Racing in France. The idiot's guide

Straydog rides on: Racing:

This report was first published by Joe Papp on his website, after I had sent him an email from france last summer. He suggested I let him post what was, in my mind, just a funny story to a fellow racer, so you lucky folk kind of have him to thank for my online presence and I thought it was about time I posted it on my own blog. I'll hopefully include some further race reports here, from next season too. Actually, it wasn't my "first" race in France though, I spent a season there when I was 19. But it was conceivably, my first race back in France.

Ok, the first rule of racing in France: Never ever ever ever believe a frenchman when he says the course is "almost completely flat". To an englishman flat is flat, with possibly a bit of a downhill finish. To a frenchman flat, is at best "rolling" with a "small" climb of maybe 8% and, I swear I am not making this up, a finishing stretch of maybe 500m into the village along cobbles at 22%!!!! It also comes of the corner at the end of the circuit's climb, just to really spice things up.

Le Grand Prix de (small french town). Thankfully, I rode the circuit first, and thankfully they wouldn't let me race Elite 1,2 and 3! Because I had only just registered with their association they made me ride 4 and 5. Police outriders at a local amateur race, a beautiful course, 10 laps making just under 50k. Cat 4 and 5. Sounded doable. 

How can i put this?

Basically, I got raped. By 40 angry frenchman. For an hour. Over and over again, whilst my new friend laughed at my suffering. He said he hadn't been that entertained all year. On the rolling section the average speed was 50kmph. From the get go. Some wad went off from lap one, got about 20 metres on the peleton, and then it was a lap of trying to reign him in. As soon as we had, someone else goes (actually it was mostly the original wad), we reign them in, then someone else etc. By about lap 4 (I really had forgone the ability to count by now) I felt the inevitable happening. I was slipping back through the peloton. Losing wheels each time every fucker and his dog stepped on the gas at the top of the climb. I just wanted to make sure I wasn't the first to get dropped. Surely someone else couldn't take this punishment for much longer too?

So as soon as I see the old boy next to me start to shake his head, I am onto him like a flash. My new best friend. Please Grandad, give it up. I'll keep you company. It'll be our own little grupetto. We can share our horror stories, tell each other about the injuries that have held us back today. Now I did say he was old, maybe mid 50s if I am being generous to myself, but fuck he was stubborn. Every time I saw a gap ahead of him, I thought, "great we can relax now, and I can shake my head dissaprovingly, point and blame you for being dropped". But no, he would summon up something from his leathery, ox like thighs and back on we would get. More pain, more racing heart, more burning lungs, more fucking lunacy. Why am I doing this? I am on holiday! 

And then finally, it happens. He looks down at his gears (the eternal fail safe excuse for an impending crack), mutters something in french, shakes his head some more, and he's gone. I am not going to come last! Well, not if I can beat him up those cobbles at the end, or knock him off at least. I then have a bit of a second wind, inspired by my "victory" over a retired frenchman, I manage to find a few more wheels for half a lap, a few more dropped, and then I am done. I wait for a nice stretch of road with no spectators, and I gratefully sit up and wait for the stragglers, and hope they haven't got too much fight left in them. 

But of course they do. And actually there are quite a few I hadn't seen. About 12 of us. So I spend the rest of the race trying not to get dropped by some other losers, and suffering the indignity of the final police outrider laughing at my pain, and then finally we hear the bell. Should I go early? Hope to give myself a headstart for the monster at the end? I give it a go. I fail. I give it another go. I fail again. Fuck it guys, we are racing for last! I am a tourist. Give me a break! So I sit in, try to save myself. And I needed to. The end was brilliant. One of the funniest and craziest things I have seen in a bike race. Guys just stopping dead halfway up the finish. Guys walking. Guys running. Guys falling. Shouts of "putain" and "merde" filled the pretty little street on the lord's day, accompanied by the childlike, joyful laughter of the spectators. There were still remnants of the main peloton struggling up it when i got there. I was in the 27", took it easy and I thought to myself, If I don't have to get off, I won't come last. 

And I didn't. 

