Done, down, over and out...

Well I made it! Quite how I will never know....but rather similarly to the pro-riders it seems it was largely thanks to a heavy reliance on drugs, not wanting to let my sponsors down, and that I had bragged to far too many girls to back out at any stage.

Since climbing the Tourmalet for the last time on stage 17 the tour has slowly wound down. Distances have got shorter, the terrain has got flatter and the pace has got slower. I have to admit to having a mixture of feelings as we neared Paris. Joy and relief were met with a sense of loss and apprehension. The questions that were fired back and forth throughout the peleton seemed to summarise what we were all feeling...What am I going to do on Monday? How do you top this?

I am now back in London and I don’t like it.

I keep wanting to fill up imaginary water-bottles and my eyes our peeled searching for fluorescent arrow signs that have been guiding me for the last three weeks. My legs are tingling with a sense of unease and my bum cant seem to get comfy on my soft office chair.

Does Lance Armstrong go to a shrink post tour? Or is that why he keeps coming back?
The only solace has come from the enormous amount of congratulations I have received, the vast amounts of guilt-free alcohol I have consumed, and the knowledge that I don’t have to squeeze into festering lycra at 6 in the morning.

There is always a rather excessive use of the phrase ‘life-changing experience’. This was not the birth of a child, a loss of a limb or a win at the lottery. But it has started a no doubt life-long fascination with the Tour, a new understanding of quite how incredibly tough these pro-cyclists are, and the knowledge that my pain-threshold is much higher than I ever thought it was.

Will I ever be getting on a bike again? Of course...I have a race on Sunday. Reading is not quite the Pyrenees but I can’t help myself.

Last Tango in Paris

The finish line is getting ever closer and I finally have some time on my hands! The last two stages are totally flat and both about 50km each. The penultimate stage for the Tour is set aside as a Time Trial – which if the tour leaders are in a battle, can be the most important stage of the tour. I was not taking any chances and armed with my very fetching skin suit (£2.50 on eBay in case you wanted one), alot of kitchen foil and sellotape...Rick Gradidge and I came down to breakfast and announced our intentions.



Not a particularly great look...but it got alot of hoots of approval from the locals and we clearly looked like pro's....or Noddy and Big Ears on holiday!

The Time Trial ended with a very nice boozy lunch, and then we all hopped onto a train to take us up to the outskirts of Paris for the final glory ride into the city center the next day.

I don’t think I have ever enjoyed cycling in a built up area so much. The tension mounted the closer we got to crossing the finish line at the Eiffel Tower. Photos were taken at every opportunity...including my second lap of the Arc d’Triumph. Where a rather large and aggressive lorry reminded me that this was not a place to be taking snap shots.

Once more into the breach....

Today we had our second rest day....and one that could not have been more welcome. The last three days have been incredibly tough as we entered into the Pyrenees and have just got tougher.

Yesterday was a day I will never forget. I basically climbed half the height of Everest...4,600 metres in 196km, in scenery that was quite unbelievably beautiful and became increasingly so with every pedal stroke. We seemed to climb and climb from just 3km out of our hotel. We had two category 1 climbs before noon which were tough enough but they were merely a warm up before the big one....and the one that the tour had been culminating towards.

The Col du Tourmalet

A Category HC (uncategorized....ie off the scale) this is 17km of constant uphill that varies in 8 to 12% and takes us up to 2115m above sea level. The view from the top was beyond spectacular and made doubly so by the effort of getting there. It was also the first day since stage 2 that I haven’t been in pain with my knees. For some reason climbing seems to help them and they have eased in the last couple of days and it has been my strongest ride todate.....joy!!





Photos don’t really do this place justice but thankfully (am I really saying this?) we are going back tomorrow for the final Pyrenean stage and this years Etape stage. The Tourmalet climb from the other side....I cant wait!

Jake the Peg

So sorry still having very little personal admin time to write anything constructive or informative.

That being said...I have now made it to the Pyreenees. Just...I am now known as Jake the Peg on the tour as a result of my constant hobbling. Currently carrying the following..

Inflamed achilles on left foot...ouch

Misaligned platella tracking on left knee...oh dear god

Sores on back of left knee as a result of knee support... drugs please

Constant muscle spasm in right leg's inner quad as a result of trying to protect all of the above by using right leg more. Big mistake....very difficult to cycle with one leg!

Jake the Peg indeed. Still going though...2700km done...just under a thousand to go!

