the language of cycling, nervous chatter fills the coach. All the questions are the same: "How bad, how high, how hard, how hot?". We are all stuck on repeat, but repetition brings reassurance: we are all in it together.

I'm itching to ride, to feel the twitch of my bike beneath me. Feel the acceleration as it takes flight and the sheer joy as it blends with my body, locked in our metronome world, the beat in rythmn with the pain in my muscles. Then there is that release on the other side where your body and mind seperate to battle each other, mortal enemies in the war of self-imposed attrition that is the Etape du Tour.

Day 5: Prades to Cerbere (half day)

Me on the beach at Cerbere

It took a while to wake my body up this morning. Lots of stretching and a generous helping of Simon Lamb's famous Rosso oil seemed to break through the aches and pains that four days of hard riding has left me with.

The final breakfast was a wonderful buffet of cooked meats, cheese and freshly baked croissants, washed down with the most wonderful coffee.

There were other Raiders at the hotel - about 20 in total - some from South Africa others from Ireland. We all wore our euro/pro tan lines with pride (pictured left). Bob and I were keen to get underway and hit the road shortly before 8.30am. We had to be done by 1.30pm to be inside the 100 hours total set out in the rules of the Raid. I set the early pace with Bob tucked in behind me and every 10kms we would swap over. We flashed through pretty Mediterranean villages, all the houses different shades of terracotta, window boxes filled with geraniums, old ladies sweeping their steps and market traders setting up their stalls. Children waved as we shot passed and called "allez, allez" then laughed to their friends.

The road rolled on ahead and our pace never slowed, we were on a mission to burn through the last 94 km and finish with time to spare. Then a small speck caught my eye in the distance. It was black and it bobbed and weaved towards me. I was totally fascinated as it got bigger and bigger. The bee seemed as transfixed by me as I was by it, with our courses locked on a collision. It hit me just above my right cheek and by some weird reaction became wedged in my sunglasses. It buzzed angrily. I panicked and flapped, weaving wildly, trying to free my glasses to release the bee. I felt a sharp pain as the little blighter stung me right below my eyebrow. After much fuss and flapping of hands we were able to continue.

We stopped for water and fresh apricots in Bages then back on the bikes. The traffic got heavier as we approached St Cyprien and headed towards Argeles-sur-Mer. It's the beginning of the French holidays and the cars queued through the towns, so we weaved our way through the foul fuel-filled streets. Once free of the holiday town we started the last climb of our journey, the short but quite steep Cap l'Abeille. It was on this climb that three riders from the group who had shared our hotel caught us, then two others passed us.

We gave chase and the final run in became a sprint for the sleepy village of Cerbere. The first three were just too fast for us but we hauled the other two in and shot down the hill to the finish line.

There was no fanfare, no dancing girls, no loved ones to share this moment. I could feel the anticlimax sweep over me as I shook Bob's hand on the seafront. Two old French men in caps and wearing swimming trunks stopped me and one of them said something to me in very fast French. I didn't understand so I said that I was English and he replied in excellent English: "Have you come from Hendaye?". I replied that I had. "Over how many days", he asked. "Four and a half," I answered. He turned to his friend and reeled off the translation. His friend looked at me and grabbed my shoulder and said "chapeau!". I almost cried. Here were two strangers who were excited and full of congratulations after hearing about my achievement. My feeling of anticlimax vanished instantly. France and the French love cycling and cycling endeavours, no matter what your ability. They recognise the personal effort and sacrifice that you've made to make the journey.

The End: Me, Nick and Bob

DAY 5 STATISTICS
Distance 94km
Time 3 hours 15 minutes
Max speed 60kph
Avg speed 29kph
Ascent 549m
Calories 2568

Day 4: Massat to Prades

Mid way up the Col du Puymorens

From the minute we started in the fog-shrouded hills around Massat I knew it was going to be a long, tough day in the saddle. Derek, man of the I-can-go-anywhere-at-40kph mentality, joined us to see us off.

