85 miles of hurt.....Worcester - Leominster - Worcester, by bike

Tony and his Cannondale CAA8D Tiagra

Jim and his Trek

What is pain? Is it a physical thing, a chemical reaction, a mental response to something that can hurt you? I don't know the answer, but I sure felt it a couple of Saturday's ago. An 85 mile training ride around Worcestershire and Herefordshire with my great friend Jim Yeoman. Hills, wind, sun, fatigue, legs that wouldn't 'shut up' and a re-acquaintance with my old nemesis, Ankerdine Hill. It hurt, but then pain is something we cyclists know about, apparently.....

I have just finished reading the most damning book ever published on the endemic use of performance enhancing drugs in professional cycling; 'The Secret Race', by Tyler Hamilton. Former team mate, friend and loyal lieutenant to Lance Armstrong. He has exposed the truth behind systematic doping used in the US Postal team in the Tour de France, of which Armstrong was entirely complicit, unrepentant, and a proactive participant. I have thrown my 'Livestrong' yellow wristband away in disgust; while Armstrong's crusade against cancer has done so much good, his name is now tarnished as a cheat, a liar, an arrogant win at all costs, f**k 'em all type of guy. That is how the book portrays him and I for one don't feel Hamilton has an axe to grind, more a huge burden of guilt he is trying to exorcise himself of, and in the process bring to some sort of closure his years of deceit, ostracisation and subsequent depression; together with a desire to put the record straight, to come clean and tell the truth and the whole truth.

Hamilton was a cyclist admired for his amazing strength, someone who could go to the limit and push beyond; someone who knew what pain felt like and thrived off that sensation, in the parlance of the cycling world, 'buried' himself in the cause of others, dug deep into reserves of energy and drove himself to exhaustion, regularly, Some day job.

Yes, he used performance enhancing drugs, but the most telling point he makes is as follows;

Doping doesn't make you hurt any less, it just gives you the chance to go further, deeper into yourself, to hurt more and for longer that your fellow cyclists, to outlast your competitors.

With or without drugs, cycling is painful, it is a sport that tests not just your legs, but your mental toughness. Who is going to break first, who is going to give in to that inner voice that is screaming at you, 'Stop, get off, walk, give up, pain, hurting, no more energy, can't do it'?

I am not Tyler Hamilton. Not because I have never used performance enhancing drugs (with the exception of flapjacks, Mars Bars and an extra banana); many a time I have thought if whether the steep hill ranging up ahead of me would be any easier with a spoonful of EPO and a drop of testosterone in my tea. Perhaps the next time I give blood at the blood bank I'll ask them to keep hold of it for a couple of weeks and then put it back, just to see if my performance up the nasty gradients near my home suddenly appear nothing more than speedbumps.

I am not Tyler Hamilton because I lack the capacity to suffer, to dig deeper than I thought possible, to struggle on long after others would stop and get off. Sadly, my suffering comes afterwards when I have eventually got to the top of a steep hill, panting for breath and cursing my legs, lungs, heart, stomach (Lycra is not quite the same as Spanx and regrettably enhances any excess around the midriff). Why can't I get up these bloody hills? What's wrong with me? When the average amateur would tough it out, the pro would not even blink at such pimples, I tend to be reaching for a non existent lower gear and immediately wishing someone would give me a sympathetic push.Oh well, me and hills, chalk and cheese, never to be bedfellows. I have resigned myself to the fact that I will forever have a love hate relationship with the lumpy stuff....I will always love to hate the hills.

Tony and Jim's Tour du Vent et des Gradients

Pain is not really my cup of tea....

After a day at the Tour of Britain the previous day, Jim and I set off on an 85 mile ride, blowing away a few cobwebs, stretching the leg muscles and pondering which cafes would provide for sustenance en route.

Le grand depart was at around 8am and we headed south on the A38 towards Upton Upon Severn. The cycle computer clicked a decent speed, averaging around 18 - 20mph. Good going for a couple of chaps in their early forties. Averaging 20mph....wow, these 85 miles will be a piece of cake. Wrong, so wrong.

We hit the first climb of the day at Severn Stoke, a little tester to freshen up the legs and get the heart rate up. Only short at around three quarters of a mile, but not too steep. I'd not ridden with Jim before, so I was keen to see how he fared on the climbs....in comparison to me; the escargot sur un vélo.

Surprisingly, very surprisingly, I crested the summit ahead of Jim....was that a touch of laboured breathing and the pant of the already tiring Yeoman? Surely he couldn't be as bad as me on the climbs. If he was, oh glory be, at last there is someone I can lead out, give protection to from the gradient, the wind....to be honest, it was nice having someone looking at my buttocks instead of me transfixed on a big Lycra moon a few metres ahead.

'You OK Jim?' I asked nonchalantly as we started the short descent towards Upton. I hoped I didn't sound too smug. 'Yeah, ok....I am always a bit stiff and it takes a little while to get going in the morning....funny though, I tend to get stronger as the ride goes on'. Bugger. I am the exact opposite. My legs feel like pistons after a full overhaul first thing, by the end they are heading for the breakers yard.

Through Upton and Hanley Swan, the villages of Worcestershire looking fresh and lovely in the bright morning sunshine. The road now began to rise, almost imperceptibly at first, but then the legs started to feel the slopes and the cycling became a little more strenuous.

Up ahead the profile of the Malverns, a 9 mile saw-tooth ridge of rolling hills, greeted us. This was our first real test, up on to the A449, skirting the base of the Malverns until doubling back on ourselves and climbing over the Wyche Cutting, a pass over the Malvern Hills I had climbed many times. As we started up the Wyche, the gears clicked down, but I felt remarkably strong and actually enjoyed the switch backs up the pass. Half way up, the view across the Vale of Evesham and towards the Cotswolds was lovely. I heard of groan from Jim, an audible exhalation - a sort of 'aaawwwhhh'. Great, got him, he's 'cooked', the Wyche has cracked him. No, he was just admiring the view. Damn.

We reached the summit of the climb, both in pretty good order and rode along the back of the Malverns towards British Camp and the second road pass over the hills. This one would take us off the hills and into Herefordshire. The climb actually continues along Jubilee Drive, though there is a lovely fast descent on which I decided I would show Jim my descending prowess. I shot by him like a Frobisher shaped rocket, making him wobble as my acceleration took him by surprise.  Come on Jim lad, keep up. How I was to eat those words.

From British Camp the road drops dramatically off the Malverns. This was my chance to push the bike and my legs and see what speed the computer would register. I accelerated, assumed an aerodynamic tuck(ish), and pedalled my highest gear as fast as I could....the speed climbed, 25, 27, 31, 34, 37, 38, 39.8mph...then 35, 32, 28, 25, 22.....how annoying. I missed the magic 40mph by 0.2mph. Drat and double drat, foiled again. Next time I'll definitely catch the pigeon.

Ledbury and Leominster, an 'L' of  a ride

We arrived in Ledbury, looked at our watches and decided it was 'Cake and Coffee O'Clock'. We asked a friendly local lady where she would recommend;

'Just over there, it's a cafe, but you have to walk through a shop to the back to get to the cafe....I don;t know what it's like, haven't been there for a long time'. Thanks, I think.

'Nice Things' cafe was just that. A little cafe haven of nice things, in our case, scones, tea cakes and coffee. The shop at the front sold knick knacks and a sign took my eye;

'My wife dresses to kill, she cooks the same way'. Très amusant.

Drinks break over and after failing to spot Ledbury's famous sons, Top Gear's Richard Hammond or 'The Raging Bull', darts legend Terry Jenkins, we turned north west and headed 20 miles to Leominster. The cycling was memorable for being fairly forgettable. Nothing of real significance happened, the cycling was fairly easy, no major climbs, the wind was gently pushing us along and times were good. Piece of cake, no dramas....ah, is that Leominster I see? Already, by heck Jim lad, it's lunch time and we've only been on the go 3 and a half  hours and we've done how many? Really....? 50 miles. Cracking stuff and time for a spot of lunch. The final 35 miles will be a breeze. Breeze being the operative word.