As I coughed up what felt like the remnants of a lung, I flopped over the finish line, into the village square, received a kiss on both cheeks from a beautiful french girl as she put my finisher's garland round my neck, and then found a nice corner to throw up in. It was fucking brilliant. Insane but brilliant. I can never return to racing in the UK with any real enthusiasm now. I had forgotten how well the french do all this. Every weekend! I had spent too long away from it. Too long. 

Peace. Ride on. 

So this is Christmas, and what have we done?

I have been struggling for anything approaching inspiration for a couple of days, so apologies in advance for the rambling nature of this post.

In a late entry for fatuous twat of the week, I had an interesting run in with the PA of one of our esteemed Peers of the Realm, just before Christmas. Suffice it to say, he (yes he) seemed to be under the impression that since I was delivering to the House of Lords, I was obviously a prole, unworthy of any consideration or manners and was clearly meant to be serving him and him alone, despite the bag full of packages that might indicate otherwise. Funny, and there I was thinking he was the public servant. Anyway, long story short, he rang my company an hour later, in a bit of a panic, when he realised he had possibly furnished me with some rather sensitive information, namely phone numbers of some rather important people, text messages and emails etc. Whoops. Karma is a bitch isn't it.

I should point out at this point, that the Peer that he is the assistant of, used to be a bit of a big shot. i.e. a member of the cabinet, but got themselves into tiny bit of trouble when their assistant neglected to check some documents of an employee, and then a further bit of hot water when, again, their "man secretary" made an ever so slight mistake on their expenses claim, and they were asked to repay over 100,000 pounds.


Seriously, I want to work at the Lords. It is impossible to get sacked, it seems. No matter, how many times you fuck up. Even if you end up enabling an anonymous cycle messenger you have just pissed off, to send Hilary Clinton a text message with a picture of his cock attached (Which I didn't incidentally, I sent it to Harriet Harman instead, so much hotter!).


In other news, Christmas came and went, without too much incident. The family are all still speaking to one another. Just. I got some very nice bike stuff from brick lane bikes, and a free, unsolicited, bike wash (which gets my special christmas "very nice person" of the week award, which is going some, he was up against Jesus).

It was also my birthday, which somehow even Facefuck, I mean Facebook, managed to forget, despite it being a fairly memorable date in most people's calendars. Well, I suppose I have slight competition on the whole birthday wishes thing.

Back at work. Very quiet. The roads are absolutely brilliant though. It's like waking up in some post apocalyptic dream. Two buses, one black cab (with tinsel attached) and a few pedestrians. Why can't it always be like that?

Peace and ride on.

You don't have to be a twat to work here....

Today was one of those weird days. Really weird. Work was good. Busy. Riding was fun. Legs were strong. Traffic was easy. Even the weather didn't bother me. But what has happened to the Christmas spirit in some people?

Ok. I admit, I have stuff on my mind. I have two of my closest family members stuck abroad, and another one ill in hospital. So maybe I wasn't my normal cheery, smily self. Maybe I didn't bounce into your office like one of santa's little helpers, bringing you your special Christmas deliveries. And I know, I wasn't wearing my red tinsel and my white beard, but have you ever heard of "thank you"?.

Maybe, "How are you?"

Perhaps, "Mind how you go"

Would a smile kill you?

It isn't all of you. It isn't even most of you. Some of you are always nice. Always appreciative. Always generous ( I'm talking about the receptionists at Red Bull particularly). And honestly, it is my job. I get paid for it, so I don't expect a kiss on the cheek or a christmas card. But, just for those who obviously need it pointing out to them; I was not put on the earth, TO SERVE YOU!

Today's winner of the most fatuous, arrogant twat goes to:

The lady in SE1, who thinks I am paid to stand around listening to her personal phone calls for 10 minutes, when I  have pointed out that I couldn't wait, as:

a) the person I needed clearly wasn't in, and only they could sign (as she was the only person in her office at the time) and

b) I had 30 more items to collect and deliver

So, in answer to this, she carried on talking on the phone for a couple of minutes, then when I looked at my watch for the second time and started packing up to leave, she announced to her caller, "I'll call you back, there's this bloody guy here being very rude, and I don't know what he wants."

