Like Royalty

My legs are a bit stiff after yesterday’s two-thirds of Kilomathon as I drive out to Stoke for Stage 5 of The Tour Of Britain. Thankfully I’m not riding in it but then of course I can boast that I already have, having cycled the route last week.

I head to hospitality for breakfast. Traditional Staffordshire Oatcakes they call them, filled with cheese and bacon. Not sure they’re terribly traditional but they’re very welcome.

I meet up with my host, the girl who’s telephone number L bunged me and she arranges for me to see the race from one of the press cars, which I share with a couple of journos. Seeing the freelance journalists do their work is actually more interesting than the race. Cycle races are often not that exciting, they’re a bit like chess matches and you have to wait for the exciting bits that eventually emerge from all the tactical manoeuvrings.

It’s also interesting watching the slick police operation as motorcycle riders close the roads ahead of the race and to listen to ‘tour radio’ and hear all the organising going on.

The press cars have to stay in front of the main pack, so for the first 30km or so we don’t actually see anything as we drive along, a minute or so ahead of the race but still all the assembled crowds wave at us, which is kind of like being royalty.

Then four riders escape from the main bunch and we get to drop into the gap between them and the main field.



Now we can ride directly behind them as one rider tries to make contact, and eventually does, with other three. Inevitably, although at one stage they had a lead of six minutes, the pack reels them in. This means we have to go back in front, squeezing past the leaders as we do so, which must have made them feel as if they were on the commute to work.



Our driver then puts his foot down to get us to the finish in plenty of time to see the race arrive.

Once there we head straight into hospitality again and a good view of the finish line. My wrist is now adorned with two wristbands, Daughter will be so jealous, that’s one up on her, she’s still wearing the one from the Leeds Festival.



For the third day in a row the winner is Norway's Edvald Boasson Hagen.



I bet the poor chap gets sick of being snogged by those girls or perhaps not.

Unfortunately I miss lunch as they’re already packing up hospitality to ship it down to the South-West for tomorrow’s stage. So I pop into a garage for a sandwich where I fall out with the sales assistant! It’s £2.69 for a sandwich or £3 for the meal deal including crisps and a drink. I don’t want one of their sugary drinks or a bottle of water so I just go for the crisps and she tries to charge me £3.49. I have to have the drink to get it for £3. How stupid is that? The woman scans a drink and the price comes down to £3. I offer to put it back on the shelf. Can’t do that she says, it will mess up the stock figures. I ask if it’s ok if I throw it in the bin, she shrugs. In the end, I take it home for Daughter.

Later after dog training, I get home and L is entering the blessed Kilomathon. Oh what the hell, why not.