Leominster is a quaint little country town, the last outpost of England before you cross over to Wales. There wasn't a lot to sell the place to us, other than the tantalising smells of lunch wafting from a number of high street cafes. We tied up the bikes and walked, clickety-clack on our cleated cycling shoes, dripping in sweat and smelling a little pungent, into the Stepping Stone cafe. I thought it would be a nice little organic delight, serving up vegetarian treats, home made cakes and rooibos tea in the finest china. It wasn't, and we fitted in very well.

The greasy spoon cafe is a dying breed. Mostly because their customers tend to die of heart attacks caused by cholesterol butties and furred artery fry ups. But this was a last bastion of the homage to hydrogenated fats. The All Day Breakfast is a British tradition that just wouldn't seem right anywhere else in the world;

'Avez-vous un petit déjeuner toute la journée?'
'Pardon? Il est 16h30 ... vous êtes fou? ... ah, anglais!'

No, the all day croissant just wouldn't work. But the Stepping Stone served up a fabulous all day veggie breakfast, just what I did and didn't need. It revived my energy levels, gave me renewed enthusiasm for the next stage of the ride, but also weighed me down and sat undigested in my stomach as we immediately hit the longest climbs of the day, into the wind. Jim's sausage baguette seemed to have the opposite effect, it fuelled his tiring legs, filled up the gas tank and produced a powerful second wind.

Well...to Tenbury Wells and Bloody Hard to Bromyard

The easy bit after lunch, the nice final 35 miles wasn't! Stopping for an hour for lunch always seems a great idea. But in truth, it takes a lot of effort to get the old diesel engine going again, to fire up the legs. This is especially true when you put your jacket on thinking it was a bit chilly in the wind and start climbing the longest hill of the day. The sun beat down, the gradient bit hard and I was sweating buckets, struggling in my lowest gear and watching Jim getting further away up the road....his nimble pedalling style, effortlessly (though I am sure he'd disagree) standing and dancing on the pedals, mocking my pathetic grunt and grind.

I stopped to take off my jacket. To catch my breath. To look at the hill. To swear under my breath, out loud, at the bike and at myself. To have a long drink and an energy gel. This was about half an hour after lunch. Not a particularly encouraging sign.

Jim was waiting some distance ahead. He had by now finished the Times crossword on his phone, as well as helping the adjacent farm bring in the harvest. I sauntered up and Jim didn't need to ask if I was ok. Come on, let's crack on. More pain, more hurting, more suffering...and I was the one who planned the route; no point whinging is there....tough it out boy.


At the top there was a wonderful sign, 15%. A very steep DOWNHILL section, all the way to Tenbury Wells. After that horrible climb, I'd earned a bit of fast stuff. The trouble with the fast stuff is that it is always over so much more quickly than the slow uphill bits. Stating the bleeding obvious, but it's true. After a super fast descent, Alpine like hairpin bends we whizzed into and out of Tenbury Wells, heading back south towards Bromyard and into the hardest 10 miles of the day.

The wind had picked up. Standing off the bike, you hardly notice the wind. Pushing into it, you notice how it grinds you down, how it slows your average speed, how it saps your energy, how it makes the hills even harder, And there were plenty of them. Up, up, up, down, up, up, up down.

The first rule of cycling....what goes down, must go up.

Three miles outside Bromyard we stopped to refuel. 200 metres away there was another big lump laughing at our legs. A friendly farmer greeted us. 'That's the last hill before Bromyard isn't it?' I asked hopefully.

'There's that one, then another one, then it's downhill into Bromyard.....' Not too bad I thought.

'Oh, as you come out of Bromyard there's a huge hill on the way to Worcester'. Yes, I know, thanks for reminding me.

The Power of Donoughts

Coop Bromyard.

Tip 1: Buy the donoughts, They are great and give a fantastic boost to energy levels. It was the donought that got me up the hill out of Bromyard...nothing to do with my legs at all.

Tip 2: Avoid the Red Bull. 'Gives You Wings'...really, foul stuff...the only wings I'd get from that are emu wings. Not a lot of flying on that filth.

And so Jim and I set off on the final 15 miles or so to Worcester. The long hill was indeed long, but the sugar and jam of the donought worked wonders and I again quite enjoyed the climb. 

After a long steady climb, there is nothing better than a fast, swooping descent. Bromyard Hill (for I know no other name), afforded a lovely descent. It was indeed fast....again I watched the road and my cycle computer.....25, 28, 31, 34, 37, 38, 39, 40.1mph....cracked it! It is such an exhilarating feeling descending fast on two wheels. The rush of the wind, the adrenaline pumping. If only we didn't have to cycle up the bloody hills to enjoy the fleeting rush of excitement the descents give us.

Euphoria coursing through my veins, a smile on my face - but not for long. There was one huge problem looming large in my mind and it was only a couple of miles away. Ankerdine Hill.

This famously steep, brutal hill is 1.5 miles long, 17% in places and has long been public enemy number 1 in my book. I've made it up without stopping only once. On my hybrid bike, lowest gear, legs spinning like hamsters in a cage. The week before I struggled up the first 17% pitch, then stopped, got off and had to push, not all the way, but enough to count a a defeat. Ankerdine 1: Frobisher 1.

This time was the decider.

Jim, suitably briefed by me, went ahead, jumping on to his pedals and making it up to sit and wait, have a cup of tea, read the paper and have a long nap, before I eventually emerged at the summit.

I started with trepidation, hoping that my body would forget the 75 miles already in my legs. Fat chance. Within a minute I  was at my limit. Within 2 minutes I was at a standstill. I had stopped on the steepest part, meaning no matter how I tried I couldn't get momentum to get going again. Walk, get on, cycle a bit more, pant furiously, drip sweat everywhere, stop, get off, walk, cycle a bit more....eventually I got up the thing. I collapsed in a heap sweating copiously much to the concern of a group of 4 pensioners who had stopped in the layby to admire the view.

At the top of Ankerdine Hill. Jim beat it....I didn't.

Yes, I had been defeated by Ankerdine once again. 2:1 to the Worcestershire Hilly Beast, but once I had got to the top, then recovered and just about resolved to throw my bike into the layby and walk home,I had a brief moment of clarity and realisation. Not quite the road to Damascus, more the back lane to Martley.

Hang on, I thought. I struggle for a number of reasons.

1. Age. I am 44, not 24.

2. Weight. I am 84kg, not 64kg

3. Mental strength. I can't push myself to the limit, or beyond, like Tyler Hamilton. I give up when the inner voice says...'and.....STOP'. I reply...'OK'.

4. Physical strength. I am fit and I'd say quite strong for my age. I've cycled to Dublin and back, 770km / 550 miles over 3 mountain ranges in 6 days. I can tough it out when I need too. It's just that power / weight (and I'll add) / age ratio when the hills get a bit too pointy. I'll grind up a long steady incline, but give me half a km of 10% gradients and I'm cooked.

5. Lack of PEDs (Performance Enhancing Drugs). Much as I eschew the various drugs available to increase performance, even if I wanted to get hold of some EPO, Human Growth Hormone or Testosterone, I don't know where I'd begin to look. Hang on, I think Tesco had EPO on buy one get one free....

6. Fatherhood. Any father will tell you how much having children drains your energy. They'll also tell you they are happy to devote such energy supplies to playing with, caring for and entertaining their children. It does however, deplete your hill climbing strength. As does....

7. Caring for children with disabilities.

On a serious note, I had taken for granted my role as father to Milla and Louisa. It's something I do on a daily basis, it's my life, they are my children...it's 'normal' for me. Milla has complex special needs with cerebral palsy. As a result, from the outsider's viewpoint, my life is anything but normal. Broken sleep, caring 24/7, setting up special milk feeds, administering medicines, taking the children to doctors and hospital appointments etc etc. For me that normality is actually the routine. But it is an exhausting routine.

