Majorca Made Easy

When you think 'package holiday' sand, sangria and sunloungers spring to mind. To the list you can now add sports drinks, saddles and shaved legs.

Jet2's new cycling range not only provides a family holiday with a spot (or five) of riding, it also caters for the dedicated lycra type seeking some quality time alone with their bike.

From the choice of locations I'd picked Majorca. Year-round the island buzzes bright with cyclists but peak biking season tends to be during the cooler months. It's comparative, of course. The January average temperature of 15 degrees Celsius makes Majorca the go-to destination for Brits seeking some quality winter riding.

I'd arrived in summer season and camped at the Iberostar Playa de Muro, a four-star whose cycling facilities have been modelled on those offered to skiers at top European winter resorts.

Let's be brave

The SNP – I've been a member since the 80s – are the brave party (not Bravehearts, that's a nonsense slur opponents without a clue throw our way), prepared to make bold political decisions in order to force change for the better.

Last weekend I attended my first party conference. I was buoyed by the bold and positive talk — Scotland can and will be changed for the better. We just have to work hard to make it happen.

Then came the debate on cycling:

Whose Idea Was This?

Today's road ride went a bit 'Goonies do cyclocross'. A leisurely ride around the lanes of East Lothian got blown off course by a road closure at Longniddry.

"Just turn left here," I said with zero authority, "and we'll soon be back on the right road."

We weren't.

Over the level crossing, along a single-track road. Single-track road became dirt track. Dirt track became field. Field became mud track (not sure if that was an improvement). Mud track became giant puddles and then finally - we're saved! - back to dirt track, then single-track road, then proper road.

It was all good (muddy) fun and reminded me of Gavin, my friend from childhood. We used to do loads of off-road 'adventuring' on our 55lb Raleigh clunkers, following deer tracks to who knew where. Sometimes they would lead to exciting new rides, other times they would lead to being arse-deep in sheep shit or scrambling up a ravine dragging our beasts of burden, cursing and swearing in that colourful way only teenage boys can muster. On the rides that went wrong, just at the most-wrong point, Gavin was prone to stopping and asking,

"Whose idea was this?"

The gone-wrong rides were never Gavin's idea, only the good ones.

So I was channeling Gavin this morning. As we crested the rise in the field to see another rise and no sign of road I turned to Mike and asked,

"Whose idea was this?"

It was his, definitely his.

Riding Home

On Culfoldie

Last weekend I was back home and managed to sneak a bike ride in between various family 'duties'.

Back home for me is rural Moray in the north-east of Scotland. I was lucky to have grown up in such a spot but didn’t think my location fortuitous at the time (the adolescent me craved the bright lights, attractions and fellow indie kids I imagined the city held within).

Going home avec velo and I realise how great a place it was, and still is.

Compared to the roads around Edinburgh (where I now reside) those of home are in far better condition and are far quieter too. Many of my once regular routes lead onto single-track roads that barely see any motorised traffic. I can be lost in that escapist, peaceful bliss within minutes of home.

Raging at the wind

I love finding nuggets of cycling wisdom in unexpected places.

Neil M. Gunn was an a highly influential Scottish author. Born and bred in the far north of Scotland, his work was heavily influenced by the landscape that surrounded his Dunbeath home.

Caithness is a windswept part of the world, as any member of the Caithness C.C. will surely testify. Judging by his novel Highland River (which was based on the author's childhood) Gunn clearly knew a thing or two about the habits of wild salmon. The short extract below shows he also knew a thing or two about a cyclist's relationship with the wind:

And nothing can bring the spirit to breaking point more surely than the wind, which legend shows the northern folk have always feared and hated. For not only does it whirl the seas into tempest and wither the green shoot, but drains sea and land of colour and puts darkness upon them -- the shadow of the ancient nameless ones that rode the gale with shriek and howl, or moaned round gable ends at dead of night. Into a head wind the boys would bore, standing on their pedals, straining at their handlebars, their hearts bursting, until they could have given shriek for shriek and wept in mad rage.

