Sunday, ah Sunday, a restful day, a late alarm, a cup of tea, a gradual emerging from the snug cocoon of well-deserved rest, an amble to the paper shop, a leisurely and indulgent breakfast, a late lunch with family and friends, a glass or bottle or two, a recuperative, restorative, indulgent day.
So why was I up at 6:00 making up water bottles of electrolytes and energy, cramming croissant and banana into my mouth, squeezing my protesting body into snug lycra and meeting up with 70 or so whippet-thin cycling obsessives to ride 50 miles up hill and down dale across Southern England and 35 miles back.
There's a fine charity run by some lovely people, the 'Children with Special Needs Foundation'. Our chums, Gordon and Ann run it and they'd put an event together with the local Foxhills golf club near us to run an organised fund-raising 'sportive' (bike ride).
We'd assembled an equipe of nine bicycling friends and myself. I sorted out some team kit, branded long-sleeve jerseys (it is September) and we huddled at Foxhills at unearthly o'clock for coffee, danish and nervous laughter.
Our team, as you can see, was a good looking group and all in fine fettle as we set off with our ride guide 'John, a man who obviously has cycling coursing through his veins, (veins very evident on a man carrying nothing that remotely resembled body fat).
We set off well and passed a couple of the earlier groups, all was going well for the first ten miles until your humble correspondent, (who traditionally only shines on fast downhill stretches for some reason) had a bit of a 'coming together' with another of our team. He was mercifully unscathed, I however managed to buckle my front wheel, bend my chainring and pulverise my lower back. Our guide, John, was phlegmatic and parried all my attempts to get a ride back in the van, by summoning a spare bike and ensuring that all my many and varied excuses came to naught.
The remainder of the fifty miles to Farleigh, near Croydon passed pleasantly and with much challenge but I can't deny that I arrived at the lunch stop with a spring in my step, a spark in my eye, a quip on my lips and sadly, a twisted wrenching muscular mess of excruciating pain across my lower back.
Along with the other, "that's quite enough for me" retirees I made my way back on the team bus while most of our team survivors set off on the 35 mile return leg. Luckily by the time they arrived back I'd done a serious quality investigation of the complimentary prosecco and was poised to attack the excellent hog-roast.
Special mentions for my colleagues in the team should go to Dean, who was 2nd over the finish line, bro-in-law Graham who rode his mountain bike the whole way and now "never wants to see that bike again, ever". Chef Winston had an 'orrible fall at 50 miles, minutes from lunch, lacerated a leg (his own) but manfully bled the 35 miles home. Steve C and Dave B who kindly called it quits and came back on the bus to stop me feeling lonely, Anna, (Mrs Shouty) rode an excellent ride and Richard and Glen, (the other XLshirts) who were a delight to ride with, kept me motivated and only ever slagged me off when they thought I was out of earshot.
All in all a fun day for a worthy cause
and as I lie here, wracked with pain, supine and suffering, I'm really looking forward to next time, if I can get my bike fixed, and get a bit fitter, and find anyone willing to ride with me, etc. etc. etc.
I tend to choose movies that have an element of escapism about them, the unreal, the surreal, the hyper-real. I have chums who get annoyed when something takes place in a film that wouldn't work in the real world. Myself, I'm the opposite, I can (often reluctantly, grudgingly and with poorly disguised ill-humour, sit through a rom-com, an historical drama, a heartwarming tale of everyday folk but secretly I'm yearning for the aliens to arrive, for the housewife to be unmasked as an ace assassin with awesome ninja skills. "Let's go and see 'Rush', that film about James Hunt" she exclaimed, my lovely wife. "Yes let's do that" I replied, feigning enthusiasm whilst inwardly ticking off the pointless counter arguments. I know the story, I lived then, I know what happens, Formula 1 is formulaic, the 70s were tedious, etc. etc.
No matter, we hooked up with some chums for a pre-movie supper and "away my beauties, hie thee to the multiplex". You'll not hear this often but "I was wrong". Ron Howard has produced a thoughtful, engrossing and entertaining film. It flows well, the storyline, although we already know it, is delivered with precision and pace, the period detail is extraordinarily well captured. The actors are all great, Chris Emsworth plays hunt very well but this is really a film about Nikki Lauda and the actor who plays him, Daniel Bruhl looks very much the man that Lauda was, a driven perfectionist with dodgy social skills but ultimately a man who earned much-deserved real respect for his drive tenacity and ultimately his humanity. I believe that Lauda was a consultant to the film but it certainly doesn't see him through rose-tinted racing goggles. The closing minutes are real news photos and footage of the actual protagonists and I must admit left me a little misty-eyed and Mrs Stuffy quite moved. A Hubris Haiku? The Hunt for success James drove, and lived, to excess Lauda was prouder
For many years I've enjoyed the occasional long weekend of very fine wines, excellent food, great hospitality and a little over-enthusiastic skiing with my chums, Roy, his astounding and supremely hospitable wife Elaine and my long term colleague and occasional excessive-tequila-buddy Richard. It became a bit of an annual fixture until, in an act of pure selfishness Roy and Elaine sold their lovely house in the Alps and decamped to another lovely house in Vence, about 30k north of the Cote d'Azur. So last year, Richard and I packed our bicycles and descended, our aim, to try and eat and drink them out of house and home (and do a bit of gentle cycling).
The cycling, on roads, (I like cycling in the woods) was a newish thing for me, it seemed (not unlike our skiing) to involve periods of frantic activity, discomfort and pain to move ourselves from one comfortable place to another, usually resulting in beer, wine, food, coffee or all four. I couldn't help noticing though that, unlike skiing, everything seemed to be uphill. A fundamental flaw of the sport to my mind. As we made ready to depart, exhausted but well cared for, someone, I'm not sure who (Richard!) suggested that on our next visit we cycle from France to Italy. Now I was aware that getting from France to Italy could easily involve a journey of a mere metre if planned correctly so I raised no objections, easy to look back in anger but, nevertheless, the Tuxedo Tour was born. If you'd like to see the edited highlights do please feel free to click on the beautiful red handlebars in the photo below.
If you're interested in statistics forget it, it was a ride, from Vence to SanRemo and back of about 180km, over a couple of days, we stayed in SanRemo in an agreeable hotel staffed by disagreeable people. With the notable exception of Chris, (by far the fittest and fleetest of us) the ladies were manning (womanning) the support vehicles, support, hah! we never saw them. It will come as no surprise to my legions of supporters that I was slow, oh so very,very slow but I survived, got up everything, and now have a brace of Corniches and a La Turbie under my substantial belt. It was a delightful four days of friends, fun and frolics only slightly compromised by the dolorous trudging up spectacular mountains in the baking sun by four fine cyclists and me. I think I might take them rock climbing next year...
... an aimless wander through the dusty and moth-eaten corridors of a once beautiful mind, alternating between grumpy optimism and cheerful misanthropy...
Ramblings from the dusty and neglected corridors of a once beautiful mind, alternating 'tween cheerful misanthropy and grumpy optimism, enjoy, or enjoy not, as you wish ...
Our team, as you can see, was a good looking group and all in fine fettle as we set off with our ride guide 'John, a man who obviously has cycling coursing through his veins, (veins very evident on a man carrying nothing that remotely resembled body fat).
The remainder of the fifty miles to Farleigh, near Croydon passed pleasantly and with much challenge but I can't deny that I arrived at the lunch stop with a spring in my step, a spark in my eye, a quip on my lips and sadly, a twisted wrenching muscular mess of excruciating pain across my lower back.