No doubt the 6 years of stress, sleepless nights, anxiety and worry have taken their toll. I look at my pre children running ability and compare it to now. Back then I was Haile Gebrsalassie. Today I am Haile Unlikely to Run Sub 9 Minute Miles.

8. I don't like pain. Some people do. Some people thrive off pain. I hate that lactic acid burn, the pounding in the chest, the shooting, searing pain that whips through your muscles. I think in the medical classifications I fall somewhere between 'wuss' and 'soft southerner'.


So, on the final run in back to Worcester, I made a pact. Not in the same way that Robert Johnson went down to the Crossroads and sold his soul to the devil, but similar.

Each time there is a steep climb, I will sell my soul to the devil that is gravity. I will allow gravity to toy with my emotions, to let me think I can make it up without stopping, without fuss. I will let gravity exert its mighty force on my weakening legs and spirit. But I won't give in. Even if I have to stop, I will try to get going and get to the top. If the result is I can't, for the reasons listed above, then so be it...at least I gave it my all. And I won't worry about it.


Jim and I rolled back into Worcester and finished at my traditional start finish line - the Cathedral. 

85 miles of hills, wind, sun and sweat. The ride had been many things; fun, painful, challenging, tiring, hard work and enlightening. I enjoyed the camaraderie, the banter, the sight of Jim's backside wobbling away and getting smaller as he distanced me on the climbs. 

85 miles of pain. I'd do it again tomorrow.

Thanks Jim....next time, Margate here I come.

Caerphilly boy, very Caerphilly

Time flies....my blog posts are about as common as a Nick Clegg apology. Hang on, he made a public apology the other day, right better crack on and write a new blog post then.....


Two Wheels To Wales

The Tour of Britain took place a week ago. You mean you didn't notice?....Seriously, with the spectacular summer of cycling success, Bradley Wiggins winning the Tour de France, Mark Cavendish beating all comers (except when falling off spectacularly); the unprecedented medal success of the Olympic and Paralympic Team GB cycling teams; you can't have failed to notice the rise in cycling's status in the UK.

Well, the Tour of Britain has become the must see event for (the ever growing numbers of) cycling fans throughout the UK. Your chance to stand at the side of the road and scream 'GO CAV!' and 'GO WIGGO!'....and er, GO.....YOU! For most people the only cyclists they know are Wiggins and Cavendish; which is a great improvement, considering a year ago, the only cyclists the majority of British people might recognize would be dressed in red, carrying a sack marked 'Royal Mail' and stuffed full of junk mail and bills for your letterbox.

Today, the roads of Britain have swelled with men of a particular vintage with swollen stomachs, stuffed unceremoniously into crotch enhancing and buttock squeezing Lycra short; their 15 stone frames, balancing unsteadily on gleaming £2,500 road bikes weighing the same as one of their fingers. Looking at these MAMILS (Middle Aged Men In Lycra), you wouldn't know it, but cycling is now cool.

I knew that, years ago. I remember going to Leeds in 1993 to watch the end of a stage of the Milk Race / Kellogs Tour (can't remember which one it was, memory is fading a bit)  and seeing the professionals arrive after a tortuous and nasty climb over Snake Pass....and it was bitterly cold with an energy sapping wind.
In 1995 while spending 4 weeks in Australia, I (like a saddo), rather than indulging in a bit of Sydney nightlife, ripping it large with the Aussies and having a huge blow out on the grog, chose to watch the Sydney Night time Criterium race around the harbour. Cycling was cool back then. It's just that people didn't know it.

Fast forward almost 20 years from my first experience of watching professional cycling live and everyone ssems to want to hop on a bike and go and watch the professionals struggling up 20% gradients, while being chased by overweight, unpleasant looking men in Borat wigs and mankinis....is nice, high five! That was how it felt when my good friend and fellow cycling nut, Jim Yeoman and I crossed the Welsh border and headed for Caerffili...or as we call it Caerphilly.

Caerphilly Does It

We arrived in Caerphilly and found the train station car park. An odd place, given that 25 bays are designated 'Pay and Display' (being right next to the station and easy access to the platforms. About 150 spaces were available next to the pay and display and a little walk from the station (a meandering 2 minutes at most) for FREE. How does that work? I imagine the Caerphilly Town Council Planning Meeting was thus;

Bronwyn Jones; 'We really should charge money for the car park at the station'

Trefor Evans; 'I know, let's kill two birds with one stone eh? We have a lot of tubbies down here, too many pies and chips for lunch, no exercise....'

Dai Davies; 'You been on the Brains Ale again Trefor, what you on about?'

Trefor Evans; 'See, it's like this, make the pay and display next to the station for the lazy buggers right, they have to pay for not walking.....reward the Caeffili-Caerdydd commuters who walk the two minutes from the rest of the car park. There, obesity crisis reversed, regular exercise and it's free. Genius eh?'

Bronwyn Jones; 'Did you have a drugs test before you joined the council Trefor?'

Anyway, I am rambling off up random avenues again....Jim and I had a great lunch in The Malcolm Uphill (curious name for a pub, but then again, it is a Wetherspoons). The food and the service was great, though we were surrounded by people in black suits and ties, whispering and reminiscing about someone who I believe may have been laid to rest that morning. Not often you enjoy a chilli con carne and a cappuccino at a wake you weren't invited to.

We then set off up Caerphilly Mountain; the scene of the afternoon's denouement for the 5th Stage of the Tour of Britain, from Welshpool to Caerphilly.

Mountain of Pain, Mountain of Shame

Let me take you back a couple of years to when, on a whim, I decided to cycle to Cardiff from Worcester for the weekend to stay with my best friend Simon. I won't go over the details, but suffice to say, the 92 miles I miscalculated (I thought it was 'only' 75) were painful, not least due to a saddle sore that accompanied me. The final challenge before Cardiff on this day was Caerphilly Mountain, where Jim and I had now reached.

Caerphilly Mountain is around 1.5km long and has gradients up to 17%. It is a steep, brutal climb that doesn't let up until the summit (where you can revive yourself with a cuppa from the Caerphilly Mountain Snack Bar). It isn't even 'deceptively steep'.The road kicks up at the last of the residential dwellings and you immediately feel starved of oxygen, bereft of gears, and lacking in momentum.,Then you hear the pummelling of your heart in your chest, the gulps and rasps as you suck in air and then the resigned 'oh bollocks', as your legs tell you to stop, get off and walk. At least mine did. I made it about two thirds of the way up before the engine blew a gasket and I forlornly wheeled the bike to the top. The ignominy, the shame. Getting off and pushing, walking. Oh well, just not made for this going up business.

So, back to the Tour of Britain. How would the professional deal with this beast? We'll see. I expected hordes of professional cyclists climbing off their carbon bikes and pushing like wusses. Bring it on.....

I should have known better.

We climbed all the way to the summit and found a nice spot on the final bend, with a clear view back down the mountain road. We were guaranteed a spectacular view. The crowds built steadily over the next couple of hours. Our vantage point commanded a great place to watch the cyclists pass only a metre away from us...well, that was until every man, woman and idiot thought I was wearing a 'PLEASE STAND DIRECTLY IN FRONT OF ME...YES HERE IS FINE....BIT TO THE RIGHT...THERE I CAN'T SEE A BLOODY THING' t-shirt. The politeness and courtesy of the true cycling fan was spectacularly shattered by kagool wearing, 'ooh, I'll pop along to see the cycle race, might even recognize Cav and Wiggins' non cyclists who plonked their (as Monty Python would say) puffy, raw, swollen, purulent flesh directly in front of me.

Don't worry, I've only been here 2 hours. I was eventually able to carve out a niche and ensure I could watch the cyclists unhindered by a curious mix of slight nudges, pushes and prods, snide comments (of which Jim proved a master) and heady farts. Actually that last bit isn't true, but I should have emitted some malodorous gas.