There will no doubt be many an occasion this coming winter when I find myself leant over the handlebars, face contorted, vocally, (yet inaudible due to Mother Nature's howl) cursing the wind.

When that happens my thoughts will turn to this extract, to the coastal roads of Caithness, the teenage Gunn and his pals racing homewards, their hearts bursting, ready to weep in rage.

Tour o' the Borders

From stages of the Tour of Britain, the Seven Stanes mountain bike trails, to the hugely successful TweedLove festival, there's a regular reason for a two-wheeled Borders pilgrimage.

Next up is the Endura Tour o' the Borders, which starts and finishes in Peebles on Sunday 10^th of August. Heading into its third year, this cyclo-sportive is on the up (quite literally, more of which later): 2014 will be the first running on roads closed to cars.

Last year's edition was epic. Less than clement conditions resulted in semi-submerged roads and riders at risk of hypothermia. Moving from late spring to the height of summer might make heatstroke more of an issue. Whatever the weather, participants have two route options: 55 or 77 miles.

I’d headed down for a preview of the longer route, to be guided by Neil Dalgleish, Tour co-founder. Mindful of the miles and climbs to come, we settled into an easy pace, heading toward Innerleithen, before a turn through Cardrona. The undulating, rollercoaster road swooped us along the Tweed valley before another right and our first proper ascent: Paddy Slacks (a corruption of Pas des Lacs or Pass to the Lakes). After about 3 miles and 500 feet of climbing, the descent came as welcome respite. We raced downhill, rattled over the first of many cattle grids and on across the Yarrow Water.

From there we were back to climbing (the longer route packs in 4790 feet of ascent). Despite being almost 4 miles long, the Berrybush was less of an ordeal than expected, more a gradual rise, eased by a slight tailwind. By the time the Tour hits this road its 2000-strong peloton will be stretched down the verdant valley like a vast string of bunting.

Every up has it's down and the descent to Crosskeys was a cracker. We raced along at over 30mph, leaning into the sharp bends, adrenaline washing away fatigue.

Our day's first crossing of the Ettrick and we followed the Rankle Burn, heading toward Alemoor Reservoir. The latter is said to contain kelpies but all we saw were brightly coloured kayaks bobbing on the blue water. Borders country is beautiful, and full of history too: on the road to Askirk we passed a cairn built in memory of the poet Will H Ogilvie, born in nearby Kelso.

We seemed to have held onto the tailwind, were cruising well ahead of the 14kph minimum that Tour entrants will have to beat. Then came the Woll climb. Hedgerows obscured the scenery and our focus turned to the tilting tarmac. It took us a while to rise through the wooded patches and onto open farmland, the gradient around 5%, burgeoning fatigue suggesting otherwise.

Next came Ettrick Bridge, which will be home to one of the Tour's three feed zones. Entrants will be plied with food, (including wares from Glasgow’s Big Bear Bakery), fruit and energy drinks. With about half the distance to go, most will keenly take advantage.

The Witchey Knowe is one heck of a calorie cruncher, and the climb of the route: over 500 feet of ascent in just 1.5 miles of tarmac.

“Is that the road, up there?” I gasped, pointing aghast to a thin grey line slashed into the hillside.

With no spare puff for speech, the answer came as a grunt.

The views from the top were equally breathtaking, the Yarrow valley far below.

The descent was pure adrenaline: sinuous and somehow sticking to the hillside. The Tour’s closed roads will allow riders to let rip and take racing lines; we exercised a tad more caution.

At the bottom we took a right toward Selkirk, road following water, wheels spinning faster than the rapids' splash. I had twigged to the theme of the route: challenging climbs, rip-roaring descents, everything in between utterly entertaining.

We flew by the Waterwheel Café, no time to eat or watch the salmon leaping at Philiphaugh. We were now definitely riding into the wind but the hedgerows provided shelter and distraction came with the road's changes in pitch and direction.

