As an avid listener of the informative and ever-entertaining Cycling Podcast, I really enjoyed co-host and journalist Lionel Birnie's late July blog post. Lionel describes his epic post-Tour drive home from France as well as the adjustment to home life after almost a month on the road. Having concluded my own European working excursion at a similar time, I can certainly relate to Lionel's tales from road. While also making a living as a scribe, my travels were in the form of another role in pro cycling, that of a soigneur (French for carer/cook/slave). But what better way to sample and soak up Continental culture at its best (and, at times, “questionable), I ask?
Herewith then a lengthy driving “snapshot” of sorts.
If it's May, it must be Albstadt, Nove Mesto or a Salisbury car park
Midday in mid-May: I'm sitting at Stuttgart Airport, having finally gone through passport control that, for a while, wasn't even there. It's raining outside as I meet up with Mandy (fellow swannie) and Sebastiaan (videographer) for the drive to Albstadt. Bavaria is so clean, I think, as I memorise the airport exit. Why? Because I've got to return here later tonight to fetch one of the riders. Better remember to drive on the correct side of the road and self-serve when filling up with petrol (or diesel).
Later that evening: OK, after finding the fuel cap and having successfully filled up the team car, I've readjusted to Europe. Until I try to pay, that is. Back out to the car to check the odometer reading. Pick up Grant who has bought a loaf of bread and some cold meat to eat on the dark drive back to Wehingen. First European drive of the year done. Phew!
Six days later: 800km drive on the cards today, destination Nove Mesto in the Czech Republic. Skirting cities like Stuttgart and Nuremberg, Sebastiaan, Anne (rider) and I stop at a petrol station or two en route. Interesting sights include a truck driver jogging around the parking area on his layover (good man!) and a conversation (sign language) with some Ukrainian National Team staff somewhere outside Prague. Europe seems like it's under permanent road construction, and the Czech Republic is no different. Upon arriving at our hotel later that afternoon, it's back in the car shortly to follow the riders on an hour long leg loosener. The beauty of this place is amazing, what with forests and lakes everywhere. Will sleep very well tonight.
A fortnight or so on: In road racing mode now. After meeting up with the team in the Salisbury Sainsbury's car park, it's time to cook rice and eggs, as well as find a suitable place to refill water cans. As the riders are racing around a closed town centre circuit, I strike gold: a local gym has graciously allowed me to fill up using their miniature water fountain. Viva!
The riders finish racing, quickly clean up then it's time to get out of there, destination being a hotel near the Eurotunnel. Our goal is to get there before midnight, which we duly achieve with our 23:56 arrival. Jolly good show.
The next morning: A four hour delay (due to school holidays) sees us with time to kill at the Eurotunnel. This place is like a massive airport, just without planes. I kill the time by making rider lunches in the campervan and emptying the toilet (British soil) before we're called up to queue (yay!). We hit France around two in the afternoon and hightail it to Buggenhout in Belgium.
It's so good to be back in Belgium. Having spent an extended period here last year, driving in the rain past Ghent brings back great memories. Then it's off onto the smaller roads (more deja vu), which get smaller and smaller as we approach our homestay. Our mechanic James wasn't joking when he said 20km would take us an hour on those farm roads. We eventually pull up outside a red-bricked house (how Belgian!), our home for the next two nights.
Two days later: Delayed again! We're back at the Eurotunnel, albeit on the French side this time. Some of the riders have travelled back to the UK via plane, whilst a couple of others are with us. Time to kill again, this time observing the long queues at various fast food outlets.
We finally make it onto the train. Conversation is varied during our crossing, with two of our esteemed riders quizzing me about South Africa ('Is it dangerous there?'/'Is “District Nine” a true story?'). We're released back into Blighty, stop at the “services” and then onto our various destinations, mine being a hotel in Basingstoke before driving onto Plymouth the next day.
Head out on the Highway
OK, so I'm going to London via Risca and Basingstoke. Heading out from Plymouth on a late Friday morning, I can't help but notice the smell emanating from the toilet. The “no shitting” policy is clearly worded on the toilet door, I thought. Anyway, I'll be in Risca early afternoon, or so I think. An accident just outside Bristol has the traffic backed up for miles. But I eventually cross the Severn River, where the road signs now include a strange new language called Welsh.
Our team “service course” is located at a Risca bike shop, which is just past Cardiff. Wales is so green and beautiful I think, as we load ten bikes, thirty wheels and a half-dozen turbo trainers into the campervan. Backtracking my initial route, it's then full gas to Basingstoke for the night, only to be met by bemused (sober) onlookers as I ferry the aforementioned inventory into my hotel room. 'Excuse me sir, are you a bicycle racer?'
London Calling
And then it's onto the “Big Smoke” the next day. Having only properly visited London once previously, it's refreshing to experience the city in a different way, especially on a sunny day. I negotiate the endless roundabouts, overpasses and tunnels with much caution, eventually chugging into St Paul's Cathedral car park intact. Then I have to move to an avenue called Angel Street, literally a few hundred metres away but around ten minutes in driving time due to this bike racing circus. Jog around town trying locate a gas bottle (no luck) before resorting to boiling rice and eggs in a roadside fast food stand. Walk back to the van carrying hot pots in bag whilst the bladdered spectators cradle open bottles of booze.
