Staking out race leader Vincenzo Nibali’s Astana bus

After a pleasant drive over on Sunday afternoon, I spent most of Monday getting to know the area better by bike. Over the past few years, since I’ve taken up cycling as a hobby, the bike has taken me to many lovely spots which I’d have been unlikely to visit in the car. I like nothing better than heading off for a day in the saddle, revelling in the warm spring weather and investigating small towns and villages en route. I rode around here last July and now have a good idea in my head of the layout of the surrounding area and, as it’s well sign-posted, I’m most unlikely to get lost.

My husband’s clients have been very hospitable and only to happy to entertain us in various restaurants most evenings, you can’t beat local knowledge. But Italy’s the one place where I have never, ever had a bad meal or a even a bad cup of coffee. I used to say that about France but we have had one or two disastrous meals when we’ve been out cycling.

The advantage of a week in Italy is the effect it’s had on my spoken Italian. I don’t speak it often enough so a week of reading La Gazzetta dello Sport, watching RAI Sport and chatting in Italian brings it all flooding back. My beloved is making an effort to speak Italian though confuses it with Spanish with humorous results. However, we were both tasked with conversing in Italian when the client’s parents, who both only speak Italian, took us out one evening for dinner and a tour of the area. Amazingly, we had a most interesting evening and have learnt much about the area, particularly its history and viticulture.

The three days of the Giro d’Italia were planned with precision so that I could both see the start and finish each day. All went according to plan on the first two days. I happily snapped away with my beloved’s camera and I also managed to chat to a few of the riders to contribute to my article for VeloVoices.

Stage 13 before the start

On the last day, after three days of glorious sunshine, the heavens opened and the rain cascaded down. That, and high winds, made driving to the start quite perilous but it was ultimately a doomed effort as they’d closed the road well ahead of the departure time and Italy’s finest couldn’t be persuaded to let me through despite the proper credentials. Of course, it may have been that they were clearing rubble swept onto the road by the rain. I’ll never know. Feeling chilled to the bone, I drove directly to the finish to take shelter and warm up in the press room.

But my Giro adventure’s not yet over. A client meeting in Milan on Monday morning has paved the way for a trip to Brescia on Sunday to watch the final day.

Nose job?

Yesterday my husband was desperate to enjoy what little good weather was forecast. Unwilling to wait while I finished a small task, he left the flat about an hour ahead of me. I was about to leave the Domaine, by bike, when my mobile rang. By the time I’d fished it out of my back pocket, I’d missed the call. I didn’t recognise the number so waited to see of the caller left a message. He did.

It’s the type of call you dread receiving. It started with the words that my husband had been involved in an accident then calmed my fears by advising he wasn’t badly hurt. I raced home and rang the caller who told me that Richard had been taken to a local hospital and a friend was coming to collect his bike. In France, the firemen are the paramedics but, not unnaturally, they cart you off to hospital and leave others to worry about collateral issues.

I changed, grabbed the necessary paperwork and legged it over to the hospital where a long queue of domestic accidents awaited. I was assured that my husband was being dealt with and I could see him soon. Soon turned out to be a relative term. It was two hours before he rang me to give me chapter and verse of what he could remember.

He was riding through Juan les Pins when the car in front, without indicating, stopped abruptly. Richard braked, flew over the handle bars and hit the boot with his nose which it has to be said is fairly sizeable. He was dazed, cut his chin, his lip and split open his nose up to his forehead. Copious amounts of blood issued forth. Luckily a couple of team mates were riding in the opposite direction but first on the scene was a lady from another club who’s a nurse who organised everything and took care of Richard – far better than I could have done. With that much blood, I’d have likely fainted!

Despite it being a Sunday my beloved was impressed with the level of care and professionalism of the hospital and staff and was released into my tender car with plenty of pain killers. He pretty much ached all over from the impact and while his first appointment tomorrow – today’s a bank holiday – is with an ENT specialist, he’ll probably have to go and see his physio too.