We started the 12km climb of the the Col de Port and set a steady pace up the mountain. Bob soon fell off the back and although we slowed up he couldn't muster the strength to catch us up. I hung on grimly and reached the summit stuck to Derek's back wheel in just 50 minutes. Bob arrived shortly after.

We said our goodbyes to Derek and set off down the descent. Everything hurt. There is nothing eventful or beautiful about the N20 road: it just serves to get you there. Where? God only knows and to be fair I don't care. With Bob struggling, I sat on the front shielding him from the wind and just keeping tempo, that was all I could do. I'm quite sure someone removed my saddle in the night as it felt like a razorblade.

Through Ax-les-Thermes, then the start of the Col de Puymorens introduces itself with a sharp ramp. It then sets out on a war of attrition, attacking your body and mind. At 25km with a gradient of about 6 per cent it's not hard but it goes on and on and on. It saps every ounce of strength and will power out of you. I hated it. The sun beat down and the temperature hit 35 degrees. It was unbearable. My sweat just evaporated as it appeared, salt crystals turned my gloves and shorts to sandpaper, even my black jersey had a crust of salt on it, making it unbearable to wear.

Eventually after an hour and 47 minutes we made it to the top. I felt broken. There was no beautiful cafe or stunning view, just a derelict lift station, a broken and decrepit building and two Dutch tourists. We couldn't leave fast enough.

The descent to Bourg-Madame was lovely though and all 27 km of it helped to restore my body, but only for a short while. About 20km from our last climb, I literally fell apart. I was thirsty and couldn't drink enough, my legs wouldn't go, my feet were burning. Bob started to shelter me from the relentless wind. I could go no further, we stopped at a shady picnic table and waited for Nick. I threw my shoes aside and lay on my back listening to my heart racing inside my head. I was in a bit of trouble. I needed to eat and drink but I felt sick. I forced down a chicken sandwich and a piece of apple pie, a litre of water and half a tomato.

Bob looked ready, so with a lot of whinging I got back on the bike. I felt dreadful, even more sick. We had 15km of climbing to do and Bob led valiantly into the wind as the road tilted up to the Col de Rigat, then after a short dip up to the Col De La Perche. I counted the white lines, then how many times my wheel turned over. My vision was blurry. I had to try and get more out of myself. I stood up on the pedals and sat down as quickly. I tried again. Push, push, push. I started to get on top of my wimpish state as we neared the top of the Col De La Perche.

From there it was 3km to Mont-Louis and I decided to help Bob by trying to get in front and shelter him as a payback for his earlier help. We worked together for the last bit of uphill and started the descent to Prades and our hotel.

It's 36km from Mont-Louis to Prades and 35 are downhill - what a reward for the pain and suffering. Charging down the road laid with new tarmac, through hairpin bends so beautifully cambered that I barely touched the brakes, and weaving through the cars at 70kph was totally exhilarating. The joy stopped twice for road works and was a little hindered by the headwind but it was a beautiful end to a hard, horrid day.

DAY 4 STATISTICS
Distance 167km

Ascent 2705m
Time 7:08
Calories 5987
Max speed 74.7kph

Avg speed 23.4kph

Avg cadence 82

Max cadence 155rpm

Day 3: St Marie de Campan to Massat

View from Col d'Aspin

We had barely left the hotel before the climb of the Col d'Aspin started. We settled into our rhythm and pushed up this beautiful climb, the woodland breaking occasionally to allow framed views of the Pic du Midi, still covered in snow.

As we wound up through the trees Nick passed us in his van with a wave and a shout of encouragement. I sat in front of Bob and started spinning a steady metronome beat on my pedals. We crested the summit of the Col d’Aspin in 53 minutes. Nick was surprised to see us so quickly. A short stop at the summit to refill our bottles and we plunged down the other side. The road swept away like a ribbon of silver against the green pastures. This was a superb road, freshly re-laid for the Tour de France and as smooth as silk. I shot ahead of Bob, flying along at more than 60kph before hitting the brakes to get around the hairpin bends.