Farewell to one river and we re-united with the Tweed, heading back along its valley. We had forsaken the busy Galashiels Road for one running parallel but high above. The native woodland to our right was green and specked with patches of silver lichen. I'd not have discovered a lane so beautiful in a hundred Sunday runs.

Yet another descent before a shortcut through the grounds of Traquair House (location for the Tour’s final feed zone). The 900-year-old building is Scotland's oldest inhabited house and given such beautiful surroundings it's easy to see why the place has remained occupied.

Shaking off thoughts of a siesta in the garden’s shade we returned to that rollercoaster road, passed Cardrona and back to Peebles.

“One more climb,” said Neil, as he's prone to when out riding in this part of the world.

“Only one more?” I sighed, tired but disappointed. I wanted at least another three, couldn't wait for the Tour o' the Borders to do it all over again.

Endura Tour o’ the Borders

http://tourotheborders.com/

10^th August 2014 (last date for entries: 3^rd August 2014)

Entry cost: £55

Cooked on the Casse Déserte

Stage 14 of the this year's Tour de France takes in a wee hill called the Col d'Izoard. Here's an extra from The Breakaway on the day that very climb very nearly claimed us:

 Our bodies weren't the only casualties of the heat; the road had succumbed too. Our tyres tacked to patches of molten tar, a palpable sense that the mountain would rather consume us than allow for another pedal-powered human to reach its peak. We were the victims of a conspiracy, the gradient, the weather and the road all combining to ensure defeat. The Izoard would glue us in place, hold us still whilst the sun cooked, until the ashes of our bikes and bodies could be scattered by the winds, adding sand to the Casse Déserte.

Where the road hadn't melted we'd often see yet more fans' graffiti left over from recent races. There were a few “Go Lance” and a countering couple of “Vai Pantani”, but the most common on this climb was “Udo & Jan”. There was a half-mile stretch where the couple's tribute had been painted in almost unbroken succession, as if that part of the road had been created in their honour, or that Udo & Jan was the brand name of the manufacturer. The Udo & Jan in question were of course the Germans, Udo Bölts and Jan Ullrich. I'd never before thought of those two as a couple, Jan was the team leader, the undoubted star of cycling, Udo was just his trusty domestique who did the work but rarely took the limelight. However, to this paint-happy fan or fans Bölts & Ullrich were obviously inseparable, made to go together like horse and carriage or love and marriage. And from there I began to imagine Udo and Jan as a proper, married couple, as if they were the glamour pairing of the peloton, like a German, cycling version of Posh and Becks — oh, those thoughts, those ridiculous thoughts and the ridiculous heat were killing me! (And killing Drew too because I felt compelled to share.)

In an attempt to distract from my delirium and worries about our imminent expiration, Drew began to recite the lyrics of the folk song, Flower O' Scotland. For some unknown reason, that unofficial Caledonian national anthem had popped up and then stuck inside his head, playing over and over on a hellish (if patriotic) loop. My attention was focussed on the less melodic sound of creaking that came from my battered and worn left pedal cleat. That noise, normally as welcome as the screech of fingernails on blackboard, was strangely comforting, aural evidence that I remained in motion and was therefore still alive. I settled in to the frequency of the creak, the rhythm of the consequent sound and action: the cleat's creak, the lungs' wheeze, the push on the pedals. Creak-wheeze-push. I was the bagpipe backing to Drew's anthem. Creak-wheeze-push. Creak-wheeze-push. Just as with the metallic clink of swinging pendant striking jersey zip, it was another mind-clearing mantra to which I succumbed. Creak-wheeze-push. Creak-wheeze-push. Everything else dissolved from the scene. Gone were the sticky tar and the baking sun. Creak-wheeze-push. Creak-wheeze-push. Gone were my thirst and the sting of salty sweat. Creak-wheeze-push. Creak-wheeze-push. Gone was Drew, his bike, my bike, even the mountain up which we struggled. Creak-wheeze-push. Creak-wheeze-push. No pain in legs or lungs, no me, no mountain. Just the creak-wheeze-push. Creak-wheeze-push.