My beloved was extremely fortunate that he wasn’t cycling faster, as the injuries would have been worse. Also the proper authorities were quickly alerted and he was tended to by a nurse at the scene. I’m trying to track down the lady in question via the cycling club network so that I can thank her. He now looks like an extra in a Hammer House of Horror movies and his chances of ever finding work as a model have flown out the window.  He’s also grounded for the next week or so. Spare a thought for me in all of this. I was looking forward to a quiet week watching the Giro and tackling my “to do” list now I’ll be resuming my role ill-suited role as Florence Nightingale!

Postscript: Amazingly, I have managed to get all of the blood out of his shirt!

Tuesday postscript: The ENT specialist was pleased with how quickly my beloved’s injuries are healing. The nose is broken, but not displaced, and the stitches come out on Friday.

RT @sdw14 Going to #cannesfilmfestival to see if any horror movie directors are interested! Look away if you’r… bit.ly/14sD3qK

— Cannes Film Festival (@CannesCoverage) May 21, 2013

I never continue to be amazed by the number of vehicles, in their rush to get wherever they’re going, who are quite happy to place my life in peril rather than slow down and allow me to pass by safely. A classic is the right-hand turn. I’m approaching one, so I signal to the oncoming traffic, and that behind me, I’m going straight on. This seems to be the equivalent of a call to arms as vehicles rev their engines and drivers apply feet to accelerator pedals in an effort to overtake me and then turn right into my oncoming path. Would they do that if I were another vehicle? Before you answer, remember we’re talking about France here, the country with one of the highest rates of mortality on the roads.

The answer is that it depends on the right hand turn. If there’s a slip road, then the turn’s large so, if there’s room to squeeze in front, they will: likewise with a scooter or motor bike. Accounting no doubt for the high level of two-wheeled fatalities. Of course, as you cycle across these death traps yawning chasms, motorists have two choices: slow down and then turn behind you or speed up and cut in front. Now, I don’t think it’s going to take a genius to work out their generally preferred option.

We’ve covered traffic turning right, but what about traffic exiting right. With the exception of roads clearly marked ” GIVE WAY TO RIGHT” albeit in French, I have right of way on my bicycle. I know because I’ve checked in the French version of the Highway Code. However, it’s as if other road users have applied a ruling of their own, a sort of I know there’s a big fat white line telling me to stop but as it’s only a cyclist I can just nip out. The ones I particularly dislike are those who’ve stopped, looked in your direction, waited and then shot out at the last moment narrowly missing your front wheel. Did they not see me, or did they see me  surreptitiously feathering the brakes? Who knows?

I should add that this group is particularly dangerous on roundabouts. In France, pay no heed to where cars are positioned on a road, they’ll pretty much always opt for the shortest queue. Yes, I’m turning first right at the roundabout but I’m in the shortest queue on the left-hand side of the road, generally reserved for those turning left or maybe straight-on.  This means if the car on the right-hand side isn’t turning right, equally possible, I’m going to cut him up as I turn right. For the cyclist these are the most dangerous as they need to get across quickly to avoid hitting the car on their inside, they’re not on our radar and they’re paying us no heed whatsoever!

Now, what about oncoming traffic turning left across my bows. Regular readers will know that I’ve been knocked off my bike twice. Both times by inattentive lady drivers. In both instance, I had right of way and they were in the wrong. However a sense of righteous injustice won’t save my life. Luckily my ample padding saved me from anything more serious than cuts and bruises.

Lack of speed however does not apply when I’m descending. Again those additional kilos and my fast wheels help me drop like a stone. Similarly, concentration, awareness and keeping over to my side of the road have seen me stay largely upright, safe and sound. Of course, I also generally ride on roads I know really well which helps enormously. I tend to more cautious when dealing with the unknown.

What about those pesky pedestrians? Indeed, they will happily step out in front of cyclists. Why oh why? You wouldn’t step out in front of a speeding car, so why step out in front of a speeding cyclist? Many zebra crossings in France are controlled by traffic lights. So, do they wait until the light turns green before stepping into the road. Hell no, they step into the road and then freeze in the middle of the lane. This leaves me in a quandary, which way are they going to move? It’s often hard to tell whether they’re going to rashly push on or rapidly retreat.