This last part actually made me laugh. I was wearing a radio, a courier bag, had a shiny brand new, 8 inch, clearly marked box in my hand, and had already given her the name of the person I needed and why but, her mind was clearly elsewhere so I let it go and repeated who and what I needed. She huffed, puffed and got her phone out again. I stopped her, and told her that if the person I needed wasn't in, I was afraid I couldn't wait for them to come back. The person was given a time window when I was due, and unfortunately for them, if they were out, then I couldn't jeopardise everyone else's time slot by waiting half an hour for them to come back from lunch. I also pointed out to her, that if I missed all my time slots, I wouldn't get paid. This was her response:

"Well, I can see where your priorities clearly are then!"

"Where? In getting paid?" I replied.

This stumped her somewhat, or at least seemed as if I had overstepped the boundaries of her clearly highly developed manners, as her response was as follows: "Right, what is your name and number, and who do you work for?"

Oh dear. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.

Those are the singularly most stupid, pointless and ridiculous words anyone could ever say to a courier. Firstly, if you don't already know who I am, or who I work for, do you really think I am going to stand to attention and tell you, just because you came over all school ma'amish? Did you think I would be scared? What are you going to do if I refuse to tell you? Spank me? Hold me down and tickle me until I scream it out?

And secondly, if I was inclined to tell you, what the holy arse do you think my "employers" are going to say when you get on the phone to them?

"Yes, ma'am. We will fire him straight away, ma'am. And have him prosecuted if we can!"

No. What they are going to say is nothing. Absolutely nothing. Zip. Cock all. Diddly fucking squat. What they are going to do is hold the phone away from their ear, let you whiiiiiiine away for five minutes, and then say, "Yes, of course, we will talk to him", hang up and never think about you, or your "complaint" ever again. Why? Simply, because they know me, they know my attitude, will believe me and lastly, and most importantly, because I earn them money and I am quick and reliable. You on the other hand, they don't know. And frankly, they couldn't care less what you think. Unless you are a well known and lucrative client and I have just punched you (or at least someone has just witnessed me punch you), they are very unlikely to give a flying fuck what you say. I could have just taken a dump in your flip top bin for all they care.

So my response to you, was to ask you, that if I had been a prospective client of your company, would you have left me listening to your personal call for ten minutes?

"But you're not. You are a courier!"


Ah yes. I forgot that. I forgot I am just the "help". I forgot that I just live to wait on you, hand and foot. I forgot that I probably shouldn't even have come in from the cold until I saw you were off the phone. I even forgot to doff my cap when I spoke to you. And I forgot I wasn't supposed to turn on my heels and say, "Whatever. Merry christmas!" and walk out.

And if you think that was rude, you should have heard what I called you, when your colleague caught me up outside and apologised for your behaviour. But maybe you can guess. I am pretty sure you have heard it before.

So Merry Christmas you thick, arrogant fuckwad. Congratulations on being this weeks "most fatuous twat". If I had though about it I should have taken your picture, so I could have designed a poster for you.

"You don't have to be a twat to work here...."

Roger Roger sitting in a tree

Ok. So an unexpected day off has led me to having some free time to write. But what? Well, kind of prompted by something that 24 tee said to me in a comment on her site, I have decided that today I shall write something positive about the cycle courier experience, rather than my normal fatigue induced whining.

So, for your reading pleasure, and for one day only, I present a eulogy to....wait for it ....drum roll....Control.

Yup. Control. He who must be obeyed. The voice in the box. "Roger Roger. Call me empty. Quick as you can. I've got loads out there for you. What do you mean you've fallen off?"

I know in some of my previous posts I may have given the impression that courier controllers are self serving, fork tongued, pony tail sporting troglodytes, and to be honest, on the whole they kind of are. But, every now and then one comes along that breaks the mould. Actually two in this case.