Somewhere around there I experienced what I can only describe as an epiphany. There was no vision, no figure of Christ or the Virgin Mary, just a moment where everything made perfect, joyous sense. An ice-cool breeze blew out of nowhere, rushed up the hill and clean through me. A subsequent shiver shot up my spine, rattled from the inside out, shaking me up before shooting its way on and into my brain. Although my pace hadn't quickened, it suddenly felt like I was flying, the bike but a featherweight beneath me, legs uncommonly supple and smooth. My gargoyle-on-the-toilet expression cracked with a giant smile, the man who had so recently hovered upon the edge of despair now buzzing with a blast of positive energy. In that brief moment I knew why: why I was riding the Izoard that day, why my life had followed a path I had no recollection of choosing. Like a drugged-up hippie staring at a Goan sunset, I was overwhelmed by understanding, unshakeably certain of my own existence, deliriously glad to be alive. I was also aware of just how privileged I was to be there, on that bike, on that road at that very moment. I could have been stuck behind a desk, staring out the window at the dogs and students who frequented the park adjacent to my office; instead I was free as a bird, soaring (albeit very slowly) toward the summit of a majestic mountain, challenging myself and responding accordingly.

Thoughts turned to my late father, to his life, his achievements and the love he had shown for all his family. Of course I missed him, did so incredibly and always would, but there on the Izoard I felt that he was riding shotgun, proving a more faithful wingman than Heras, Hamilton and Hincapie all rolled into one. He was with me, inside me, all around me, sharing the moment and proudly patting my back. Thoughts shifted to my girlfriend, to my love for her, a desire to have children of our own, so one day my son or daughter might ride the mountain with me, shoulder to shoulder, sharing in the love and wonder, the ardour and ecstasy. This, I thought, looking down at the spinning pedals, up at the road ahead, this is my church, out on a bike instead of sitting in a pew. This is where I feel close to whatever god might be. Churches are buildings designed to draw one's focus heavenward, architecture intended to inspire, and wasn't that what those great mountains had been doing? They drew our eyes, our bodies and minds upward. They lifted us from the daily grind, from the fog of our troubles and worries. Physically we climbed so that our spirits might soar.

The Sa Calobra Sharktooth

I was delighted to have been offered my first taste of Majorcan cycling, courtesy of the good people at Jet2 Cycling Holidays. My only concern was that, in the two days of riding they had planned for me, would there be any mountains?

Mixed group pre-mountain

I was to be riding in a mixed group, some in good shape, others less so, and would any share my daft keenness for riding uphill? Surely not. Pre-trip, I had decided that if neither day's itinerary met my hopes then I would form a splinter group and head off solo in search of altitude.

We'd barely covered 10 kilometres from our base in Playa de Muro when the cyclists in less-good shape began to drop off the back. We stopped at the next junction to re-group and our guide for the day, Miquel, began to work on a plan B, something more serene to suit those already tired legs. I edged my way into to his personal space; muttered grumbles turned to pleading, from there to stubborn demands: I've not come all the way to Majorca to dodge the mountains. I want to ride a mountain!

“Which mountain?” Miquel asked.

“That big spike there,” I pointed to the large incisor on the shark-toothed profile of our plan A.

Pick a mountain

I didn't know its name, didn't care that the slow bods might expire, failed to spot that there were two climbs before that big mountain I'd set my heart on.

Miquel relented. The mountain-mad idiot, Graham and James (a couple of the fitter guys in the group) would stick to plan A and head for the big mountain. The others would 'only' tackle the first mountain and then find a shady spot in which to sit and await their colleagues' heroic return.

As we rode on I pulled up next to our guide and posed a few questions. I discerned that we had no ordinary guide for the day (more on Miquel in a post to follow) and that we were headed toward no ordinary mountain.