I have practised emergency braking with my coach but I can’t stop on a sixpense certainly not when I’ve just come barreling down a hill at top speed. I have nightmares about headlines saying “Speeding Cyclist Crushes Pensioners” except, of course, it would be in French and probably say something along the lines of “Une grosse cycliste britannique écrase les petits retraités françaises”.

I mention this because I was twice, yes twice, mistaken for Pauline Quirke. It happened many moons ago when I lived in London and “Birds of” was at the height of its fame. The first was at a jolly at Selfridges department store. I can’t recall exactly why I was there but I believe it was an American Express sponsored event. I was just about to take a sip from my glass of champagne when I set upon by a lady who’d clearly already been freely imbibing. “It’s you isn’t it?” she said. Now I have an excellent memory for faces, your name might elude me for a few seconds but your face, no. I had never met this woman before in my life.  However, to give her the benefit of the doubt, I enquired whether we’d ever met before. She confirmed we hadn’t and said she wouldn’t tell, tapping the side of her nose in conspiratorial fashion. I tried to reassure that I was no one but she was having none of it. In fact she even commented on my “posh” accent and congratulated me on my cockney accent on the television. She stuck to me like a limpet and, in the end, it order to shake her free, I lost patience and asked who she thought I was. She told me. Talk about being brought down to earth with a bump!

Now my late mother was mistaken for the late Princess Grace a couple of times, but I really couldn’t, or didn’t want to, see any likeness between me and Pauline Quirke. I put it down to her over consumption of my favourite beverage. But, blow me down with a feather. A couple of months later, I was walking down the King’s Road one evening with my beloved when a gaggle of giggly ladies asked me for my autograph, quite convinced I was the actress in question. They clearly didn’t believe my protestations so, I bowed to the inevitable and, in order to get rid of them, I signed Pauline Quirke several times and exited right.

I was a bit shaken by both these episodes as it’s quite common to see “celebrities” all over London, without even trying. Among others, I’ve seen Tom Cruise in a bar in Notting Hill, Paul McCartney in one of the arcades, John Malkovich ambling along Oxford Street, Steven Spielberg and Rob Lowe in a restauarnt. I’ve never felt any desire to either ackowledge their presence or ask them for their autograph. Why would you?

My last employer wanted a photograph to accompany the announcement that I was joining the company and I was wheeled in front of a professional photographer. Now, I hate having my photo taken. Photos of me as a child show me staring resentfully at the camera and it’s not gotten any better in later life. I recall one wedding we attended in Germany where three people shot videos and everyone else ran amok with those disposable cameras. I’m pleased to announce that no one captured my image. I have a sixth sense when a lens is swung in my direction and I just merge into the background. Group photos? I generally hide behind my beloved.

I made the usual jokes about her using the lens which made me look 10 years’ younger. But clearly she hadn’t used it as I looked like Rosemary West! Now Pauline Quirke was bad enough but fancy being made to look like one half of a notorious serial murdering couple. Quite! I used to joke about it because people would look at the photo, frown and say “you know you remind me of someone………..” This latest drama was therefore vaguely unsettling as Pauline played a women who’d been married to an incestuous murderer. It was all starting to become eerily spooky.

I was reminded of this recently when I misplaced some possessions. I had hoped that a bit like dogs and their owners, who seem to strangely grow to resemble one another, that the same might happen after years of marriage to my beloved. Now, I don’t want to look like him but I was hoping that some of his finer qualities might rub off. There has been some exchange in the other direction. When I met him my beloved was a shy boy lacking in self-confidence, not something that can be levelled at him now. Sadly, however he’s failed to absorb some of my organisational skills while I seem to have picked up his habit of losing things.

Of course, not everything he’s left behind has fallen into the “lost” category. Where he’s remembered, or more likely, I’ve spotted it’s missing we’ve been able to retrieve all manner of stuff. And so it was with me. After driving most of the way home from the Basque country I woke up in bed and 2:45am and remembered I had left something behind. Now, I know you’re shaking your heads, tutting  and asking why didn’t I check all the draws and cupboards thoroughly before we left? I did, just not thoroughly enough. I can apportion no blame to my beloved as I was in charge of the re-packing.

