A world of sport

The Spanish World Champion is still awaited

Way back in the mists of time, when I was a much younger and fitter man, at certain times of the year, one or two televised sporting events would kind of prick my conscience and inspire me to copy the paid professionals off the box. Mid to late April was always a favourite period because at this time of year Sheffield always hosted the World Snooker Championship and, yup, you've guessed it,I'd take my bat down to the snooker hall and try and emulate Steve Davis. The realisation I was a bit shite soon kicked in though and within about six weeks, quite often sooner, I'd turn my attentions to a different ball game, just in time for the Wimbledon fortnight.

English footy fans/Spanish cyclists, not a lot of difference really. in the beer gut stakes.

Tennis too was soon added to the list of sports I really enjoyed, had a bit of a bash at, and quickly discovered I'd never be much good at. Following a three hour and five set marathon, (that I lost), a badly sun burnt me retired gracefully on a gallant defeat. Nowadays, I've grown out of all that stuff and, aside from the very occasional game of golf in late spring, (just about when The Masters is televised), I've not hit a ball of any kind in anger for quite a while. Thinking about it, there's probably not a better phrase anywhere to describe my lack of sporting prowess than "hitting -  snooker, tennis or golf - balls in anger". In Spain there is a sizeable group of people, middle aged and slightly overweight men in the main, who should have done what I did but still haven't. For them, professional cyclists are the inspiration and they don't look like growing out of their adulation anytime soon either.

Aspe cycling club - 2011 team foto

As the weather warms up, more and more of these otherwise perfectly sensible blokes squeeze their portly frames into luridly coloured spandex clobber, climb aboard their expensive looking bikes and ride off into the sunrise. Unfortunately, they seem to do this every weekend in increasingly large numbers and in the process completely forget about, or more to the point ignore, other road users. July hereabouts is always something of a misery because for three weeks the Tour de France takes place and is beamed live and direct into households around the country, thereby provoking even more interest amongst the Spanish cycling fraternity. Not being weighed down by an over abundance of patience, you can probably imagine my state of mind when just last weekend I had the misfortune to chance across a latter day Miguel Indurain and about fifteen of his mates.

A recent view from behind my steering wheel

I have a regular Saturday morning appointment at nine o'clock in Aspe, the next small town west of Elche about twelve kilometres away. Getting there was fine, I didn't even have one of those heart stopping moments that catching sight of one of the many random Guardia Civil drink driving controls, (a feature of Spanish motoring), usually induces after a skinful the night before..The journey home though became something of an ordeal as Big Mig and his peloton of cronies, all dressed like fucking Power Rangers, bimbled along four abreast oblivious to the lengthy and increasingly frustrated queue of motorists behind headed by yours truly. So slowly were they moving I had time to steer with my knees, retrieve my mobile phone from my pocket and loose off three or four perfectly focussed photos of the inconsiderate group of two wheeled tossers.

You can trust the driver of this vehicle

In that situation, being first car back is quite a responsibility you know and the decisions come thick and fast. In actual fact, of these two adjectives, only the former couild be applied to the posse up front because they certainly weren't pedalling very quickly. Their leisurely speed therefore presented me with something of a dilemma; whether to patiently wait and continue to crawl along or attempt a risky overtake without knowing how long their train stretched out before me. Five minutes and less than a kilometre of contemplation later, the decision was made for me, when, on a reasonably straight bit of road, the black SEAT Leon directly behind me dropped it down to second and came blatting past. 'Sod it' I thought, and, trusting to luck, I slipstreamed the very young looking pilot. Thankfully, I had chosen to follow one of only nine Spanish car drivers in the entire country with his wits about him, who, not only passed the lycra clad pensioners but kept going at full chat so as to allow me to pull in too.

Imagine the "fun" I'm going to have when the Tour of Spain, (La Vuelta de España) starts in the last week of August. Perhaps that would be a good time to buy a bike!!