We have two new push bike controllers, and honestly, they are both really, really, really fucking good. And actually kind of sweet too. In fact, I think I have developed a sort of man crush on one of them. He is polite. Never bullshits me. Calls me on bad days to apologise if I haven't been busy. And generally just makes me feel valued, appreciated and just a tiny bit special. And he has a lovely radio voice. I keep having to resist the urge to sign off in the following way;

Me: "Ok control...signing off now...thanks alot"

Control: "OK 155, no problem...see you tomorrow...roger roger"

Me: "Ok...(a long pause)....Control, are you still there?"

Control: "Yes...what is it 155?"

Me: "Nothing...just....you know....(giggling)....you hang up first"

The great thing about him especially, is that he isn't just being polite so as to avoid my admittedly sometimes precarious anger management issues. He isn't scared of anyone. He is just nice, and decent, and loyal, and honest. He can be firm too. He got quite stern with me once actually, when I called a post room guy a cunt for signing my XDA with a marker pen. Which, to be fair, was, well, fair.

So the result of his abilities, and the other guy's, is that we have a happy fleet (well, as happy as cycle couriers can ever be), earning some half decent money because we feel motivated (and he has persuaded the management to pay us properly for multi drops), ex riders returning from other companies, and little by little the company's reputation for hiring any fuckwit with a mountain bike and stabilisers is being turned around. Soon, I might even take the gaffer tape off the company logo on my XDA bag.

So G, and K. You know who you are. This one's for you. Keep it up. Long may it continue. But if you ever let the guy who covers at lunch (and we all know who he fucking is) send me from E14 to kilburn on a wait and return again, I promise I am going to find him and nail his fingers to an A-Z.

Roger and out control. Peace and ride on.

Say it aint so Joe....say it aint so

For anyone unfamiliar with the story of Joe Papp (the cyclist, not the theatrical impresario), let me give you a brief precis, but please do take the time to google him for further information.

Joe is an ex US professional cyclist, who posted a positive control for PED use in 2006. He came clean, 'fessed up, was banned for two years and was called as a prosecution witness in the Floyd Landis hearings with USADA. He was subsequently charged with, and again admitted, facilitating the import of controlled substances to Athletes, after he had been banned for his own doping violation.

He is currently awaiting sentencing in the US, and faces up to 10 years in prison, a felony conviction, and a fine of up to 250,000 dollars. Prior to his involvement in PED distribution he was forcibly separated from his cuban wife and child, and has since lost his home, is labeled a pariah by many, has been threatened, has had people publish their desire he is killed or raped and his health, both physical and mental, has quite understandably suffered pretty severely.

So why am I writing about him? Well, simply put, because what he has faced and is continuing to face is ludicrous.

Are the US authorities really considering sending a guy to prison because he helped some guys cheat in a bike race? A fucking bike race?

Some will say he was trafficking, he was a "dealer". Well, look, let's be grown up here. Joe wasn't standing on a street corner pedaling meth to school kids. He ran a website, where athletes in the know could buy cheap PEDS from china. If he had called the site, "elixirofyouth.com", opened his own anti aging clinic and shown some floridian grannies where they could buy their cheap HGH or EPO, very few of us would have heard of him, and I very much doubt he would be going through what he is now. Out of a sporting context, all of the drugs sold through the website are perfectly legal to possess and use medicinally or cosmetically in the US and Europe. Send them to someone with a UCI licence however, and bang...you are a felon.

Cheating is an innate human desire. It is called seeking advantage. Don't believe me? Ask Darwin. Hell, ask any successful businessman, lawyer, politician or Judge if they have ever "bent" the rules to get ahead. If someone said there was a pill that would make me less tired and therefore able to earn more money, but that it was technically "cheating", would I stop to think? Of course not (Incidentally, if they ever do introduce mandatory drug testing for cycle couriers, this is going to be one mightily quiet profession, or even lawyers, or Politicians, or Journalists etc etc etc).

However, the minute the cheating, or helping to facilitate it, in Joe's case, involves our haloed sporting heroes we react as if somehow, what they have done is so much more morally repugnant than any other form of cheating, that they become villified, pilloried and prosecuted with a force usually reserved for international terrorists. Think I am exaggerating? Well, just take a look at how much was spent on Balco, and how much is being spent on pursuing something (though no one seems to actually know what exactly), that may or may not have happened at US postal in the 90s.