The hotel was alerted at 8:00am and found my missing possessions exactly where I had said they would be. Of course, I had an anxious few hours wondering whether they might be safely retrieved. Actually, no. I couldn’t sleep because was annoyed with myself for not following my usual procedures. I also thought long and hard about whether I would be upset if my possessions didn’t come to light and I realised I wouldn’t. These weren’t things of real import in the overall scheme of things, nor things I even need or use on a daily basis.

I’m back down in the Basque country at the end of July but I sensed my host’s desire to be freed from the responsibility of caring for my possessions. My next challenge was to arrange for me and my possessions to be reunited. This is an area where I have significant competence. I frequently have to arrange such matters for my beloved. I looked into how much it would cost for me to go and collect them but I was loathe to waste two days of precious time unless I could fit in a business trip and see a client in Madrid. No, the client wasn’t yet ready to see me.  Friends in Spain who might have provided a temporary home were away on business – all of them.

So I checked out what it would cost to use a courier. Let’s just say it’s easier to organise a delivery rather than a collection! But I persisted with FedEx on the advice of a friend who had worked in the industry. It took a number of emails and telephone calls in a variety of languages but finally I had an account with FedEx and they had my instructions. I notified the hotel and I could feel their waves of relief.

It then went very quiet. I kept checking my account – no activity, nothing. Finally, I sent them an email asking what if anything was happening. No sooner had I let fly on the keyboard when the building guardian rang to say he’d taken collection of a parcel for me. Yes, it was my possessions which had winged their way from the depths of the Basque country in northern Spain to southern France. I hastily sent another email confirming receipt and they sent me back the tracking number!

You can be sure that, unlike my beloved, I have learnt from my mistake. I will NOT be doing that ever again. I have, of course, given my beloved some ammunition but he won’t be using it for two reasons. One, he’ll soon completely forget about it and, even if he doesn’t, two I have a far bigger arsenal with which to fight back.

Youngest-ever, Marc Marquez

Yesterday morphed into an almost perfect day of sporting pleasure. I dropped my beloved off at the airport and, as the sun was shining, decided an early ride was in order. It was a perfect weather for a ride. I wasn’t the only one to think that as the roads were crowded with cyclists. I’m suffering a bit at the moment with my tree pollen allergy which gives me pink scratchy eyes, a runny nose and a wheeze. It’s worse when it’s windy, like on Saturday. But yesterday the wind was relatively benign which probably accounted for the rain shower which began just as I reached home.

Freed from the restrictions of having to feed my beloved, I enjoyed a lazy soak in my spa bath and even used the spa facility – sheer bliss. Lunch was left-overs from Saturday evening which I enjoyed on a tray in front of the television, so as not to miss a second of Sunday’s jam-packed sporting action. Given conflicting schedules I’m ashamed to admit I had all three televisions tuned in to various channels and could, but didn’t, have resorted to my laptop.

First up the London Marathon. Watching this always brings back memories of my own participation in 1994 where I do believe I set a record for the slowest recorded finish, just seconds before the cut-off. That’s almost 20 years’ ago – scary thought. I keep saying I’ll do another one, but I haven’t. There’s still plenty of time! It was great to see that the shocking events in Boston had increased, rather than diminished, the support for the race.

Then I was transported to Turkey to watch the first stage of the Presidential Tour, won in fine style by German sprinter Marcel Kittel (Argos-Shimano). I was however on friend-watch, which always makes any event much more enjoyable, and I saw them all finish safely in the bunch. At the same time I was checking on progress over in Belgium at La Doyenne, Liege-Bastogne-Liege.

Handily, the rain had delayed the start of the tennis final in Monte Carlo where Nadal was bidding for his ninth win. That man owns the clay courts there but unfortunately not this year. Novak Djokovic won in imperious fashion, no doubt hoping to do the same in Paris, at the French Open. Nadal showed flashes of his old self but the long injury lay-off inevitably took its toll. He wasn’t able to respond as one might have anticipated despite the urging of the crowd, hoping for a third set.