Much more interesting and informative blog updates from the tour can be found at http://www.tourdeforce.org.uk/blog/

Je suis désolé

Apologies to the no doubt thousands of fans who are following the blog and are upset not to be receiving daily updates on my progress. I thought it would be fairly easy to write a few things at the end of each day as I retire for the night. But it is ridiculous how little time we have to organise and get ready for the next day. I simply have not had a chance.

An average day consists of getting in at about 7-8 in the evening, depending on the length of the ride and severity of the terrain and weather. I then find my room...legs up in the air to drain the lactic acid from the muscles...drink my recovery shake....shower (cold on the legs)...eat at 8.30...briefing for the next day at 9.30. Then I have to try and fix any mechanical and physical issues (lots at the moment) before usually getting into bed at about 10.30 .... to get up the next day usually at about 6.30 or earlier depending on if we have a coach transfer to take us to the next stage.

Personal time is very limiting and you have to make the most of it. I had been toying with the idea of shaving my legs for quite some time....quite simply as an excuse to lady-boy it up but also to try and look the part. But i could never quite believe the stories that is was for speed, for ease of applying plasters on injuries, and so on. It was only after my first massage that the true reason became apparent and that it is very simply much easier, and less painful, to have no hair when you are being rubbed down at the end of the day. Razor in hand I took the plunge and began shaving after getting into my room earlier after stage 4. It was only after 45 minutes and only one leg shaved that I realised I had to stop otherwise I would miss supper. Its been nearly three days and I still haven’t had a chance to shave the other leg....much to the hilarity of the rest of the peleton.



Please bear with me I will be trying to keep a report on the stages....I am still alive and pedalling. And I have managed to reach the rest day in Morzine (day 8).....but only just (more on that later). Today was supposed to be a chance to relax and do personal admin . But it started very badly when it was discovered that the very nice hotel we were booked into had been broken into and 12 peoples bikes had been stolen. Knowing my luck I walked down into the room where they had been locked fully expecting Madonna not to be there. Unbelievably there she was in all her glory. A huge relief but also huge frustration felt for all those whose bikes had been knicked.....some of which had only just joined the tour and hadn’t even used them yet.

The day subsequently turned into a bit of an admin nightmare as everyone was frantically trying to source or loan bits of kit for tomorrows stage. That being said I did manage to do my washing, shave my other leg, and watch yet another classic English performance....why do i bother? I had more fun watching my pants in the dryer.

More updates to follow soon....I hope!

Shaken to the core

Stage 3 - Wanze – Arenberg - 220 km

We were up at the crack of dawn this morning in order transfer across to the start of the next stage by bus. The modern eco-friendly hotel that had been a major plus point at the end of a very hard day yesterday, sadly proved not be very ‘washing-friendly’. All my hard work last night in hand cleaning my kit for the next day was still in a soggy mess in the bathroom.

I should have put it on regardless, as after an hour-long transfer, we started stage 3 in the pouring rain. Phil, the tour leader, and legendary weather forecasting was spot-off yet again...even Michael Fish got it right occasionally?. But we were now all quite hardened to a bit of drizzle from the last two days and we knew the real test would be much later in the day with the infamous ‘Pavé’ sections.

Pavé – is basically cobbled farm-track that varies between a nightmare and a disaster to cycle on. Rumour has it, from all the peleton chat that takes place throughout the day (usually in short sharp breathes) , that the entire Tour de France could be lost for some riders by just this small 16km style of road. Crashes are highly likely and mechanical failure a given as the entire peleton race through these very narrow tracks at break-neck speed.


After some rather nice undulating hills we duly arrived at our first 300m section of Pavé. To see it in the flesh was an eye-opener...to cycle on it was eye-watering on the nether regions to say the least. As the day progressed the sections of Pavé got longer and more jarring on every part of our body and bikes. The longest section of over 3km was summed up best by Davinia, one of the two girls attempting the entire Tour.

‘I used to be a girl...but now I am not so sure’.

We arrived back to the hotel quite soon after the last section... shaken to the core and only missing the odd filling... but with stage 3 complete.

My already enormous respect for these pro-riders only continues to grow!

Dont follow the pups!

Stage 2 - Brussels – Spa - 212km

I woke up with an instant check to the flexibility of my knee...nothing ...nothing atall. Perhaps I was imagining it yesterday when so much was at stake. My achilles tendon however was definitely hurting like hell. Doctor Steve, the tour medic (who was already being nicknamed Doctor Death Wish on account of his colour blindness with traffic lights), gave me an anti-inflammatory spray and a pill and said to take it easy.