Ok, I don't condone doping in any way. Or cheating. And when someone breaks the accepted rules in any sport, or enables anyone else to, then they should be disqualified, sanctioned and we all move on.

But, has anyone heard of perspective? At the moment US republican senators are holding up a bill to provide life saving and life prolonging healthcare to 9/11 first responders, because they want tax breaks for some of their wealthy friends. Men and women who risked, and in some cases gave up, their lives to help others. The US military is complaining that it's soldiers don't have the right equipment to help keep them safe in Iraq and Afghanistan. Why does no one in authority seem to give a fuck about them? And yet, the FDA is  prepared to spend god knows how many millions of dollars chasing around Europe, trying to dig up something on Lance Armstrong. They spent how much trying to dig up something on Barry Bonds. And what precisely did they achieve? Sweet Fuck All. Oh, but, Marion Jones got six months for perjury. 'Cos she  was too ashamed to admit using PEDS. What a result. Give that agent a big shiny fucking medal. But, come clean, cooperate and help expose others like Joe has done, and they might, just might, give you ten years in a state penitentiary as a thank you present.

So should we just give up on the problem of PED use in elite sports? Of course not. And yes, we should look to expose it and limit it's obviously pervasive influence. But do we really think a couple of show trials are going to make that desire go away? A couple of witch hunts? In any given competitive situation, someone will be looking to gain an advantage. To cheat. That isn't going to go away, well perhaps, not until someone invents a little pill that takes away certain human desires. But wait,  then that would that be cheating? Wouldn't it?

Why, oh fucking, why, are we holding up elite sports men and women as heroes anyway? Or any sports person? And expect their behavior to be saintly or somehow holier than our own? Fireman, Soldiers, Doctors, Paramedics, even Policemen are heroes. Guys riding bikes up some hills in the french countryside? Guys hitting a little ball over a net with a bit of wood? A teenager kicking a bit of leather around a field?

Give me a fucking break. They are entertainers. They provide vicarious pleasure and yes, sure, sometimes we kind of look up to them. But why, when they show plain old human fallibility, and fall short of our expectations, do we feel it is ok to treat them, quite simply, like utter shit, like pond life, as if they were inhuman? Without any shred of empathy or compassion, as if they have done us some great, irreparable and savage harm?

What harm have they done?

Someone came second 'cos they cheated?

I bought a poster of them and now all of my hopes and dreams are shattered?

I can't live my life anymore 'cos I know that preening perma tanned football player, that I worshipped, dived?

No, real harm, is letting a hero die while you sit in your shiny office, backslapping your rich chums, and telling them you are looking out for them "because you are a true patriot." That is harm. Real, visceral and irreparable harm. The sort of harm that should make us all lose sleep. Murder, rape, assault, even wishing them on someone, is harm.


So back to Joe. He isn't a hero either. He is just a little guy from Pennsylvania, who was really good at riding his bike, got to live the dream, and then found out that the dream involved making some pretty tough choices for most guys. He made some bad ones, some really bad ones, and he is paying for them personally and professionally in ways that would honestly break many, many people. He has been brave, open and honest and is perfectly prepared to use himself as an example to anyone considering making any similar decisions. I wouldn't be arrogant enough to suppose what motivated his choices, but I am pretty sure the desperation of the situation he faced in his life when he made them, is something I would never want to face, and I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. And I think his voice is relevant, insightful and important in the ongoing debate about doping in sports. Also, honestly, the way he has faced, confronted and dealt with his past is, if not heroic, then at least truly admirable, and a genuine example to anyone facing similar problems. His was a victimless "crime", in the sense that those who lost out in any way as a result of Joe's activities, would be very unlikely to see themselves as real victms. And I am pretty sure most juries would take a similar view.

I just hope that the Judge sees it the same way and spares Joe any jail time. I, for one, think it would be a pointless and tragic conclusion to an already sad tale if he didn't.