A long, undulating slog along the valley bottom brought us to the Col de Peyresourde (cafe at the top is pictured above). Shortly before the turnoff we were joined by a French cyclist. He chatted away in fast French while sitting right in my slipstream, getting an easy ride. I told him in French that I didn’t understand and that I was English. So he then spoke slower and louder in French!

At the bottom of the climb he raced off having benefitted from me pulling him along. He quickly built up a lead of several hundred metres. I grunted and snarled at my tired legs, and started to push hard. I wasn’t going to let Johnny Foreigner beat me. I drove on, sweat pouring in rivers down my face and arms. I began to draw him in. Bob asked if I was OK. I told him I was going to make the French man pay! I caught him after 5km, rode up to his wheel, reeled off a stream of English pleasantries and rode passed him with a wave. He hung grimly onto my back wheel, I pushed harder, he hung on. Suddenly he was gone, falling back off our tail like a drowning man attached to a stone.

The top came and went and the descent was stunning, hitting 80kph on smooth roads. It was possibly the best descent so far, certainly the fastest.

From the bottom we had to battle a headwind for more than 30kms but we kept pushing the pace. We went over the tedious but pretty Col des Ares and then the Col de Buret before getting to the Fabio Casartelli memorial, pictured below, at the foot of the Col de Portet d’Aspet. Casartelli died on the descent from this col in 1995. Fresh flowers mark the exact spot where he died. The beautiful memorial has tributes from many cyclists left on it.

This is a really tough climb with gradients hitting 16 per cent. It’s not long, just under 5kms, but boy do you have to work every single metre.

Bob had a good lead. I was really struggling and my gears and legs were not really enough, but I didn’t stop at all. As we got to the last 500m I stood up on the pedals and start a grotesque parody of a sprint. I caught Bob and he reacted, the two of us racing for the line at the summit, lungs heaving, legs like jelly. Bob got it by a nose!

From the top of the d’Aspet it’s a long descent into St Lary. It was here that we met Derek, a friend of Nick’s and a demon cyclist. He’s a veteran of five, yes five, raids. Derek sat in the front and put his head down – he road at 40-45kph all the way to St Girons. I pedalled furiously to stay on his wheel. Bob sat on my back wheel and we powered our way to the hotel. Derek didn’t let up at all. My front wheel occasionally rubbing the side of his back wheel or bumping it only made him ride faster. I’ve never sat on somebody’s wheel like that. As soon as I moved out of his slipstream my speed dropped like a stone. Derek just kept on at the front, and kept saying “take the tow, it’s fine”. So I did.

When we arrived in Massat, our destination for the night, we had averaged 42kph for the last 50kms, after riding 110!

I collapsed off the bike, every single part of me hurting, that is except the important man parts. They seemed to be totally numb.

DAY 3 STATISTICS

Distance 167km

Total Ascent 2900m

Max speed 80.6kph

Avg speed 24kph

Calories 4823

TIMINGS

Col d’Aspin 53 mins

Col de Peyresourde 58 mins

Col de Portet d’Aspet 27 mins

Day 2: Arudy to St Marie de Campan

The giant of the Pyrenees:The Col du Tourmalet

I didn't sleep well last night, my mind was racing with thoughts of mountains that had budgets and targets to meet before allowing cyclists to pass.

Bob bought me coffee in bed, not that we are close like that, he's just kind.

Later, we rolled away from Arudy towards the Col d'Aubisque. A flat road allowed us to spin away yesterday's aches and pains. There is a giant billboard at the bottom of the climb that leaves you in no doubt as to what you're taking on. It details the gradient and distance, helpfully colour coding them, too, Red means it's going to hurt: there was quite a bit of red.

Three riders from Trek tours, the cycling holiday company associated with the bike manufacturer, stopped for a chat. How is it that, wherever you are in the world, all Americans meet someone who went to their school, knows their best friend or lives next door.