Back to racing in Belgium, where fellow-Brummie Dan Martin surprised many with an emphatic victory, well-orchestrated by his Garmin-Sharp team. It also showed that Ryder Hesjedal, the defending Giro champion is on the money two-weeks before he gets to defend his pink jersey. Mechanicals proved the undoing of a couple of the Spanish riders while the Colombians again animated the race.

Cycling over, I stayed with two wheels and watched the MotoGP races from Austin, Texas. I made a mental note to try and visit my friends who live there next year!  I have tracked with interest the last few seasons the progress of Spanish prodigy Marc Marquez who had pole for the blue riband event – the youngest-ever rider to achieve that feat. However, first up were the Moto2 and Moto3 races, the former including the wonderfully named Maverick Vinales and, the latter, Marc’s younger brother Alex.

Now for reasons I won’t pretend to understand, but which have largely to do with the track and the brakes, Honda bikes were at a considerable advantage to the Yamaha ones. The reverse of the situation two weeks ago in Qatar. It was a thrilling race of cat and mouse with the two Honda riders, Marquez and Dani Pedrosa, well out in front and leaving us wondering who was going to win. Three laps from home we had our answer when Marquez built an unassailable lead to become the youngest-ever winner of a MotoGP race. He’s got an old head on very young shoulders and I’m sure I’m going to be using the description “youngest-ever” quite a lot.

Just enough time to check on OGCN’s progress at PSG – not good. We went down 3-0. Wherever the team ends up in the Ligue, it’s been a fantastic season. The team have punched well above their weight and budget for which credit has to be given to the manager. A few of you will be thinking what about the F1 from Bahrain. What about it? I’m not an F1 fan although I do know Vettel won. By which time I was more than ready for bed!

View from my bedroom window!

Pretty much like the riders, when you’re following a race, your days follow a very similar format. Turn up at the start 90 minutes before the off which, weather permitting, enables you to catch up with the riders and take photographs. It’s always easier if the team buses are parked close to the sign-on which isn’t always possible in some of the smaller towns. However, once the weather deteriorated, this became a bit of a logistical nightmare with the riders, understandably, not wanting to spend a moment longer than necessary in the freezing, wet conditions. Luckily, the weather doesn’t dampen the appetite of the fervent Basque fans who line the ascents in their hundreds and thousands.

The peloton departs and we race to our car or, in this case, our rented Renault Kangoo, to drive to the finish. We head first to the press room to bag our places, set up our laptops, enjoy the plentiful buffet and chat with a few of the photographers and reporters. Then it’s time to check our email and start writing up the summary of the day’s racing as it starts to unfold on the tv screen.

When the peloton’s 10km from home, the press room empties, everyone races to the finish line and listens to the two-handed Basque-Spanish commentary team, awaiting the arrival of the riders. Race over, we drift to the podium to congratulate and photograph the winners, then it’s back to the press room to finish the day’s report, download and edit the day’s photographs.

Job done, our thoughts drift inevitably towards dinner. We were staying in a charming family-run hotel close to a national park, in a town with a couple of restaurants and bars, one of which was excellent and where we ate most evenings. We didn’t manage to work our way through the menu as we often opted for the day’s specials. A relaxing glass of Rioja and we were both tucked up in bed, fast asleep, well before most of the riders.

Towards the end of our break, we popped in to see the owners of the hotel where we stayed last year. We couldn’t stay there this year as it was fully booked! I knew I shouldn’t have written them such a glowing review. We were greeted like long-lost family members and the welcome and cooking was as warm and as good as we remembered. Given the dreadful weather conditions, my beloved is suggesting we opt for the Tour of Turkey next year. I’m not so sure. I really enjoy our sojourns in the Basque country and am already looking forward to our next trip at the end of July.

Early morning chat

I know, I’m back home and I’ve not sent my postcards! We’ve all done it, haven’t we? But, to be honest, it’s the first time I’ve had any real opportunity to write about the trip and not the race which you can read about over on VeloVoices. Well apart from the shenanigans with the Russian visa application.

First up the weather was initially much better than anticipated meaning my beloved was able to ride for the first few days and I even accompanied him despite his unerring ability to find every steep climb in the neighbourhood. Admittedly that’s not difficult in the Basque country although this time he succeeded in finding one or two of the longer, more taxing climbs.