Peace and ride on. Ride on and on. Especially you Joe.

Straydog

Everyone hates a tourist

Every day whilst working, at least one cyclist, always a commuter, tries to "race" me. By "racing" I mean, they make a big effort to overtake me, then ostentatiously cut in front of me, look back as if to say, "wow I am fast....see how fast I am....I overtook a courier....now watch my lycra clad arse disappear loser!".

Now, I don't wish to piss on anyones parade, especially those so clearly in need of self esteem or validation, but just a quick pointer here: I am not racing you. In fact, I am not racing anyone. I really don't want to ridicule your achievement, but I ride a bike for over 9 hours a day, and if I aint getting paid to get somewhere really quick, I won't be. I will be going slow. As slow as I can. And then some. If my only ride of the day was a 6 mile commute to work, I might be trying to go a bit quicker, but it isn't, and frankly my self esteem is in decent enough working order, that I don't feel I have to prove I can ride quicker than an middle aged, overweight office monkey riding a hybrid, suffering from Lance Armstrong delusions.

Look, a pensioner could overtake me when I am cruising. And the fag hanging out of my mouth, surely gives you a clue as to my effort level. So do yourself a favour, if you overtake me, just carry on riding. Sure, you can enjoy it. I'll even allow you to brag about it to the 17 year old receptionist when you get into work, but I warn you, if you look back triumphantly, the only thing you are likely to see, is me smiling and mouthing the words, "you are one sad cunt".

Ok. The Fakenegers. The Hipsters. Whatever we want to call them. And, yes honestly, like most couriers, I am going to come out with it and say it; I have a special place in my heart full of contempt and derision for them. All of them. 


Listen, riding a bike is great. Any bike. So I encourage anyone to do it. And riding nice bikes is great too. I even wear skinny jeans sometimes and yes, I just lurve Brick Lane, it's just so, you know, cutting edge darlings. But, I fucking hate any "club" or trend. And a trend that is based on copying one of the most poorly paid, derised and undervalued jobs in london is frankly moronic. And that makes you a moron for following it. What next for Hoxton's Graphic Designers? Crack head chic? Outcaste oeuvre? Bus driver bling? 


Look, I understand that our perceived "freedom" is possibly aspirational. But if you think that, I would question how much you actually know about our job. 


I tend not to think of myself as "free" when I have just been given four E14 drops at ten to six on a friday evening, when I have done 30 in the day, and I live in W3 and my wife has got tickets for the opening night of "Legally Blonde" and I really need to shower just in case I bump into the fabulous Michael Ball at the party.


I tend not to think of myself as "free", when I am doing the funny little "jig" in front of some desk in a nameless office, cos I have been holding in my wee for three hours, cos I haven't had the time to go, and am contemplating what would be worse, wetting myself in front of an office full of city boys, or getting arrested for indecent exposure for "relieving" myself in a bin.


And I tend not to think of myself as "free", when it's been raining for six hours straight, and I honestly don't know if I have wet myself or not.


If you just want to show solidarity for us, then I'll tell you what; forget the shop 14 frame, and rapha "messenger" bag and the "love and hate" gloves, and just buy me a drink, donate some money to the LCEF or just don't keep me waiting about if I ever pick up from your funky design office on the clerkenwell road.


So, if your are a "fakey" or a "hipster" or have ever called a fixed gear a "fixie", do yourself a favour, firstly, get a front brake, so you don't fucking kill me cos you can't actually safely control a skid (really....you fucking can't, all of you, any "fakey" who doesn't think so please contact me and I will take you out for a ride to prove it to you, but I warn you, it may hurt).


Secondly, stop sweating like a scouser in dixons, as you try to hold a track stand at lights, and just put your foot down, cos honestly I am not impressed, and it isn't a good look for a pretty boy (or girl for that matter). 