“Sa Calobra?" I asked. "Isn't that the mountain on Majorca. The one I'd heard about, seen crazy photos of, had read somewhere was the island's most feared climb?"

First we had to get over the Coll de Femenia. The climb that was already beginning to take its toll. I was breathing harder, talking less. Time to accept the fate I had forced upon myself. 431 metres of ascent later and we'd hit the top. I was hot, tired and as happy as a pig in shit.

As I quickly discovered, there's only one way to climb the Calobra (also known as the Coll dels Reiss – the Strava segment is here), and that's up from the small seaport of the same name. That means you have to ascend a few kilometres from the foot of the Femenia and then hurl yourself down the mountain.

pic courtesy cyclemallorca.co.uk

Those few kilometres left us in oxygen debt, dripping in sweat. The descent was steep, twisting, occasionally death-defying, with views that dangerously drew your eye from the road, like sirens calling sailors toward the rocks. Racing past a queue of cars and tourist coaches (a technique known as Cancellara-ing the descent) I should have been thinking, “maybe I'll take a safer line round this next blind turn”. Instead I was thinking, “in a few minutes I'm going to have to turn around and ride back up all this insanity.”

The small seaside settlement at the base of the climb was maddening in its beauty. I briefly considered forgetting the climb back up and starting a new life at the foot of the mountain.

My fellow lunatic Graham intervened. “Right lads, this is it,” he stated matter of fact. “It's every man for himself from here. Good luck and see you at the top.”

And with that he was off. I was quickly on his wheel. Quickly ahead of him. Out of the saddle. Pushing on.

“I can do this,” I thought. “It may have been a while since I last tackled a serious Euro mountain climb, but surely it's like riding a bike, or falling off a log, or something. You never forget how, right?”

Within a couple of kilometres I was beginning to feel every inch the 40-year-old asthmatic that I am.

Another kilometre and I felt like a 40-year-old asthmatic roasting on a spit. The sun was baking hot, no shade in which to dally, no respite offered by any stretch of the road.

I gulped at the warm water in my bidon. I felt sick, like if I vomited then hot, dry sand would spew out of me.

I saw a couple of cyclists ahead, switched off the noise in my head, concentrated on their heat-hazed shapes. A few switchbacks and along straight and I'd caught them. They looked in worse shape than I felt. I rode by, just able to offer a grunt of greeting.

Another switchback and I looked back down. The companions I had departed by the seaside were twin white dots. I looked up ahead. The road was impossibly steeper, the top nowhere in sight, the scene seeming to drip and melt from my vision.

After while I spotted a small hole in the cliff face. It was shaded, filled with green vegetation. An idea fired through my smoking synapses: I would climb in there, siesta until the sun went down and then slowly make my way back to the hotel.

The doubting had started, sneaked up and over me like the patch of shade that was never going to come: I don't know if this 40-year-old asthmatic can cope with this mountain lark any more.

I dropped into second gear, forced myself out of the saddle, fell straight back in.

“This is hot,” I thought, “but is it as hot as that awful day on the Peyresourde? Is this climb as hard? Am I going to be beaten?”

Another heated gulp and the sand in my gullet rose an inch higher. I began to drift, mentally, literally, across the road.

A blast from a tourist coach's air horn snapped me back to the mountain. I veered back over toward the precipice as the bright orange behemoth squeezed past and lumbered on up the road, its passengers gawping from within their air-conditioned cocoon.

I spotted another cyclist ahead. That was my target.

Reeling, reeling, reeling I pulled the shape into focus, until eventually I was on her wheel. I pulled up alongside. She looked how I felt: sweltering, almost done. We chatted. Her name was Emma. She was from Plymouth (I think) had just come back from working in India. This Majorcan heat was nothing to her. She liked competing in triathlons, which made her madder than me.

Safety in numbers, we rounded another switchback and encountered a traffic jam: a queue of behemoths and cars going up as another tried to come down. There was nowhere to go that didn't require wings or a parachute. We unclipped and waited. Stopping was bliss. Getting going again when the traffic began to edge its way forward was less enjoyable.