Of course, when I say I rode with him, I meant I trailed behind him. My beloved, despite our lengthy marriage, constantly fails to appreciate that if he runs, skis or cycles with me I’ll make an effort to keep up. Disappear 500m or more up the road, leaving me to my own devices, and I’ll amble along admiring the countryside or get into conversation with other cyclists. As a result, we rarely cycle together.

The first Saturday morning dawned bright, albeit overcast, after Friday’s torrential downpour,and my beloved wasted no time in hustling me out the door though, half-way into our ride, the heavens opened again and we turned tail and fled back to the warmth of our small family-run hotel.  In the afternoon we drove into Navarre to watch the GP Miguel Indurain where conversely the weather was dry with a chilly wind. The race weaves loops around the pretty old town of Estella where, after a truly magnificent lunch, we exhorted the peloton, surprisingly split into a multitude of small groups up the final climb.

Sunday morning we opted to further explore the countryside on two wheels. The sun shone although there was still an early morning nip in the air. The scent of word-burning fires, the bright lime-green shoots on the trees, the blossoming hedgerows, the sound of dogs barking and the tinkle of bells around the necks of goats and sheep gave everything a distinctly alpine feel but then we were riding at around 600-900m and some of the hills still had traces of snow.

I love riding in the Basque country where cyclists always seem to outnumber the motorists who keep a respectable distance and toot in a friendly and encouraging fashion as you labour up yet another of those steep, sharp inclines. Sunday was no exception and we saw many groups from the local cycling clubs, I even cycled and chatted with a few of them after being abandoned by my beloved. Ride over, we settled down to a plate of tapas, a glass of red wine and, on the big screen, the rigours of racing over the cobbles in Belgium.

Monday dawned bright and fair, again contrary to expectations, as we headed over to Elgoibar and the start of one of my favourite races of the year: the Vuelta al Pais Vasco. Accreditation secured, we headed to the team presentation and sign-on where I was able to catch up with a number of friends who were riding in the race. There’s nothing nicer than watching and encouraging someone you know. Our early start also gave us an opportunity to catch up with friends old and new in the press corps.

This race is extremely well attended by the bike loving Basques. The biggest cheers, not unnaturally, are reserved for the “home” team of Euskaltel-Euskadi and their lead rider and defending champion Samu Sanchez who obligingly had his photograph taken with hordes of dark-haired, dark-eyed moppets: inspiring the next generation. It’s also very evident that former winner Alberto Contador is popular with the on-lookers.

The appreciative and knowledgable crowd also welcomes “old friends” such as Jens Voigt who was awarded a plaque in recognition of his support of this race. Conversely, Sky turning up with only six riders, and failing to attend the team presentation, was seen as disrespectful. As the race progressed, they made a point of arriving more punctually for the sign-on except for their gregarious bearded Basque Xabier Zandio who was an early starter most mornings. By the time they started winning stages, they were forgiven.

I love watching the pre-start interaction with everyone milling around the team buses in the hope of catching a glimpse of one of their heroes, a souvenir or two or just checking out the bike bling. Likewise those five minutes or so before the race starts where some riders wait patiently, composing their thoughts before the day’s challenges while others chat with their compatriots on other teams, no doubt comparing their experiences of the previous day’s racing.

The Vuelta al Pais Vasco follows a similar pattern most years, with the first and last days of racing centred on one town and the four stages in between setting off from the previous day’s finish town. It all takes place within a relatively confined geographic area allowing the teams to spend most of the race based in one hotel, close to the action, thereby avoiding long transfers and early morning starts. I think this is recompense for the fact that several stages take place in the freezing cold rain. This year’s been no exception, the rain started in earnest on Thursday with the Eibar summit finish shrouded in freezing fog. Friday morning we awoke to find a blizzard blowing. Why did no one tell me the locals’ nickname for Vitoria-Gasteiz is Siberia?? (to be continued)

In years past we’ve been able to obtain the visa the same day from either the Russian embassy in Marseille or the one in London. The plan was to pop into the embassy in Marseille on our way down to the Basque country. I felt however that it was incumbent on me to check exactly what was required. I discovered that while the embassy still handles applications, it can no longer turn them around in a day and, such has been the demand for visas, that they’ve outsourced the process to a Russian-manned visa handling service in Marseille which has the advantage of longer opening hours than the Embassy. I booked my beloved an appointment for the Friday and started to complete the new on-line 15-page application form which seemed to require an amazing amount of information.