And lastly, if you really think we are cool, that our job is cool, that wearing the clothes we do 'cos we can't afford fuck all else is cool, then I have a suggestion for you: Get a job as a fucking courier. It isn't that hard, and then you can really BE cool like us. And I'll even lend you a fiver, if mummy and daddy stop your allowance cos they are so upset that the degree in digital media communications that they paid for you to get from Birbeck is going to waste. I'll even let you know where you can find a room in a squat in Hackney, so you can really be one of us. And I'll even tell you where we get those really cool spoke cards. 


Cos, you know, everyone really fucking hates a tourist. Especially couriers. Especially this one.


Peace (sort of) and Ride on.

We:Stacks

Stacks. We all have them. Happens to the best of us. Part of the job. Part of being a courier. Part of being a cyclist. You pick yourself up, dust yourself down, and fall off all over again.

Sometimes the stacks are embarrassing, like the time I stopped at a kerb by a busy bus stop, unclipped, and tried to step onto said pavement, only to realise I was about a foot shy of it. I realised in slow motion what was about to happen and thought the best thing was to just brazen it out and not seem bothered. So what ensued, must have seemed like a live action version of a Tom and Jerry cartoon to my spectators, as I literally tombstoned onto the kerb, without even appearing to be in the slightest bit concerned, as if this was how I always dismounted. I then calmly unclipped from my prostrated position, stood up and locked my bike to the bus stop sign and nonchalantly walked off, trying not to show that the rapidly forming haematoma on my hip was causing me severe impediment.

Sometimes they are dangerous, like when a black taxi decided to plough into me from behind whilst not stopping at some lights and pushed me into a double decker bus, breaking my collar bone and a nice deep V in the process. Cue four weeks on the sofa, which could have been worse had the world cup not been on.

And then sometimes, we, unwittingly or not, can be the cause of stacks to others.

Take last week. I have just returned to the circuit from traveling (and getting married I should add, just in case she is reading), and as a result hadn't seen a few people for about four months. So, my second day back, I am standing on fleet street, having just dropped off, when a friend, who works for the same company as me, rides past quite quickly (I don't wish to bring him any unwanted attention, so let's just call him by his call sign, 131).  So, anyway, I shout out to him, "Hey! 131!". He raised his head momentarily but clearly couldn't tell where the voice was coming from, so I shouted again, "131!". He looks round, finally spots me, but then as he turns back to face the road his front wheel completely inexplicably, and unexpectedly, stops moving and he is catapulted over the handlebars quite spectacularly. A bus, somehow, narrowly avoids running straight over him. I panic. "Shiiiit!" was all I could manage, I seem to remember. I sprint over to him, fearing the worst, considering the speed he was going at. Slow motion like, I fling my bag from my shoulder like some beardy grubbier version of George Clooney in ER, preparing to make a tourniquet out of an old inner tube and a splint out of my tyre pump. Then, the thoughts rush through my head of having to radio control to tell him that I have just killed 131.

"What? Oh my God! How?"

"Er....I said hello to him....and ....er....he fell off"

"Shit....Shit....Shit...this is terrible, disastrous!"

"I know, what will we tell his family? Am I going to be arrested?"

"Forget about that...he's got four priorities on board for E14!....they're gonna be late....well, seeing as it's your fault, you can take them....quick as you can....call me empty, I'll get you something to take you back home. Roger....oh and pick up his XDA if you can"

When I reach 131, he has got to his feet, and I am just about to tell him to stop moving and sit down, when I notice he is fidgeting with something in his hands, despite looking worryingly calm. "Christ, he must have broken his wrist", I think to myself, "or maybe he has dislocated a finger". I look down to see what it is. And there, before my eyes, is something that only a courier could be doing. Only a courier could be concerned with at this moment. Only a courier could be polishing his specs.

Suffice it to say, he was fine and we had a conversation that barely touched on his tarmac plant, other than a cursory glance at a slightly torn sleeve, and off we both went.

The rest of the day, I kept getting flashbacks. Guilty ones. Mixed with, and I am slightly ashamed to admit this, some of the most uncontrollable laughter I have suffered from in a while. Mirth. Proper unbridled mirth. I honestly, almost wished I had filmed it.

Peace. Ride on. Especially you, 131.

(Please note: Some couriers were slightly grazed in the writing of this post.)