A bit of a bike ride

A painful 70's memory

I didn't know what hit me, that does tend to be the way when things happen very suddenly. My last recollection was pedalling along, minding my own business, trying to shield the black face of my digital watch from the bright sunshine with one hand whilst using the other to press the button at the side to make the red numbers appear. I don't think I was even moving that fast, you don't need to be cycling particularly quickly when colliding with a moving car to know it's soon going to hurt though. A split second before I hit the ground I saw my shadow and the bike wasn't even in the same frame, an abiding memory of the incident. The attractive lady driver of the silver Audi stopped a few yards down the road and immediately came to my aid, pretty magnanimous considering the accident was all my own work.

A thing of the past

That was a true story from circa 1979 and thankfully, less than ten years later I had acquired a driving licence, thus enabling myself to get about in relative safety. Obviously, shortly after I was legally entitled to drive, the push bike became a thing of the past and so too were any completely unplanned encounters with random passing motorists. Aside from a couple of years in my late-thirties, when the small English village in which I lived was miles from anywhere, I've not parked my arse on a bike for absolutely ages. In point of fact I sold my "hog" six years ago before embarking on the odyssey that life in Spain rapidly became. Even now, aged nearer to fifty than forty, the exercise bikes at the gym represent the kind of challenge I can't refuse and I devour televised professional cycling; something I've enjoyed for twenty years.

Route 66 ?

Try to imagine, I'm sure you can, the excitement of a six year old on Christmas Eve and then picture an adult with that same sense of anticipation. That adult was me on hearing the news the route of the 2011 Tour of Spain, La Vuelta a España, cycle race would be passing by my house on it's journey round the country. Everyone in the known universe has heard of the Tour de France but did you know there are two other 'Grand Tours' I thought not! Italy - in May - and Spain at the end of August/start of September are the other prestige events on the calendar. Spain though does things rather differently and, unlike France, most certainly isn't up it's own arse when it comes to hosting a simple, three week bicycle race. French towns and villages grovel to pay the organisers thousands of euros for the privilege of having the tour swing past and in the process whole areas are off limits all day. Spain appears to understand the route has to pass somewhere and, until the men on bikes arrive, life continues pretty much as normal.

The most curious of spectator sports

Day two of the twenty one day event, Sunday August 21st, began in La Nucia near Benidorm at about one thirty pm and was due to wind it's way 174 kilometres south towards Torrevieja. Just about half way along the route was Elche, 107 kilometres into the stage, (only Spain, Italy and France are licensed to hold road races of three weeks where each day is designated as a stage). Such are the nuances of the way the route is planned, to drive between La Nucia and Elche is a distance of only 74 clicks, this is what makes the Grand Tours so difficult. That and the stupid temperatures during Spain in August, which, when the race left the start of the stage had the poor sods taking part having to cope with 37 odd degrees of heat. While more than one hundred and ninety cyclists were punishing their minds and bodies out on the road, Elche went about it's business seemingly oblivious to the high speed convoy approaching at quite a rate of knots. Until about fifteen before it was due to hit town that is.

Four men in a breakaway

One by one, with no discernible sense of urgency, people emerged from their houses and gathered to wait on the streets outside, save for the occasional bus trundling past there wasn't actually a fat lot to watch but it was obvious something was about to happen. An eerie silence followed, akin to one of those tumble-weed moments, and was eventually broken by a pair of police motorcyclists, yellow flags fluttering from their mounts who were soon followed by a couple more, this time with much more urgent looking red flags. Then all hell broke loose as a breakaway group of four riders emerged through the distant heat haze, anything in their path being bulldozed aside by official cars, more police and assorted hangers on. Overhead a TV helicopter clattered away beaming live shots shots to households around the country. Thirty seconds later the first four flashed noiselessly past to ripples of applause and shouts of encouragement from the crowd, by now three deep on the pavements.

La Vuelta detritus

Four minutes down the road, the rest of the peloton, in arrowhead formation, soon followed amid similar chaotic scenes to the recently passed leaders. Preceded by official cars, even more police and flanked by press motorcyclists with precariously perched cameramen and photographers, stood up for the most part on the rear pedals, the long train, a riot of colour, snaked past. The stragglers, desperately trying to keep up, were quickly followed by all of the Tour apparatus; immaculately liveried team cars, atop which sat spare bikes, medical teams and the dreaded "broom wagon" the facetiously name people carrier charged with the task of "sweeping up" race retiree's. Five minutes later, it was as if nothing had happened, the gathered watchers had drifted away leaving behind haphazardly discarded drinking bottles, the only real clue as to what had just gone.

Pro' cycling really is the most curious of spectator sports but on an event such as La Vuelta, millions will line the streets for it's three weeks duration to snatch the briefest glimpse as the protagonists fly past. Just like I did.