Going up, anyone?: On the road to the Col d'Aubisque

The Trek riders set off ahead of us as we stalled our ascent with a stop for food and photos. In the end, the inevitable could be put off no longer, so we rode towards the summit. It's around 16km and rises up to 1709m. The gradient trickles you through the woods at a steady 5 per cent,it winds and curls and floats along. Numerous waterfalls plunge through the trees and so many wild flowers dance on the roadside that it makes for a joyous climb. We soon caught and passed the Trek group.

As the road nears the top it kicks up and flicks about a bit but this climb, when treated with respect, is totally wonderful. The closer we got to the summit the more the clouds rolled in, totally obliterating the view. The damp was clinging to our clothes and forming dew drops on our arms. My whole body was steaming, even my feet!

We came over the summit, took pictures and quickly downed hot chocolate before getting our cards stamped and making ready to head off. The owner of the cafe handed me a copy of a newspaper. "For the descent, monsieur" he said, smiling. Never have I been so proud to stuff a paper down my jersey. I felt totally pro! How sad am, I but it's the small things in life that make us smile, inside and out.

We made our exit and ran straight into the closed gates on our route. A sign in huge letters read Ferme - closed! We knew the road was closed to cars as Nick had had to do a 2 hour detour to where he planned to meet us. But bikes?!?! God, if we had to go back the way we came.....

At that moment a small car, complete with flashing orange lights, appeared. The man in overalls lifted the gate. "Ferme pour velo?" I asked. "Non," he said. Was that "no" it's open or "no" bikes can't go. I looked over my shoulder at Bob and rolled through the gate.

The road fell away through the thick fog of cloud, my bike seemed to catch flight and simply melted into the mist. All I could hear was the soft sound of cow bells ringing in the whiteout. I couldn't see Bob, I just put my head down and flew, the exhilaration bringing a smile to my face even though my body was chilled by the wind ripping through it.

The bends linked together and then through the fog the cow bells became loud, very loud. Out of the gloom a huge cow appeared, standing in the road. Brake, skid, steer, missed him .. then another. It was cow dodgems. I came to halt laughing at what might have been and waited for Bob to emerge from the clouds. We rode on together through the road works ahead of the Tour de France, an 18 inch strip of road open for cyclists, the rest a steaming mass of molten tar.

The d'Aubisque merges into the Col du Soulor after about 4kms then there was a short climb to the other gate barring the route. Nick was at the gate. I've never seen a man look more relieved to see his charges. Other cyclists gathered at the gate and after checking with us headed through the "route ferme" barrier.

A quick picnic lunch and we headed for the giant of the Pyrenees, the Col du Tourmalet.

We rode steadily through the lower slopes until we hit the main drag. Straightaway I knew this was going to be a different ride. With the sun beating down we made steady but slow progress. The section through the village of Bareges hit 13 per cent in places, with Bob and I exchanging the role leading our small group. There is one easy section on the climb, about two thirds of the way up, but the rest is a battle at 7, 8, 9 and 10 per cent. Nick providing a constant flow of water to keep us going.

The kilometre markers have been removed while the work to improve the surface goes on ahead of the Tour next month. The Tourmalet and the Pyrenees celebrate the 100th anniversary of their introduction to the greatest cycling race on earth and no expense has been spared making the road surface absolutely perfect. But nothing can hide the deserted ski lifts that litter the mountain. The ski stations, ugly and ghost-like in the summer, barely hint at their winter party clothes.

The clouds gathered as we neared the top and having shown the mountain respect, creeping up it, some how it let us pass by. It was hard, yes, very hard in places, but not unrideable. The fog was thick at the summit. Pictures, another stamp on our cards followed by coffee and we grabbed newspapers, donned arm warmers and rain jackets for the18km descent to the hotel.

I started shivering almost straight away, my teeth chattering as I tried to keep warm by pedalling hard. The first 5km of the descent was done in 7 minutes, the next in 5, the next in just under 5 and suddenly there was the hotel. I stopped, dismounted and waited over 15 minutes for Nick to arrive in the car. Five minutes later Bob arrived, quite blue with cold but relieved to have found the hotel.

Conquerers: The first rider up and over Col du Tourmalet (the guy at the top) and the latest (me) on the foggy summit. Some handy free papers for cyclists.