This was not a day to be taking it easy though... one of the longest stages with our first major category climbs. After a lovely spin through Brussels, which that early on a Sunday morning was totally empty, we headed out into the Belgian countryside. The weather was still pretty miserable with on/off drizzle.

As the day progressed the undulating countryside peaked and troughed in increasing intensity. I did what I usually did and started way too quickly. The ‘young pups’ as they were known, four very fit friends all about 27 years old, had decided to lead off at quite a pace after the first drink stop, and I tagged along with them. Big error and i paid for it later...the last few hills were 7-10% gradients and went on and on.

One hill however was in parts a 22% gradient and led up to a tribute to the Belgian Eddie Merczkx. Still alive today he is one of the worlds cycling greats. This particular hill was where he used to ‘attack’ the other riders.... it seemed to work...he won the Tour de France 5 times!



One more brutal climb later we arrived to a very comfortable and modern eco-friendly hotel before it got too dark....it had been by far one of my longest days in the saddle!

The Barbie Award

Stage 1 – Rotterdam to Brussels – 220 km

Another classic English sporting performance only managed to increase my anxiety levels to a new high. I waited for my bag with baited breath. The lovely Pauline, the tour physio who was flying in to Rotterdam from Gatwick, was going to be giving me the good or bad news about my bag situation. At midnight she arrived....as did the bag. I did not need that sort of drama and subsequently slept really badly thinking it still hadn’t turned up.

But a new day and Stage 1 was to begin. No excuses now.
Another early start and we all assembled outside for a team talk to discuss the finer points and route of the day and the ‘Awards’ scheme... Each day an award , with suitable mascot, was to given for the ‘most heroic performance’....and the ‘biggest moaner’. Heroic performance was to be a small ‘lucky’ plastic pig. Biggest moaner was to have Barbie style attachments, added to his bike, of pink plastic horn and tassles.


Seeing as I was the only one who I had moaned about my bag being lost...I duly received the Barbie Award!

We set off as one big group of twenty riders and after a quick spin through Rotterdam on the fantastic cycle lanes – we bombed out of the city and into a mixture of bridges and semi-urban areas towards Brussels. The scenery was all totally flat and all rather dull but we were kept focused by the strong wind that aided and hindered us in place, constantly stopping for punctures (2 of which were mine), and a very strange truck festival that had a seemingly endless procession of trucks all hooting us as we passed.

My left knee, that had been a recent major problem in training, began to rear its ugly head again at lunch. To say I was concerned was an understatement...but we progressed and I attempted to cycle in a way that inflicted minimal amount of force on it. This promptly started to create problems with my left achilles tendon and by the time we finished the stage in Brussels it was a toss-up between the two as to which was more painful.

Maybe it will be better in the morning?

You cannot be serious!

Flying for me always seems to be enormously stressful. Over the years I have learnt to accept that something will inevitably go wrong no matter how prepared or early I am to the airport. This is usually my fault (like managing to fly to Addis Ababa when I was supposed to fly to Nairobi – not an easy thing to do I can assure you) but occasionally ....very occasionally, it is totally out of my control.

I have been sleeping really badly over the last few days, religiously waking up at 4am, after having some very strange dreams about either cycling naked or crashing spectacularly down some Alpine ravine. So this morning was a considerable lie-in at 5 am.

A 20 minute hike to Clapham Junction with my now ridiculously over-laden and ‘excess-baggage-ready’ suitcase I was unhelpfully directed to the wrong platform to Gatwick by a ticket collector more asleep than I was. 30 back breaking steps up...I realised it was not the right platform. Back down..round...another hike up...only to see my train slowly pulling out of the platform...not my ideal ‘Brief Encounter’ moment! Half an hour later I was on the next train – getting in to Gatwick with 5 minutes to spare. No panic whatsoever!

After doing a very good bit of blagging with the check-in girl about why my 36kg bag was a tad over the 20kg limit, I sailed through passport control without a rubber glove in sight. There I met Sandy and Davinia – encouragingly both complete novices like me, and both attempting the whole Tour. A short and very empty flight later we arrived in Rotterdam.

Well I certainly did.....my bag, with every conceivable bit of kit, clothing and nutrition required to get me through the next 3 weeks, had not.