But if I thought it was challenging get into London, getting back out (destination South) at midnight with closed roads proves more so. I somehow make it to the road along the Thames so must be on the right track (sic). Then it's onto Reading (Roxette's “Dressed for Success” blaring) for another 1am unpack (bemused drunk onlookers this time), 7:45am repack and drop off (before 11am) at the Risca bike shop, before a speed walk to the local train station. Gatwick rendezvous with my next employer tomorrow.
Midland Meandering
Several days later: Ettington Road, there are several. It's just that we (rival team soigneur and I) end up at the wrong one. It's Friday, three days into a five day stage race and my haste to leave the start area has lead to a critical error: following the wrong “suggested location” to a key feed zone. Driving a Crafter van is fine, it's just that getting stuck in an urban area of hostile onlookers can be a little unnerving. Especially when you've got places to be on the other side of Birmingham. But we make it in time, before foolishly agreeing to follow another team on their alleged “shortcut” to the next feed zone. Another hasty fifteen-point turn (this time is a grassy farmstead, complete with cows and maybe wolves), a double park on hairpin bend and we're good to go. Feed zone travails have been a recurring theme this week, though, so this turnaround (sic) is a step in the right direction.
The Next Two Days: It's Saturday and I'm happy. Why? Because I've not got lost, am at the designated point with much time to spare and have even had time for a barefoot jog up and down the road to keep loose. A roadside cup of tea with a local resident makes things even better as we commiserate about the difficulties of piloting left-hand drive vehicles in the UK (he's a truck driver), the race (very sprinter-orientated) and my final destination for the day (Telford).
The next day is trickier, what with an early journey into northern Wales, a wet and wild feed zone atop a mountain and frantic drive on the tail of the race convoy to the sun and tranquility of Colwyn Bay. I'm there for not more than a quarter-of-an-hour; I've got a train to catch!
Late June Afternoons
The UK sun continues, even in the northern reaches of the Kingdom. A four drive (in another campervan) from central Manchester to was on today's menu, before swapping to a team car for a time trial course preview around the beautiful Northumberland lanes. A daily commute between here and the Newcastle Novotel becomes de rigeur, not that I'm complaining. This is rural England at its best, and I'm seeing it all because of bike racing. Racing in the UK means working with several racing “legends” of the past, all pretty cool blokes. The hotel car park has been taken over by team vehicles, with staff banter and good natured “piss taking” part and parcel of the scene here.
But all good things must come to an end, and we make the journey back to Manchester late Sunday afternoon before the last leg of my European work trip resumes on Tuesday.
Twelve Hours
It's a little after five in the morning and I'm picking berries. My team boss, whilst making his living from mountain biking, is also a “Man of the Natural World”. His property in southeastern Holland doubles as his own “working farm,” my term for his expansive vegetable and fruit garden, which is his hobby, he tells me.
We depart at 6am sharp, the boss driving the Crafter van, me in the passenger seat and our one mechanic, other soigneur and videographer on the back seat. Val di Sole in the north of Italy is our port of call, and we wend our way through Germany, Austria (including the Brenner Pass) and into the Dolomites. It rains most of the way, making our brief stops rather damp. It's a little after 6:30pm before we pull into the team area, before Mandy (other soigneur) and I walk to the nearby pizzeria to collect a dozen or so “real” pizzas.
The Drive
Val di Sole flashes by and next on the agenda is moving camp to Andorra. My itinerary includes driving a few riders to Milan Malpensa for the night, before Sebastiaan, Maksym (mechanic) and I push on at five the next morning to Andorra, via Barcelona airport. It's a Monday morning as we set off, skirting Genova before descending past coastal highlights like San Marino, Nice and Cannes before heading inland (Aix-Provence) and then back along the coast to Barcelona. I drive halfway, before Sebastiaan takes over the reigns until the airport.
Riders picked up at Aeroporto El Prat, it's then up to Andorra, that tax friendly jewel of the Pyrenees. The weather changes from hot and windy to hot, windy and hailing as we enter the mountains. But the impressive reservoir we pass retains its azure-ness, despite the dark skies. We negotiate the narrow and busy roads of Andorra (parking offences are almost a capital crime here) nearing eight at night, with our hotel in Arinsal a sight for hungry stomachs (smoked fish and pasta).
Double Girona
Two days later: I'm on way down to Girona to fetch the team boss. It's bright and sunny as I pass through the vast farmlands en route. This area looks much like South Africa, I think, very dry in parts and generally quite rugged. After the hustle and bustle of Barcelona, the smaller Girona airport is quite a refreshing change. I'll be back here soon, I think, for my Monday flight back to the UK
Monday 18 July: Andorra to El Prat, and then onto Girona airport. Another early start as we head down in a two vehicle convoy to Barcelona. The sky looks heavy adding to the subdued early morning mood. The riders will all be flying home while I take the rental car onto Girona before flying to Bristol that evening. Then the heavens open, leading to monsoon-like conditions in Barcelona. After bidding farewell to the team, I make my way back onto the highway with a petrol tank nearing empty. A panicked sojourn into central Barcelona ensues before I strike gold in a strategically placed Shell garage. Yes! Then it's onto Girona, the skies so dark and the rain so heavy that one can barely see ten metres. Things improve slightly before I roll into the rental car drop off. I've made, I think, as I walk barefoot and drenched into the departures hall for a much-needed cardboard cup of tea.