DAY 2 STATISTICS

Total time 6hr 8 mins

Distance 116 km

Col d'Aubisque climb 1 hour 30 mins

Col du Tourmalet 2 hour 15

Total climb 3184

Calories 2839

Day 1: Hendaye to Arudy

A beautiful roll out with Atlantic breakers crashing onto the beach, the surfers readying themselves for a day in the water as we whizzed past. The road wound its way along cliffs that were punctuated with small basque towns whose names were made unpronounceable by the number of X's in them.

Bob set an early pace of around 30kph, which on the rolling coast road felt fine especially after a great breakfast.

The first climb, the Col St Ignace, came and went, the descent spectacular, its twists and turns plunging us into the valley at over 60kph, so fast that Nick couldn't keep up through the bends. We lost him and then lost our way. There's not much time to work out how many syllables the next town has when you flash past at nearly 70kph!

Our detour was bought to halt by a call from Nick and we were only 8 km out so we quickly rejoined the right road.

Suddenly Bob decided to put the hammer down and for the best part of 40km we raced at 35-40kph on the flat, me grimly hanging on to his back wheel trying to hide in his slipstream. We shot through a group of 20-30 local cyclists who seemed amused to see a young(ish) man hanging on with gritted teeth and wild eyes, sweat pouring from every pore, flies splattered across his legs and face (yep, that was me).

We stopped for lunch at St Jean Pied de Port, a pretty place with street cafes, and shop windows decked with flowers. Nick produced a fine picnic served from the back of his car. Local cheese and meat never tasted so good.

Bob spied a bike shop and headed in to sort out a technical issue with his gears. I waited in the baking-hot sun, glugging water as Bob paced frustratedly outside the shop.

I suffered from the long stop at lunch, my legs felt like lead and I'd eaten too much. After a short while we hit the Col d'Osquich, which ground its way through woods and fields to open out at 500m with the most amazing views. The descent was superb, the road flowed and fell from the top with a sinuous beauty and required no breaking all the way through its banked corners.

Arriving in Tardets we grabbed a quick drink, had our cards stamped as a record of the route and headed in the direction of Arudy, our overnight stop. We were supposed to climb the Marie Blanque ( which isn't part of the Raid) but because of the stop at the bike shop we were running behind schedule.

The road to Arudy was a tedious drag through a forest with a surface that made a scabby horse look lovely. It bumped and ground its way over a series of climbs that wore the mind down before the body. There had been a recent, feeble attempt at resurfacing it which had left a covering of loose gravel that pinged off the frames and stuck to our sweating bodies.

Thankfully Arudy eventually appeared and although broken by the day's 200km, after a shower and a fantastic meal suddenly life didn't feel quite so bad. The Hotel de France is a most elegant, in a shabby chic way, French way family-run hotel, where, despite my schoolboy French, I was able to understand the owner taking the piss out of my weary arrival and the fact that several glasses of wine had straightened me out!

Tomorrow's itinerary includes the Col d'Aubisque and Col du Tourmalet, the giants of the Pyrenees.

TODAY'S STATISTICS

Distance 200km

Time 7hrs 35mins

Ascent 2377m

Calories 4000

Average cadence 90 rpm

Max cadence 166 rpm

Avg speed 26kph

Max speed 67kph

The night before

Arrived safely, even my kit arrived safely, so thank you Ryanair for taking care of it.

I was met by the guide, Nick Flanagan, a Raid Pyrenean veteran, and a tall bronzed American named Bob, from Wisconsin. Nick turned out to be as I expected: a man with an easy sense of humour and a natural at making strangers feel like friends.

Bob and I are the only ones riding the Raid in Nick's team this time. Eek, if ever a man was meant to cycle it was Bob. Ok, he's a little older than me but my god he looks fit (not in a sexy way, no!). He watched me build my bike, asking pertinent questions such as: "Are you sure those bottle cages load from the bottom?". I quickly put them on properly and hid my embarassment.

