Milking It

It is the opening day of the Tour de France 2013.

The 100th running of this epic endurance race.

My own affinity to the Tour is comparatively recent from around 1981 when I got into cycling as a sport and lifestyle.

Following the race was so much easier than in previous years graduating from sparse and almost apologetic coverage to full on primetime broadcasting albeit of the edited highlights. Still, it represented a bit of a revolution (French and bicycle wheels) and gradually the insults from those on foot in the street or in a close-passing car began to reflect the improvement in knowledge and understanding of professional continental racing.

In my own experience the shouts from man, woman and child alike of "get off and milk it" changed almost overnight with the TV publicity to "who do you think you are, Bernard Hinault" etc, etc depending on their own loyalties and affiliations. 

There were still few British or even English speaking riders at that time but names were becoming familiar such as Sean Kelly, Stephen Roche, Robert Millar, Phil Anderson and the Americans including Greg Lemond.

I even began to notice other casual cyclists wearing replica shirts of the main trade teams and this I found encouraging although the trendier shirts began to feature as essential wear to disco's and nights on the town as well.  

I am usually well prepared to be an armchair participant.

I have the Official Guide open and ready, a wall chart on which to ink in the main developments, a team issue hat from the 1990's (Raleigh Castorama) and a copy of the TV Times to make the most of the streamed live action or to catch up at my tea time with the Channel 4 highlights.

It is usually an exciting following three weeks particularly if there is prominent involvement by a British rider of UK based team.

Take last year.

It was an unprecedented display of how home grown cycling has been developed not to just take part, make up the numbers  and have a good time, typically English, but through scientific application and man management go out and compete with the best and win.

This year, with Wiggins absent, I am slowly warming to Froome and Co although my wife has admitted to following him on social media and considers him to be a good guy. I value her judgement and will give the lad every chance to prove that he is talented, dedicated and able to produce the goods over the trials, tribulations and mountain passes of the coming weeks.

I had my own favourites in past Tours de France. Laurent Fignon was the suave, educated Parisian who was unpopular with even his own countrymen but he wore prescription glasses, had a pony tail for some of the time and also a massive tape-worm nestled in his intestines. I could identify with the man in at least 30% of these traits (opinions within the comments section please). He was a grafter and won through against adversity but also had the ignominy of losing the Tour by the narrowest of margins as well to that hanger on Lemond. 

I quite liked Hinault. He was a bit of a bully by all accounts but a real hard man at heart which I could admire. Kelly and Roche, the Irish contingent were tremendous in their consistency and achievements and I had the honour of slapping one of them on the back and nearly getting run over on a Nottingham pavement by the other. Happy Days.

Of course there were as many disappointments as encouragements and I have found it difficult to accept the revelations surrounding Lance Armstrong and the dopey sods.

I do not want to say anything more about that.

The sheer physical effort to propel a bike forwards is still a thrill to me as I approach to within a few weeks of my half century of years. The personalities of the Tour and indeed in all aspects of competitive cycling have encouraged and inspired me for the last 30 years of my love affair with the bike. They have helped me to overcome fatigue and exhaustion whilst cycling into a head wind on a Saturday ride out in the depths of winter. In my first competitive time trial of a hilly thirty seven miles I was strengthened by the thought of the great riders of the past. My first race win, in fact my only competitive win, was a lonely affair after I had left behind the others and rode over the finish line to the amazement of my late Father who was expecting my usual timid and non-committal effort.

Just today I rode out with my own son and felt that same fusion of man and machine together that had kept me enthralled through so much of my association with cycling.