Many of the crowd were dressed, de rigeur, for the day. Given that it was a bright sunny day and quite warm for early September, there were many and various shades of Lycra clothing on display. The majority of the Lycra beasts had earned their chance to stand in figure hugging, skin tight clothes by doing what I had spectacularly failed to achieve. Cycling up Caerphilly Mountain. They also did it in full view of a baying crowd, well wishers and hecklers. I can't think of anything worse than struggling up a steep hill. Yes I can. Struggling up a steep hill, your body screaming at you to get off and stop this nonsense now, but your 'embarrassment gene' telling you you can't, not when hundreds of people are laughing at your gurning, shouting at you to do it, pedal harder, make it to the top......

I'd say 95% of the amateurs made it up, some with ease, some with more laboured pedalling and others at a near stand still. Those in most discomfort were applauded and roared home by a generous melee of spectators. The 5% who had got off and were walking up fell into two categories...."I can' make it and I don;t give a s**t what you think". They sauntered up, smiling at the hecklers and nay-sayers, as if to say, 'You mean, you actually thought I was going to make it to the top....with these legs?'. The others were 'I can't believe I've had to get off and push.....I'm so ashamed'. These poor few were by now very red in the face from their exertions and acute embarrassment. They walked as fast as they could, trying not to catch the eye of the roadside mob, before collapsing in a heap at the top. They promptly fell asleep and didn't see the race.

BOGOF

And so, after a starter of amateur hill climbing, we had the main course of the Tour of Britain roaring up Caerphilly Mountain; not once, but twice. It was so good, we even got seconds. The crowds were huge. I've been to a few live cycling events and I've never experienced an atmosphere as exciting and electric as on the mountain side that afternoon.

The first riders came into view, eventual overall winner of the Tour of Britain, Jonathan Tiernan-Locke and Graham Briggs climbing well. The crowd closed in on the road until there was barely 2 metres of space to ride in. The wall of noise that had moved up the mountain with the riders hit us as Tiernan-Locke and Briggs moved smoothly past. Then, in twos and threes, in dribs and drabs, the rest of the field crested the summit. The lower slopes of the mountain had caused the peleton to explode. There were riders stretched all over the mountain...and they had to do it a second time. Carnage.

Now the crowd strained their necks and ears for the sight and sound they'd waited for for hours (or for those who decided to arrive late and then stand in front of us, minutes). Cavendish and the Sky Train. Unfortunately, Bradley Wiggins had come down with a dicky tummy that morning and pulled out of the race; so it was all for Mark Cavendish. For a lad that has earned a reputation as the fastest sprinter in the business and someone who 'can't climb', he was doing a good job of getting up Caerphilly Mountain, tapping out a  steady rhythm with his faithful German 'domestique', Bernie Eisel by his side. Cavendish is used to fervent, fanatical supporters in the Tour de France. However,by the look on his face, he was somewhat taken aback at the thousands of people screaming 'GO CAAAAAAAAAAAAAAVVVVVVVVVVVV!!!!!!!!!' into his ears from 20cm away. He looked quite startled. Bernie Eisel looked a touch non-plussed; 'Why do they all shout for Cav, how about me, I am the donkey pulling the cart up the hill, Ich mag es nicht!'

And with that, and a few stragglers bringing up the rear, the Tour of Britain shot down the descent, into and out of Caerphilly, to do it all again. 

This time Jon Tiernan-Locke had Leopold Koenig on his tail. Koenig sucked Tiernan-Locke's wheel and accelerated past him to win the stage; but Tiernan-Locke had done enough to secure the overall title, the first British winner for 19 years.

Behind the serious end of the race, coming up on their second ascent of Caerphilly Mountain, the rest of the field were, how do I put this, 'enjoying themselves'.

How would you feel after 6 days of racing, in all weathers, nasty climbs and currently 185km into a 190km stage, climbing a brutal climb, gradients of 17%....for a second time?? I know how it felt when I had to stop and then admit I was beaten, time to walk. For the professionals who had done their jobs for the day, ridden hard on the front to protect their team leaders, helped their teams get up and over the first climb, it was time to sit back and coast in to the finish....and have a bit of fun. On a 17% climb, fun is not my word of the day.

So, much to the amusement of the crowd, you had the spectacle of smiling riders, gesticulating to the crowd to cheer louder, throwing their drinks bottles high into the air, laughing at the roars of support and the odd sights running alongside them.

There was one group who had dressed in various costumes. One young lad, kitted out in boxing shorts and gloves, was actually the brother of GB and Sky cyclist, Luke Rowe. His mate wore a super hero / wrestlers mask and a pair of tight fitting trunks and not much else. As Dan Craven, a cyclist with the IG Sigma team approached the summit, still churning away up a 12% gradient, he reached out and gave our 'super hero cum wrestler' a playful pinch to his bare stomach. 

The last of the riders struggled up to the summit, not exactly enjoying it, but getting a huge cheer from the crowd and we then poured down the mountain, back to Caerphilly, a cursory look at the castle and an attempt to catch some of the riders after the finish. We didn't get to see any, sadly, but we did see one of the bizarre images of the Tour of Britain. 

Caerphilly is a small town and by definition, its town centre streets are narrow. Not exactly built for the luxury coaches the Pro Teams use to transport their cyclists and staff around Europe. The traffic jam coming out of the town centre was lengthy, and entirely made up of Tour of Britain vehicles, Pro Team buses and an occasional, bemused, very annoyed local who didn't realise the cycling circus was in town.

Because the teams were stranded, and in particular the Italian Liquigas Cannondale team, Jim and I were able to have a close up look at the Cannondale SuperSix Evo bikes. I ride a Cannondale, but the difference is my bike is about £5,000 cheaper and 4kg heavier. Still, it was great to look at and dream about those bikes and to witness the steam coming out of the ears of the Liquigas drivers as they sat impatiently trying to leave little old Caerphilly.

A great day in Wales. Fantastic cycling and good weather. But it wouldn't have been half as enjoyable by myself. Jim had come up to Worcester all the way from Margate in Kent. A true cycling fan, a man whose bike has been surgically attached to his backside and someone who wins every cycling related competition he enters and crops up in every cycling photograph from the big events when Cycling Weekly is published on a Thursday (as we both did the following Thursday...spooky, how does he do it?....it's the bright red Oakley sunglasses, that's how). 

Our conversations revolved around many themes, all cycling related....climbing mountains, the professional peleton., doping, bikes, equipment etc etc.....We make ideal conversationalists at dinner parties. 

Jim and I became friends trekking to Everest with Scope. We quickly became known for our cycling dialogue, isolated by the trekking team, mocked and pitied, forever conjoined by an invisible yoke, ok a bicycle chain. Conversation would go something like;

Tony: 'Morning Jim'
Jim: 'Morning Tony'
Tony: 'Nice day for a ride'
Jim: 'Yeah, you'd need at least a 12:28 rear cassette for that climb though
Tony: Do you reckon we'll need arm warmers and a gilet today?

Since then, Jim has signed up to cycling John O';Groats to Lands End with me and a few other friends next May. The professionals make long days in the saddle look (relatively) painless. JOGLE will be painful and much training will have to be done before we set off. 

For that reason, the very day after watching the professional cyclists in the Tour of Britain, Jim and I undertook a training ride. 85 miles over Worcestershire and Herefordshire's lumps and bumps, hills and inclines. It hurt, and when the steep stuff pointed up, I didn't smile, and I didn't pinch a roadside spectator in the stomach....

The tale of our training ride next time.....

Mountains and Saddles - Everest & John O'Groats to Lands End

Mountains & Saddles


I am not looking for sympathy, but I'll say right from the start, I've been very busy these last 6 months.

Hence the paucity of blog posts and the hiatus between the last post in January, just before I left for Everest and now.


Mountains

Regular readers (you know who you are) will be forgiven for thinking that I had lost all my fingers to frostbite or decided to set up a laundrette in Namche Bazaar. Not a bit of it - I, and the rest of my group, survived penetrating cold, debilitating altitude, the worst storm to hit the Khumbu for 30 years and a diet of noodle soup, popcorn and Mars Bars.