A series of emotions then followed... first total disbelief...then anger (still raging now!)...then a massive panic to track my life down and get it back before it was too late for the 7am start tomorrow. A lot of very irate calls later and I seemed to be getting nowhere. Then out of blue, whilst taking in the gangland concrete sights of Rotterdam (we had even been warned by our taxi driver that we were in a rough area), a ridiculously laid back Dutch girl rang me up to say they had found my bag, that it was still at Gatwick and it would be on the next flight over getting in at 11pm.

'Fantastic news!' I said...

'Well they may always forget to put it on the plane again?' she replied.

Not helpful...not in the slightest!

The rest of the afternoon was spent working out worst case scenarios ..who I could borrow kit from if the same backward Gatwick baggage handler screwed up again, and why I ever thought flying with Transavia airways was a good idea. It’s a really bad idea! Tragically it’s a rule I already know and should have applied. Always, always book a flight with an airline you have heard of. Probably why I ended up in Addis Ababa courtesy of Yemen Air!

I now wait...safe in the knowledge that England are playing Algeria tonight...that should lift my spirits?

...oh god Cappello has put Green in goal again!

Anything to declare sir?

Well the last week has been a fairly manic mix of equipment checks, last minute shopping with subsequent next day deliveries, and weird dreams about naked cycling and spectacular wipe-outs. But I think I am fairly sorted now. Madonna went it for a last minute doctors appointment and came out with a new set of brakes, chain and rear cassette .... and she is now purring like a kitten.

My major concern it that I have now packed an enormous bag with nearly 3kg of white powder in bottles. Fingers crossed the customs official at the airport listens to my pleas that it is actually a carbohydrate drink, and not what he thinks it is, before he dons the rubber glove and the Vaseline!

I have to say though I am fully expecting a search of some kind as I don’t think I have ever packed such a weird array of things before i got on a plane. It includes.... 15 packs of jelly babies , 10 packs of fig rolls, 10 malt loafs, 30 energy gels , all mixed in with a healthy dollop of saddle cream, anusol and lycra. I could just as easily be jetting off to the sex Olympics.



A massive thank you to all those who have been so supportive to date, both with their highly generous donations, good lucks , and even packs of goodies to keep me on the straight and narrow!

Now I just have to find my passport...

Knees, tan lines, boy-racers and bonking

So I have the bike, I have the gear and I have the mission. There is just the small task of getting fit for it. Nothing would be more embarrassing than collapsing in a wheezing, sweaty mess ten miles out. So with a combination of personal pride and not wanting to disappointment my sponsors, I began my training in earnest in early February....that gave me about 18 weeks. Loads of time.....

Far from it....by the end of February I was off the bike and wearing a knee support on my right and very swollen knee. Several painful and expensive trips to the physio and I was diagnosed with ‘misaligned patella tracking’. A common ailment with cyclists where the outer upper quad muscles of my legs were stronger than the inner quads....resulting in them pulling the knee cap over my knee joint and rubbing up and down as I pedalled. 3 weeks later I was allowed back on the bike after slowly building up my inner quads in the gym. Now I had 11 weeks training remaining. I was running out of time...

I slowly eased back into the rides and built up to my first century ride in early April in the Cotswolds. Quite the eye-opener it was tough to say the least. But despite the rather demoralising and often humiliating points (being overtaken by girls and having to get off on the really steep bits) I had reached quite an important marker.

What followed was an 8 week blur of early morning rises and lost weekends, mind-numbingly boring laps of Richmond park, constant abuse from chavs in suped-up Fiesta’s, and journeys down pretty much every country road in Hampshire, Wiltshire, Dorset and Surrey. But it slowly built up the strength in my legs, and I began to find myself not walking up the hills so much, and only getting overtaken by the occasional girl....which was allowed as everyone needs a carrot.

I began to understand the joys of draughting (sitting behind fellow cyclists, who take the brunt of the wind whilst you expend up to 30% less energy behind), the techniques of ascending and descending steep sections, and the huge importance of fuelling yourself by eating and drinking constantly whilst on the bike (essential to avoid ‘bonking’ or ‘hitting the wall’...something I came close to experiencing a couple of times).

Things were going reasonably well .... I was getting faster and stronger and could now even do back-to-back 100 milers (although I walked like John Wayne for a few days afterwards). I lost weight incredibly quickly and had to compensate by eating enourmous carb-loaded meals. I also began to develop the infamous cycling tan - not something to be proud of as it gave you incredibly defined tan lines where you had been wearing your shorts, top and gloves.