I had to give details of my beloved’s degree a BSc (Hons) in Chemistry and Management and then, later on in the form, had to assert that he had  no competence with chemical processes! My problems began when the form asked me to list all his earlier Russian visas. I have details for the last seven years, but no further back. I was also required to list every country he’d ever visited in the last ten years giving the date of visit day/month/year! Now if he hadn’t lost his passport back in 2010, I would have been able to at least list all those countries who’d stamped his passport.

Just to be on the safe side I contacted the visa service who didn’t seem to fussed and told me to list what I could remember. I had to complete the form, all 15 pages of it, 4 times before everything was correctly recorded as it kept logging me out after 20 minutes. I thought I could retrieve saved data but that turned out not to be the case. I could only save it once fully and correctly completed. I carefully checked through the documentary requirements, I had everything they appeared to be asking for, so I checked what I’d done last time. I’d had to get an “attestation” in French and Russian confirming that my beloved had the appropriate level travel insurance. So this was requested from our insurer and it arrived in time for our departure to Marseille.

We arrived early in Marseille and decided to head straight to the office of the visa-handling service ahead of our appointed time. Just as well we did. Although my husband had booked his hotel and flight, the hotel was required to send him yet another form to complete which he had to return to the hotel who would then issue him with a duly stamped tourist voucher. We struck lucky, the lady processing our application assisted us with obtaining the missing paperwork which took three calls on my beloved’s mobile to expedite. Noting that we lived in France she demanded proof of our residence such as an electricity bill. This would have been no use whatsoever as it’s in my name. Luckily the insurance “attestation” stated my husband’s address! Almost home and dry.

While all this was being dealt with at least four people came to request a visa and were sent away as they did not possess the correct paperwork. Finally we paid and left in the belief that it’ll be waiting for us on our return on 8 April. If not…………….My beloved will have to spend a day at the Russian embassy in London trying to speed up matters otherwise he won’t be going to Russia. So far we have expended 10 man hours – excluding travel time - Euros 80,00 on petrol and tolls plus Euros 134, 00 for the visa itself.

The agency has set up a special desk for the handling of visas for those going to the winter Olympics in Sochi next year. I have a few words of advice, start the process now!

Postscript: On the way back from Spain we popped in to the Visa Agency to collect my beloved’s Russian visa which had been processed and was happily waiting for us – success.

He was racing again this morning in Marseille so the week-end followed a similar pattern to that two weeks’ ago. I picked him up on Saturday afternoon after checking carefully that he had everything he needed. He was pleased as punch that his Dad had lent him some lighter racing wheels and had given him an early birthday present of new red and white cycling shoes and sunglasses. When we arrived back at the flat I left him to amuse himself while I whipped up one of his favourite meals: home-made lasagna followed by creamy rice pudding. Surely enough carbohydrates to fuel the team let alone my little cup-cake. He went to bed early. Racers can never get enough rest!

I woke in the early hours and assumed that it was my beloved’s snoring which had disturbed me. I rolled over and went back to sleep, rising a 04:30am to make him muesli and banana muffins for breakfast. I packed his musette with plenty of muffins to share with the other kids. I woke him at 05:15am and he appeared almost immediately, fully-dressed in his racing gear, in the kitchen. He admitted hat he’d woken up at 02:30, washed and dressed and found his way to the kitchen. It was all in darkness, so he’d retraced his steps, noticing that his bedside alarm clock  showed 02:45, he climbed back beneath the covers for some more shut-eye.

We had our usual chat about tactics on the way to the drop off point. It was tipping it down with rain and I hoped that the weather would be kinder in Marseille. It was. I’ve just spoken to his mother and she told me he’d won the race. No doubt I’ll hear all about it over dinner this evening. So, a quick recap, he’s been riding eight months, he’s done six races and has three wins, a third and two top tens. Not a bad haul!