The three weeks away included 13 days spent trekking to Everest and back from Lukla in Nepal were some of the most exhilarating, enjoyable, exhausting, excellent and cold weeks I have experienced. Three weeks with a 13 day period without the chance of a shower, camping in temperatures of minus 32C, suffering altitude sickness, and summiting Kala Pathar, 5,545m after only managing to eat a Mars Bar and half a Twix in 24 hours.

There were so many highs - the stunning mountain landscapes, the diverse landscapes from lush forests, to barren windswept sand plateaus and paths skirting the edge of glaciers, all surrounded by the most amazing amphitheatre of peaks on Earth, the Himalayas.

Add to this the wonderful camaraderie of the trekkers, the guides and porters and even the yaks. We all had personal moments of weakness, either due to altitude sickness, illness, exhaustion etc, but everyone got on and pulled together. The team managed to raise over £45,000 for Scope, to help this excellent charity continue their work supporting and helping people with cerebral palsy and raising awareness of disability in general.

The trip left me with many new friendships and reacquainted me with my old friends from Kilimanjaro, Giles Conlon and John Shaw. In particular, Jim Yeoman, Kate Adams and Peter Stanley have become great friends in a short space of time and it feels as though we've known each other for years, let alone since January.The lifelong friendships these charity adventures give you is one of the wonderful and worthwhile reasons for challenging yourself to raise money for a charity, as well as the physical challenge.

One of the most unnerving of highs were the swinging cable bridges over the raging rivers of the Khumbu. To a sufferer of vertigo, these bridges had kept me awake before leaving the UK. The first was the worst; a horrible experience with the bridge swinging wildly underfoot and made worse by the nasty cuts from the steel cable when you reached out to grab the sides to stabilise yourself. However, after watching a train of yaks delicately plod across, you learnt to overcome your fear and the bridges no longer seemed so frightening.

I loved the trek to Everest, it was a dream come true, an adventure I had always wanted to go on since I was a boy and the fulfilment of an ambition, if not to actually climb Everest, but to stand opposite its massive form and imagine standing on its slopes and slowly, step by step, making my way to the top.

I did stand opposite Everest (which decided to sulk and wrap its summit in cloud that morning). However, the reverie and dreaming was short lived as the wind was blowing hard and the temperature was around -20C and various parts of me were in danger of freezing and dropping off.



Saddles

Fresh from returning from Everest, exhausted and over half a stone lighter, ill from a nasty chest infection picked up during the trek and exacerbated by the ravaging cold, dry air, altitude, tiredness and a tonne of sand and dust inhaled during the trek back down to Lukla - most of it into the worst storm for decades, I decided that I'd never do another charity challenge in my life again...ever.

Five minutes later I was formulating my plan for my next charity challenge.

What is it about the brain that decides to forget pain? Every charity challenge I have done has been uncomfortable (if fun), exhausting (if rewarding) and downright painful (if worthwhile). Cycling and running from Worcester to Liverpool and back hurt - especially running 19 miles after cycling 215 miles  the previous couple of days. The climb up Kilimanjaro and the exhausting descent back to Marangu on blistered feet, spent and without a drop of energy left - hurt, a lot!

Cycling to London and back - the Cotswold hills and a saddle sore were very sore!

Cycling to Dublin and back - 470 miles, 6 days, 3 mountain ranges including the Llanberis Pass, the highest pass in Snowdonia was.....you get the picture.

Then Everest and all the pain, cold, discomfort etc.

But not a couple of weeks after getting back to England and the brain has erased all memories of pain. If you 'think' about how it hurt, it doesn't come close to the actual feeling at the time.

So, what next......?

Aha! The bicycle was looking forlornly at me, willing to be taken out on rides longer than an hour, wanting to inflict more pain on my legs.

So, then it happened. What is a realistic and demanding challenge that will be interesting to do, of interest to sponsors, media, friends and family? Of course, cycle the entire length of Britain. End to End.

Most people do what is known as LEJOG (Lands End to John O'Groats). We've (I've) decided to do it the other way around JOGLE (John O'Groats to Lands End). 874 miles / 1,405.5km from the far north of Scotland to the far South West of England.

Most people do it over 2 weeks - around 75 miles a day. Hard enough with the constantly challenging, hilly terrain, the weather, exhaustion etc.

We've (I've!) decided to up the ante a little. We are going to do JOGLE in 9 days, averaging 100 miles per day. Oh, and to add that little bit of extra spice, throw in the fact that the prevailing winds will be south westerlies, ie. directly into our faces.

So why this challenge and who have I press-ganged into agreeing to come along for the ride?

The charity I am raising money for with this charity challenge is the Make A Wish Foundation. Every year in the UK, thousands of children face the difficulty of living with life threatening conditions and serious disabilities. These children know what real discomfort and pain is. Constant hospital trips, operations, chemotherapy, physiotherapy and being unable to live normal lives as other children do.

Make A Wish grant special wishes for thousands of children each year. The children may want something simple; to be a princess for a day, meet their favourite footballer or pop star or something more challenging - a room makeover, with specialist equipment like lifts / hoists or a holiday of a lifetime.

My daughter Milla (6) was a recipient of a wish in May. She, together with my wife, twin sister and myself, had a never-to-be-forgotten week at the Give Kids The World Village in Kissimmee, Florida. This included VIP access to all the Disney World theme parks and Seaworld, immediate access to all attractions and the chance to meet all the Disney characters. Our daughters loved it. Every minute. For a short while we could forget the problems and stress caused by Milla's disability. This was all thanks to Make A Wish.

So, in order to raise much needed funds for Make A Wish; to enable them to continue giving other children and their families such wonderful experiences, myself and 5 friends will put on Lycra shorts and cycling jerseys, straddle the saddles of our bikes in John O'Groats and cycle south for 9 days.

The team are;

Oliver Groß: 43 - Germany

Oliver is a veteran long distance cyclist (well, he cycled to Dublin and back with me, so that makes him a veteran). Oliver is the most enthusiastic person I know. He never complained once on our trip to Dublin (although he wasn't too happy about being soaked to the skin on day 2 in Wales). Oliver lives in a particularly flat part of Northern Germany and nothing makes him happier than when the roads go up and point skywards, with a slope of >15%.....









Simon Whitton: 43 - Wales

Simon is a legend. Ever present on all my UK based charity cycling challenges, Simon has kept me fed and watered, provided motivation and encouragement - all from behind the wheel of his nice warm car. Simon has chosen to step from behind the wheel of the support car and to join the team cycling JOGLE. I hope you know what you have let yourself in for my old friend. At least he can practise on some nasty climbs around the Valleys in South Wales.












Jim Yeoman: 42 - England

Jim Yeoman - a man who practically lives on his bike. I first met Jim at Heathrow airport while waiting to check in for the flight to Kathmandu on the Everest trek.We immediately started boring people with our encyclopedic knowledge of all things cycling.

Most weekends you'll find Jim popping out on his bike 'for a quick 100' (miles that is) and revelling in the prospect of cycling up some 25% climbs in a hurricane and torrential rain.

The only person I've met who has cycled up Alpe d'Huez. No that's wrong, I've met Allan Pieper and Phil Liggett, who I am sure have done it too & perhaps even Danilo di Luca (all of whom were slower than Jim).







Bob Whitelaw: 48 - Australia

Bob hails from Australia. He can't help it, he just does. Bob likes cycling - fast. Especially uphill. Light, nimble, effortless on the climbs....and that's just his bike. Bob was built for hills and loves hitting every slope hard and pumping the legs until the lactic acid burns.

I am sure nothing will give Bob more pleasure than being first to the top of every climb....although Oliver will have something to say about that!





Nathan Coll: 34 - England

Nathan (on the left with me in our curry house of choice, Delhi6, St. John's, Worcester) is the youngest member of the team. This makes him sound 16....it's just relative to us older MAMILS...middle aged men in Lycra.