But then disaster struck...my left knee started to act up similarily to my right back in February. A lack of stretching and overtraining were to blame and three weeks before I was due to leave for France I was told to stop my training altogether and repair myself, otherwise I wouldn’t even make the start let alone complete it. I had a final and very gentle ride on the knee last weekend and everything appears to be back to normal. I hope - but have I done enough?

To be honest....I haven’t. Nothing like enough. Since I officially started at the beginning of February I have spent nearly 145 hours in the saddle and cycled exactly 2,267 miles (of which 13 rides were of a 100 miles or more). Depressingly this means in the 5 months of training I have managed only 31 miles more than I intend to complete in just 22 days! Oh dear...out of time.

But in the words of one particularly vocal chav as he manfully roared past me.... "France is that way mate!"

Training is over .... time for the real thing!

Madonna and lycra

As with any new sport there is always new kit to acquire. I had already been given a lot of grief for turning up on my first training ride with my incredibly heavy commuting bike, sporting tracksuit bottoms and a fleece. Everyone had clearly been cycling before and had anorexic looking bikes with no obvious aversion to lycra. I was not in the club and stuck out like a sore thumb.

Some sports are cheaper and less complicated than others. In the case of swimming its ... ’trunks’ ... check ... ’goggles’ ... check ... and you are off. For cycling its a case of speaking to your bank manager before you even walk into a bike shop, and then walking back into that shop about a hundred times before you even vaguely look like you know what you are doing. I now know pretty much all the staff at Evans cycles in Wandsworth by name...and I think its fair to say they are quite happy about it.

My original budget soon went straight out the window when I quickly discovered that cycle stores brought out the worst in my spending side. I wasn’t quite Imelda Marcos in a shoe shop but I did get weirdly overly excited about carbon fibre, gear ratios and wheel rims. But after several excursions on possible suitors I soon fell deeply in love with a Trek Madone 4.5.....or Madonna as she soon came to be known (I hoped a religious name might somehow help me at particular low points on the tour).



The initial excitement I had with first acquiring Madonna soon rapidly disappeared when I realised that buying a bike was only the beginning. Firstly you needed kit for the bike... water bottle cages, speedometer, clip-in pedals, bike bags, lights, puncture repair kits....and on, and on, and on. Then you needed kit to keep you actually on the bike... carbohydrate drinks, gels, water bottles, saddle creams, recovery shakes... and on, and on, and on.

Finally you needed the kit for you to wear on the bike....helmets, shades, shoes, gloves, jerseys and of course the dreaded lycra outfits. A material that only looks good on supermodels, it leaves nothing to the imagination. And if its white and it’s raining....it leaves no imagining what so ever. The first time I saw myself in the mirror wearing lycra shorts I felt an almost instant reflex to cover my groin with my hands. But over time and hanging out with others similarly on show – I began to embrace it for all its glory.

The story so far....

Having never been much of a cyclist, I bought my first commuting bike last summer in a fit of desperation against using the London transport system and paying Ken’s congestion charge. There are only so many times a man can get stuck, vomited on, arrested (for terrorism - not charged), and pick pocketed before he realises that there must be an easier way of getting about town.

In the few remaining days of summer, I realised just quite how incredibly liberating having a bike can be...I was instantly hooked. My biggest issue of getting from A to B in London had never been the cost nor the time, not even the quadruple changes via C,D and E. But the total reliance of an antiquated system that was seemingly always late, cancelled or smelling of pee. With my bike I was always moving, never late and breathing only mildly toxic air.

However the jump from cycling commuter to aspiring pro-tour rider was, even to me, mildly incredulous. An initial first meeting with the Tour de Force team in late November sparked a serious interest to try my hand at a few stages. This then snowballed after my first training ride of 40 miles (the most I had ever ridden in my life) to 6 stages....a month later, I was signed up to do the whole thing.

Yes I enjoyed the freedom, and the exercise, and the gradual understanding of a sport, that only months previously, I knew nothing about. But most of all, it was that there was something within the human psyche of pushing yourself just that little bit further, a little bit harder, and a little bit faster, that cycling so brilliantly satisfied. Pain seemed to go hand-in-hand with pleasure. The more pain I endured the more pleased I was with myself at the end of the day.

But still .... the complete Tour de France circuit! What on earth was I thinking? I still had cycled no more than 80 miles in one session and I was already having issues with my right knee. Surely time and situation were on my side? I was fairly fit, self-employed and had the adage of ‘no wife, no children, no problem’. But as my training increased, this total naivety quickly turned into a fearful realisation of what I had taken on.