This hotel is filled with cyclists, many doing the Raid with other guides, and the car park is littered with more bike racks than Halfords and very pro-looking team cars. Over the din of the international language barrier being broken down by cycling bravado we ate. Dinner was a buffet of as much salmon and salad as you could get on your plate before the other cyclists ate it all. This was followed by a huge portion of Moroccan chicken and rice, three desserts and a glass or three of wine. Bob drank just water, he is so pure, and he even wanted brown rice. When the waitress told him it was just white rice he opted for pasta. He did sneak a chocolate dessert though.

The official route on Day 1 doesn't, or didn't have, any major climbs, but Bob has asked Nick to include the off-piste Col de Marie Blanque, which is, ooh, just 1035m and on this year's Tour de France. So, keen not to be seen as lily-livered, I laughed in the face of this challenge to my manhood and gingerly, in a voice only dogs could hear, said "I'm game".

We ride at 9am tomorrow and 100 hours after that I'll either be dead or swimming in the Med.

How to pack a bike

So the day arrives. I've culled my clothing to fit into the biggest bag Ryanair will allow, something about the size of a small sandwich box. Everytime I try and close the lid the clothes concertina out like some demented jack-in-the-box, causing curses and frustration and beads of sweat to form on my furrowed brow. Eventually it's done, closed and hermetically sealed for freshness.

And so to the garage.

My bike box, unzipped, lies on the floor. I feel confident I can do the stripping down of a bike. How hard can it be? Wheels off, bubble wrapped, bolted in place. I stand back proudly admiring what I have to conquer. Bars loosened, ummm not quite fitting, ah the saddle, of course. Allen Key in hand I tackle the bolt, it loosens, I smile. A twist and nothing: the seat won't budge. I wrench, clasp, grip, twist and wrestle. A tangle of carbon and flesh heave around the garage. Out into the sunshine and the fight goes on, back against the wall, feet on cranks, twisting. Squealing, the protesting frame won't give up it's grip. Neighbours come and stare, sweat drips from my reddened face, blood oozes from grazes on my knuckles. Amid more screams of protest from the bike, the seat suddenly moves. With a grim snarl of success and spittle my lips break into a smile. Drenched in sweat, my heart racing, I collapse by the bike, probably in a similar state to how I'll look later this week.

I lovingly caress the frame into insulation tubes, more bubble wrap and eventually do up the zip. Then a shining light catches my eye, ah pedals! I'll need those. Unzip, more bubble wrap, find space, close zip. As I step back my foot sends something spinning across the garage, my helmet, unzip again. You get the picture. An hour later, the floor checked and double checked for spare or missing parts, I drew the zip closed for the last time. Let's hope it goes back together without the same fight!

Father's Day

We've all had the socks and dodgy aftershave coupled with a homemade card, but last Sunday Noah gave me a special gift beyond my wildest dreams.

In true father and son style we chucked his bike in the back of the car and headed to the train station car park.

With his helmet strapped firmly in place and stabilisers removed I held the back of of his saddle and explained to him the principles of balance.

"Yes, but dad, on the telly the cycle riders lean to one side," he said, of course using childhood logic. Patiently I explained that when you're going really fast round a corner, yes, you do lean to one side. But when you're going very slowly in a straight line leaning to one side would lead to a fall.

We

went up and down the car park, me sweating profusely, bent double over the back of his Raleigh Dragon Slayer complete with go-faster flames. Eventually I was so knackered that I let go and slumped in a red-faced heap behind his bike. He wobbled left, then right and suddenly he was away. The bike took flight beneath his spinning pedals and I shouted encouragement like a dad ranting on the touchline of his son's football match. He stopped, looked over his shoulder and said, "I did it dad, I really did it".

To say my heart swelled with pride and my eyes with tears is an understatement. I had actually helped my son learn to ride his bike - a major moment in both our lives.

We did a few more laps, his joyful laughter at his new found independence filling my ears. Then he stopped and looked at me again and said, "Do you think we should be leaning over going round corners now?".

We decided that ice cream to celebrate was better. It meant we finished on a high, rather than in casualty!