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Postcards from Normandy
by Tom Southam | 01/04/09

Etape 1

16.10. Pedalling slowly on the turbo trainer, third in a line. To my left, Rhys, dripping with sweat, face fixed in concentration on his front wheel. To his left Dan, just starting his warm up, headphones in, casually turning his legs. To my right, Garry Beckett stands sentry, I have told him to tell me when its twenty five minutes to, and he stands there dutifully glaring at the autograph hunters. My skinsuit is on, my overshoes are on, my helmet is set up and waiting on my T.T. bike. I have nothing left in the world to think about. There is nothing other than making myself go as fast as I possibly can around the 5.1km prologue course. I am one end of a tunnel at the other end of which is the finish line and the rest of the world.

Etape 2

One and a quarter hours in. I haven’t spoken to a soul all race, and am starting to look around for things to think about or people to talk to, to start to give my mind a break from concentrating on the race. The early break is long gone with seven minutes or so. The race has settled into one general direction, so no chance of cross winds. I start to try to listen to what a peleton sounds like, a hard thing to do; if you’ve ever tried, and my favourite mid-race time waster. Putting sounds of the background into the foreground. Rampant horns, Danish, a whirring sound, the wind, a yell from the side of the road, car engines, motorbikes. I pick up a song to sing myself, ‘Happiness hit her, like a train on a track… .’ fine tune, but the Dog Days are long from over, one hundred and forty kilometres to go.

Etape 3

12 o’clock is lunchtime and we are all sat bleary-eyed around the table becoming increasingly frustrated as our food gets later and later. Our classically arrogant French waiter boondoggles around, huffing a lot. We have been up since 6am and have already ridden an 80km road stage in the rain. I still have dirt in my ears and we have only three hours until the second 80km stage of the day starts. No one has any desire whatsoever to eat some sloppy pasta and chicken, but eating is the most vital thing, and the fact that the three hour countdown to the next race is already underway makes for possibly the toughest meal time of the tour.

Etape 4

172km covered, 44km/h on a wet descent on a tiny road, on a sharp right hand bend, and my front tyre has just exploded. First thought is always the same, race over. Second thought a millisecond later is ‘what’s the best way to land this thing’. I know continuing to try to take the corner and banking any further will result in a nasty slide across the tarmac which never really hurts but is always so annoying when you keep sticking to your clothes and bed sheets. So I am limited to trying to upright the bike and go straight ahead while breaking hard enough to reduce impact and not so hard I go straight over the bars. There ahead is my salvation; a gateway into a field, that will do nicely. Into the dirt I go, through the gap and upending into a bramble bush. I lay there awhile, upside down watching the cars screech past the corner and the filthy faces of the dropped riders trying to make their way back on. Pas de Panic, nothing is broken and as soon as I can get upright and pull the thorns out my face, I’ll be back on my merry way. 28km of pieties from the side of the road to go.

Etape 5

50 metres past the line, a swift U-turn to head back to the van. I must look knackered as the finish line photographers get a glimpse of me coming back the other way and seem to get excited. Face covered in dirt, jersey and legs plastered with layers of mud, obligatory can of coke in hand and an expression that probably says it all. I just want them all to piss right off if I’m honest, despite knowing that I am right there and then the type of spectacle these folk flock to see, after a long hard stage and tough scrappy finish I just want to be left well alone hidden from the prying eyes that relish in my exhaustion.

Etape 6

Dossard cent trent cinq, just won’t relent. I sit watching him through the window of the voiture balai. There are about 50 km left of stage 7 and the general sickness floating around the team has finally taken its toll on me. Five or so kilometres previously, with no breakfast and still unable to eat anything in the race I called it quits and got into the sag wagon. Now I’m just desperate to get to the finish and get out of my damp kit and into a warm hotel bed. But 134, who is already 8km behind the race is determined to plough his lonely furrow toward the finish. I sit there willing him to get off, and allow us to accelerate up to the back of the convoy, and cut half an hour off my suffering. But no, not even a glance behind at the broom wagon. Spots of rain land on the windscreen, the road ahead stretches out as far as the eye can see, there is just our rider here, his personal gendarme, the squabbling mid fifties couple in the front of the van and me, rattling my chains in my prison.

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