Nathan loves fitness and spends every waking moment in the gym. He is keen as anything to participate in the JOGLE challenge. One question Nathan, have you ever had a saddle sore?






Tony Frobisher: 43 - England

The man behind the blog, veteran of 3 major long distance cycle challenges, 2 mountain treks (Kilimanjaro and Everest) and possessor of legs that don't enjoy being shaved.

I am still trying to attain that elusive six pack and am determined to lose around a stone before the JOGLE starts. The reason; hills. We have Oliver, Bob and Jim who seem to 'enjoy' going up. I only enjoy them going down.

The liposuction is booked for next month.

The JOGLE cycle challenge will hopefully take place in May 2013. I will blog about the planning, logistics and training at a later date, with more details of our essential support crew. We hope to be joined by fellow Everest trekker, Kate Adams and my former colleague at Kingsway English Centre, Marc Bull. They have kindly agreed to drive a motorhome the length of Britain in support of us. More next time!

You can sponsor the team via our team justgiving page;

http://www.justgiving.com/teams/millasendtoendchallenge

Just select one of the individual pages already set up and please donate what you can, big or small.

Many thanks.

Right...I'd better go and shave my legs, training has begun.





Knees & Hills

What do you get if you add a knee injury, the flu and the Christmas holidays? Answer. Bugger all training.


This wouldn't be quite so worrying if it were mid September. But we are now in the first week of 2012 and in a little over 3 weeks from now I will be setting off to trek to Everest base camp in Nepal with Scope.


When I climbed Kilimanjaro, I was barely off my usual stomping ground of the Malvern Hills. This time, they have been staring pityingly at me as I spied them from the small bedroom. 'When will we see you again?' they pined.


Well, I can now confirm that the leaking tap that was my nose for 2 weeks has well and truly dried up, the flu has been rid of and I am feeling about 95% again. My remaining concern is / was for my knee. Let me take you back a few years...


In 2008 I trained for the climb of my life, Kilimanjaro. After a good training period, I felt a twinge in the knee. To cut a long story short, the doctor called it wrong initially; 'ligament problem, take it easy and it'll clear itself up'. I did as prescribed and, despite the occasional twinge, I managed to get to Kilimajaro's summit (5,985m), wearing a very fetching knee support and returned to the UK triumphant....but then the knee began to get worse, to the point where I couldn't cycle without pain. Back to the doctor.


'Ah, so it's not ligament then....hmm, possibly cartilage, I'll send you for an MRI scan'. Which I had, and a small tear in my right knee cartilage was found, operated on and after a 6 week period of painful physio, all was ticketyboo.


Fast forward 3 years and I am in Paris with my wife Rini. December, 2011. We have arrived after many years of trying to get to Paris and my wife is over the moon to be in the city of her dreams. And keen, as many tourists are, to see the wonders of Parisian architecture. In particular one large iron structure. Le Tour Eiffel.


We visited the Eiffel tower twice. Once in the evening to see it all splendid and lit up, flashing lights illuminating an overcast Paris night sky. Once in the late morning, in brilliant winter sunshine. On each occasion our cameras were worked hard, pictures taken from and at every conceivable angle. Many of these pictures involved me kneeling down to capture Rini posing in front of the Eiffel Tower. With each kneeling, the getting up afterwards became more and more uncomfortable, then painful. All I could think of was, 'Not now, please knee, why now? Why not a year ago...I am trekking to 5,545m in Nepal next month, you b**tard!'


And with that my knee tightened further.


I believe that my problem this time was Iliotibial Band Syndrome (ITBS), or runners knee. Not that I had been doing  a lot of running. But, I was determined that this setback was not going to prevent me from getting on that plane to Nepal. With thanks to Youtube (!) I watched a sports physio video of self massage for ITBS. Nothing like a bit of self rubbing to loosen your muscles. It seem to do the trick


Enough of the knee. It isn't 100%, but it manageable with plenty of Ibuprofen gel, a vigorous massage, and a  determination not to let it spoil my 13 days of strenuous trekking in the world's highest mountain range. Hey, I managed to get up and down Kili on one good leg, surely Everest will be easy as pie.


I have resumed training and for the record, the knee stood up (pun intended) very well to an intense weekend of activity. An hour on the bike followed the next day by a sprint on the Malverns in full gear. Back pack and everything. I don't quite know what the good people of Worcestershire made of me as I sped past uphill and downhill, decked out in full hiking apparel, walking poles click-clacking over the rocks and paths. I wasn't stopping or slowing down for anyone. In fact, I made record time and walked from the Malvern Hills Hotel to the Wyche Cutting over 5 hills, some with long, steep inclines in 37 minutes. I returned the same route in 38.5 minutes. Not a bad work out and well timed as the inappropriately clad Sunday afternoon strollers were caught out in a heavy downpour, just as I reached the car and set off for a welcome cup of tea. 


Why is it that we British are seemingly arrogant enough to believe that whatever the weather forecast, we can defeat nature dressed only in a pair of jeans, an Argos Cagoule (£9.99, buy one get one free, choice of 5 colours, waterproof qualities of a teabag) and a pair of Hush Puppies. I passed an army of knitted cardigans doing the soft shoe shuffle up the apparently benign Malverns, not a hat or pair of gloves in sight and caught their look of shock and then panic as they topped out a hill and were smacked full in the face by a howling, bone-chilling gale screaming in from somewhere off the Welsh coast. Don't underestimate the Malverns. OK, they may not be particularly high (around 400m) and the Swiss may call them Fruhstuck Bergen, but they are rarely calm. The wind is persistent and strong. For the under-dressed, it is an unpleasant surprise.


Enough of my literal and literary rambling. Three weeks today I will be off to Nepal. The Malverns will replaced by the splendour of the Khumbu region....names as familiar as the towns of the UK, will be visited for the first time. Places only before visited in the books that the region has inspired in great proliferation. Lukla, Namche Bazaar, Pheriche, Phakding, Tengboche. 


Wish me luck and that of my fellow trekkers. I have raised over £5,000 for Scope to participate in this amazing challenge. My trek-mates will each have raised a minimum of £3,600 and hopefully more towards continuing to help those people living with Cerebral Palsy, to lead a better, more independent and more equal life. Many of those people will not ever have the chance to look out from 5,500m at Everest. We are doing this challenge for them.


Me and my knee and my new friends, Mr Ibu and Mr Profen, are ready.

Movember Madness

Movember, formerly known as November, has arrived and we are half way through a month that is now celebrated by thousands of men worldwide, growing moustaches.


From the famous sporting stars (I offer up Lance Armstrong, Jensen Button, Kevin Pietersen and Gary Lineker for a start), to the ordinary man in the street, there is a kinship to be had during this month; a joyous togetherness in producing hairy top lips.......


Why? The answer is simple. Cancer.


Cancer? What's the connection between moustaches and cancer? None really, except a tenuous, but powerful one. If you get cancer and start a course of chemotherapy, you will lose all your hair...including your moustache. If you are lucky, you'll make it through and your hair will grow back, even your 'mo' should you want it (and who would to be honest?). 


Sadly, too many people still don't get the chance to regrow their hair, too many people succumb to this pervasive, unremitting, vicious disease. As I have moved into my 40's, so the number of people I have known who have suffered from or have lost their life to cancer has also increased. Only a week or so ago, an old college friend lost her brave battle against cancer.


So this growth spurt / sprouting season is motivated by a desire to raise awareness of and funds for cancer, specifically male cancer charities; in particular prostate and testicular cancer.


Hence the awful pictures at the top of this post. I wouldn't ordinarily walk around with a beaver nesting under my nose. But if it helps people understand and gain more knowledge about cancer, I'll gladly grow my mo. 


If it helps in the fight against cancer and towards finding a cure and in the treatment of cancer patients, I will be proud to sport my moustache and will happily encourage all those people staring at the under-nose-slug to ask me what I have a mo for. 


Maybe they'll grow one, maybe they'll donate, but maybe they'll think more about the need to tackle cancer and to check themselves for lumps and bumps in places they shouldn't be and hopefully be one of the fortunate ones who, should they develop cancer, catch it early enough, get cured and keep on living life to the full.

Weekend in Germany...Macht spass mit Fussball und Bier!

The newest Borussia Moenchengladbach fan

Wheat beers....2 with, one without alcohol

The Rhein as seen from the top of Cologne Cathedral

Germany, Football. Beer and  Moustaches

It's been quite a while since I have put finger to keyboard.

It is now November and the clocks have gone back, bringing in another winter to chill the bones and freeze the extremities. 

Since the last blog post, way back in July, I have travelled to and from the other side of the world - twice,  and popped over to Germany for a weekend. You may think of this as a jet setting lifestyle, but it is far from it. Flying for 16 hours, with all the family, in economy class, with a change in Dubai is not the best way to relax. A trip on Flybe is not exactly the height of luxury either. But I am not complaining.

The Flybe journey took myself and Simon, he of many previous blog posts, Paspartout to my Phileas Fogg, traveller supreme and consumer of beer and wurst, to northern Germany to visit Oliver at his home in Marl.

Oliver had very kindly invited us to visit him following the successful cycle challenge we had completed in June, 750km from Worcester to Dublin and back in 6 days.

I had suggested to Simon that we cycle to northern Germany, but the pained grimace on his face, couple with an expression that I believe was two words long, second word '....off!', meant that we left Birmingham at the particularly early time of 6:50am, bound for Dusseldorf with 10 other passengers. Yes, including the pilot, co pilot and crew we numbered 16....and they'll still charge you an arm and a leg for an additional bag.

Tour de Deutschland

Oliver met us in Dusseldorf and I made the classic 'I haven't been to Europe for a long time' mistake...trying to get in the car on the wrong side. Moreover, whilst sitting in the passenger, I continually tried to grab an imaginary steering wheel and press the non existent brake pedal...it's an odd feeling.


Friday was spent visiting Oliver's industrial production site in Duisburg, home of the company he works for, Grillo AG. I am now fully competent in the various processes and specifications required to extract zinc from industrial waste and in rolling zinc into cables and sheets. For a full discourse on zinc, I will be happy to send a Pdf document for which you can reimburse me £45.99.


Oliver drove us to Marl, a quiet town of 90,000; leafy residential streets with beautiful individually designed houses, supermarkets that have bakeries that sell delicious fresh, warm bread rolls and have a stock room with a floor to ceiling wall of beer.


We celebrated our first evening in Marl with a traditional German meal; the Chinese all-you-can-eat buffet. It was great, though I couldn't quite recall the German for 'more prawn crackers please'. 


The pretty Chinese waitress gave me a quizzical look when I asked for a non alcoholic beer - in German - a look that said..'er, I am sorry, I don't speak Mongolian'. Oliver came to my rescue and I thanked the waitress in Mandarin; 'Xie, xie'. She smiled and looked suitably impressed. Proof positive that my Mandarin Chinese is a lot more fluent than my German. My German teacher at school, Ronald Tidmarsh, affectionately known as Freak, would have given me piles of extra work.


Oliver suggested we retire to a traditional German pub for a couple of beverages. We crossed the road to 'Mulvaney's Irish Pub'. We had been forewarned that the German government had, in their infinite wisdom, decided that the smoking ban, so effectively introduced in the UK in 2007; wouldn't apply to German public houses. Immediately we walked in, our eyes began streaming. I had forgotten how unpleasant a pub full of smoke was. Come on Bundestag, sort it out.


We decided to go for wheat beers all round. As a non drinker, I was in heaven. One thing the Germans do extremely well is non alcoholic beers. All the major brands sell non alcoholic beer and it tastes great, as good as the real thing; though I don't really know as I haven't drunk the real thing since 1998. None of this terrible Kaliber nonsense for the Germans. 


In fact I drank so many delicious non alcoholic beers during the weekend, that my bowels produced what can only be called a 'beery sh*t'. The likes of which I haven't had since the aforementioned year, 1998. Ah, the memories.


We walked home, stinking of fags and half an hour before the live music was due to start. We had already been approached to pay 4 Euros each...1 hour before the music started; much to our annoyance. The 'bouncer / doorman' would have had trouble kicking Mr Bean out...a lanky, greasy haired, skinny youth....mind you, he could have been a black belt in Jujitsu. He didn't quite seem to understand that we were not paying 4 Euros each to sit in smoke, waiting for live music we weren't intending to watch.


Saturday.....Football, football, football, fussball.


Saturday dawned bright and warm. We wandered over to the supermarket bakery and bought breakfast; cheese, warm rolls, cold meats, sausages. After a good feed, we were ready to get in the mood for a long, exciting day out. Oliver had somehow managed to secure 4 tickets for a VIP box at the Borussia Park stadium to watch his beloved team, Borussia Moenchengladbach against Hannover 96 in the German Bundesliga.


The mood was set by Oliver's flat screen TV. No matter how many buttons I pressed on the remote controls, there only seemed to be one channel. SKY BUNDESLIGA....wall to wall football coverage, reruns of games that had finished 2 minutes before, analysis of what was going to happen, what was happening and what what going to happen afterwards in the world of German football. I can now tell you the name of every player in the Bundesliga, the managers and the coach driver for each team.


At around 1 o'clock, Oliver's work colleague and friend, Patrick turned up to take us all the 100 or so kilometres to Borussia Park. I had selected a suitable t-shirt, but Oliver allowed me to wear his hallowed Borussia Moenchengladbach shirt from the Bundesliga winning side of 1996. Topped off by a nice BMGladbach baseball cap.


VIP Status....living the German dream.


After parking up at the stadium (private reserved parking space) we sauntered to the VIP entrance. The sight that met us was absolutely stunning. No, not the architectural magnificence of the new stadium, nor the crowds flooding in to watch the match. No, the army of stunningly beautiful girls checking tickets, putting on VIP bracelets on trembling arms, smiling and welcoming you to the game. They were everywhere. Every beautiful girl over the age of 18 had been recruited. It was like a wall of Claudia Schiffer's and Heidi Klums (the early years). I think the recruitment interviews would have gone like this;


Knock on the door....'Come in'


Girl; 'I am here for the interview for the hostess job at Borussia Park'


Interviewer; 'Age?'....Girl  '18'


Interviewer, 'Experience?'....Girl 'Well, I have watched Borussia Moenchengladbach since I was 4 years old....'


Interviewer, 'Stop, enough....you're beautiful, you've got the job,. Get your uniform outside and see you Saturday'.


Interviewer, 'Next!'


Knock on the door...in walks someone who fell out of the ugly tree


Interviewer, 'Out munter!  Don't ever darken my door again'.


And who says discrimination is dead?


We climbed the stairs to our VIP box and were met by a lovely, friendly hostess who plied us with unlimited drinks and a wonderful buffet. During the game, as I sat in a plush, comfortable seat, she even dangled a strawberry Cornetto in my face. How could I resist? It was amazing. Even after the game, the feasting continued, with an unlimited free bar and buffet downstairs.


So to the game.


The build up to kick off featured rousing songs from the Gladbach fans; singing their hearts out - mostly in the direction of a bloke dressed in the club mascot's outfit; a foal. He ran up and down in front of the rapidly filling terraces (yes, you can still smoke in pubs and stand up at a football game in Deutschland...it's like England in the 70's and 80's, without the hooliganism) waving a flag and whipping the crowd into a frenzy.


As the teams emerged, the club anthem rang out and 50,000 people sang as one;


'Am Samstagmittag gehts es los, ins stadion zum Boekelberg'....a rousing Euro-pop anthem, in the true spirit of Eurovision. Actually, it was great to see the passion of the fans who sang with real meaning, furiously waving their club flags. If it didn't inspire their team, then nothing would.


And it worked. The game was not quite an epic in the style of English Premier league matches....Tottenham 4 Arsenal 4, Liverpool 5 Newcastle Utd 4 (still hurts that one), Manchester Utd 1 Manchester City 6 (enjoyed that) and on the same day as the Borussia game, Chelsea 3 Arsenal 5. 


But as games go it was enthralling and had just the right amount of drama, coupled with good skill and some moments of genius from a player we English need to take notice of; Marko Reus. Young, fast, skilful and a lethal finisher in front of goal. After taking a well deserved lead, Moenchengladbach were pegged back to 1:1 at half time. 


The second half was open with plenty of attacks, but one moment of brilliance that settled the game. Reus collected the ball to the left of the penalty area, turned back inside, almost Crueff-like, dipped his shoulder and drifted past another desperate defender, before unleashing a powerful shot into the bottom left corner of the goal. 


Our ageing English team will have nightmares about Rues in future European Championships and World Cups...the question is, where do the Germans keep producing these outstanding young players from?


I believe there is a 'Fussball Spieler' factory somewhere near Essen. German super footballers made to the highest specifications - an unbelievable ability to dribble, run fast, shoot with both feet and to take penalties. 


Whereas we English closed our Footballer factory a few years ago as a result of the economic crisis.....I'm afraid our current crop of footballers, the Rio Ferdinands, John Terrys, Steven Gerrards and Frank Lampards are beyond their 'use by date' and their batteries are running very low.


I digress. The 50,000 faithful left the ground, still singing, happy their team had delivered a win which took them to 4th in the Bundesliga. 


You can say what you like about sport. I enjoy watching from the comfort of my armchair, a cup of tea in hand and a biscuit to nibble on. But there is nothing like watching it live, in the stadium, soaking up the atmosphere. It's even better if you are sat in a comfortable chair, with your own VIP box, a cup of tea or something long and cold and a Cornetto to nibble on.




Köln / Cologne


I love visiting places I have never been to before. There is a feeling of anticipation and excitement like opening your Christmas presents. You have an idea what you might be getting, but you don't really know. It's like that with new places. You've read about them or seen them on the telly, or someone you know once went their for a long weekend and told you all about it....but until you go there, you just don't know.


I had been through Cologne many years before. Why Simon and I elected to pass through one of Germany's cultural highlights and spend the day at a poor Germany version of Alton Towers called Fantasialand is something I still haven't quite understood. The fantasy was that someone thought it would be really good....but sadly it wasn't. 


So, 25 or so years later, Simon and I rectified this oversight and were taken by Oliver to spend the day in Cologne, famous for its cathedral, its bridge over the Rhine, its old town and a drink called Kölsch. 


As we sped down the Autobahn, Oliver explained that as it was Sunday, the trucks that would ordinarily fur up the arteries of the German motorway system, were not allowed to drive on the Autobahns on Sundays. By law, unless they have a special permit. I counted 2 trucks in the 100km to Cologne. What a great rule that is. Perhaps we can do it over here, but make Monday the only day the trucks can go on motorways.


The most amazing fact about Cologne on the day we went (Sunday), was that it was OPEN. 
Normally, the shops of Germany stay resolutely closed on a Sunday and all the good citizens do other things on a proper day of leisure (but don't get that lawnmower out to cut the grass....naughty and definitely taboo on a Sunday).


For some reason, our German cousins like to have Bank Holidays on different days of the week. In this case, All Saints Day fell on a Tuesday. Therefore the Monday before was called a 'Bridging Day' - also a holiday. And that meant the shops could open on the Sunday. Confused? Don't worry, we didn't even go in any shops other than souvenir shops. 




The impressive cathedral beckoned us. We spent a pleasant few minutes wandering around inside and I was surprised to learn that a tomb at the front of the cathedral was alleged to contain the bones of the Three Wise Men, the Three Kings; those gentlemen who bore gifts for the new born baby Jesus 2,011 years ago. Now, I know they were ' three kings from Orient are...bearing gifts we travel afar'. Cologne seems an awfully long way from Bethlehem. Did they drop the pressies off, have a quick plate of falafel and some houmous  before carrying on to Northern Germany? 


Maybe their 'SatNav' ( a brightly shining star I believe) misdirected them. Or maybe they were hungry for a decent currywurst.



The three wise men of Marl now decided to climb the 509 steps to the viewing platform inside one of the two spires. 97.5 metres up. The staircase was a narrow spiral that went on and on. With every step higher the smell of sweaty bodies got stronger and the volume of unfit heavy breathing increased. Not for the faint hearted (literally), it was quite a climb and by the look on the puffed out red cheeks of many of those climbing up, not something they had expected.


The view was wonderful, out over the Rhein, the colourful houses of the old quarter glinting in the warm autumnal sunshine.


For our final stop in Cologne, we made our way down to the backs of the Rhein and the old quarter. For an autumn day, the unseasonally warm weather had brought lots of people out for a relaxing Sunday stroll and a glass or two of Kölsch. This uniquely brewed beer is served in special tall glasses, and served by waiters called Köbes who keep a record of how many beers have been drunk by marking the beer mat of the customers. These beer mats are legal 'documents' and you can be punished for tampering with them. 


Don't mess with the Germans and their beers. You have been warned.


I didn't try a Koelsch, as it wasn't served in a non alcoholic form; but again sampled a non alcoholic wheat beer. Delicious, as always....


***PLEASE MR TESCO....Import non alcoholic wheat beers and I'll continue shopping in your retail prison. My soul will be yours and I'll never look at a Sainsburys again.****

Kanst du Deutsch sprechen? ....Well, I thought I could.

Have you ever been in a situation where your mouth is working, but your brain just can't keep up?

Picture the scene. 

We were invited to dinner with Oliver's parents; a lovely couple who made us feel very welcome and served up a hearty meal. (Honestly, I did nothing but eat from the minute I arrived in Germany).

Oliver's father spoke a smattering of English which he employed to good effect. His mother didn't speak English. This, I thought, wouldn't be a problem as Simon speaks excellent Deutsch, Oliver is German (ie can translate if required) and I speak German too.

Well, I used to.

Years have flown since the necessity to speak German. I can read German relatively well. I can get the gist of what someone is talking about. And I thought I could speak it too. How wrong I was. 

The evening started well enough. My attempts at small talk were well received. I understood the conversation and the questions being asked. But then, disaster.

Something strange happened. Each time I tried to say something in German, the words that came out were distinctly of eastern origin. Indonesian.

I am pretty much fluent in Indonesian. I am comfortable speaking the language in any situation. It is natural and easy for me to converse with anyone and everyone on any subject. 

Unfortunately, the dominance of Indonesian outweighed my attempts to speak German, to such an extent that I gave up, frustrated and defeated. My frustration can be best illustrated when I attempted to explain some interesting point as follows;

Me: Ja, es ist in der...er, erm..Utara..Simon what's German for 'north'?

Simon: 'Nord'

Me: (blushing)...ja, in der Nord...

Me (thinking)...Utara?!...how the hell can you forget that Nord is German for north and use 'utara' instead. Drink your Bitburger Drive and keep quiet...smile and nod in the appropriate places...numpty.

How polyglots can trip between 11 different languages in an instant is beyond me. Again, Ronald Tidmarsh's voice is echoing in my head...

"Frobisher, this is first form work...Nord boy, Nord...it's not difficult is it?...Extra work for you. Copy out pages 10 - 12 of Sprich Mal Deutsch, Dummkopf."

So that is the tale of the weekend in Germany. A huge thanks to Oliver for organising everything and for his hospitality in putting Simon and I up and for treating us to an unforgettable experience at the Borussia Park and showing us Cologne. 

Next time, Oliver is coming over to the UK again. I will repay his kindness with a day out at Kidderminster Harriers and a greasy beef and onion pie at half time, washed down by a mug of Bovril. I'll then take him on a sightseeing tour of the West Midlands, including Wednesbury, Walsall, Dudley and lunch at KFC in Merry Hill (where the shops are always open). I am sure he'll go home full of wonder at our cultural heritage and explaining to his friends and family what a 'bostin' time he had.

As they say down our way, 'Tara for a bit'.