As the traffic pulled ahead, the summit of the climb came into view. My skin began to tingle icy cold, perhaps the early signs of heatstroke, perhaps the ecstatic relief at having made it to the top. 

£0.00004 Per Metre

Me on the Stelvio's 'easy' side.

For me, stage 16 is where this year’s Giro properly begins (assuming the weather holds), and where many of the competitors will be sorely wishing it properly ended: the mountains — the really, really big mountains.

The 139km jaunt warms up with the Passo Gavia, ridden from Ponte di Legno. I’ve tackled the Gavia both ways, neither of which heroic acts featured in The Breakaway. Next is the mighty (as if the Gavia isn’t also mighty) Passo Stelvio, topping out at a mere 2758 metres. The Giro is racing up from the easier (in my humble opinion) Bormio side. Again I’ve ridden it both ways (go me!) but it was on the climb from Prato that I succumbed to Breakaway bonk paranoia and rode off ahead of my companion, Drew.

“Somewhere within the last ten switchbacks I snapped out of the fugue, looked round for Drew, the idea that I had been riding with someone else slowly gaining credence. I eased up and that other person came into view, far in the distance, an ant in my curious gaze. All the while I was watching him, the worrywart voice in my head persisted, nagging incessant, telling me to forget about my friend: hurry, hurry, hurry, before the bonk comes back! Forget about him, save yourself, save yourself! What if you hit the wall? Don't look back, don't look back!”

Things weren’t quite the same from then on.

Stage 16 of Doom ends atop the 2059 metre-high Val Martello, which, sadly, I haven’t ridden, from any direction.

And there’s more two days later: stage 18 features the Passo San Pellegrino, which Drew and I drove along during The Breakaway but sadly never rode, and climaxes with a cruise up to the Rif. Panarotta, which I’d never even heard of until the announcement of this year’s corsa rosa.

The dénouement is Stage 20 and the Monte Zoncolan, a monstrous ascent that cast a dark shadow over the initial days of The Breakaway, and which will haunt me until I get my skinny Scottish butt back over to Italy for a re-try (and will probably continue to haunt me, only in more gory detail, even after that).

The Bargain

To celebrate (or perhaps for the sprinters in the gruppetto, to commiserate) the last week of the Giro and all this uphill awesomeness, The Breakaway is reduced to only 99p, which works out at about £0.0000099 per word or £0.00004 per metre climbed — check it out here.

It’s a bargain in anyone’s book and might just inspire a bout of mountain madness all of your own.

As one reviewer on Amazon said:

“This personalised account gives you the flavour of how difficult, both physically and mentally, these climbs are, but gives you the urge to go out and try them for yourself.”

Very kind and, hopefully, true.

Feel The TweedLove

“I'd always wondered where this road went,” I say as we turn out of Peebles and onto a stretch of single-track.

I'm pedalling alongside my guide for the day, Neil Dalgleish, director of TweedLove, the Tweed Valley festival of all things cycling that runs from the 24^th of May to the 8^th of June.

We’re on a cracking valley climb. The sun is out, the sky blue; fluffy white sheep pepper the verdant hillsides. Biking bliss.

I’m previewing the Skinny, a 45-mile sportive that's new to TweedLove. The £15 entry fee gets riders a free feed station and official timing along the marked and marshalled course.

“It's the kind of route experienced riders will enjoy and feel in their legs but also the sort that other folk could spend longer tackling,” Neil explains. “They could stop at places for coffee and make a day of it. It's welcoming to everybody.”

Peebles Cycling Club’s local knowledge and passion has gone into selecting the route. A fast descent, another climb and we cross the Tweed. As the tailwind scoots us on passed Stobo, I’m already sold on sportives, thinking ahead to August’s Tour o’ the Borders.

The Skinny (Saturday 7^th of June) is just part of a burgeoning, 40-event festival. There will be rides on-road and off, those for experts and novices, family events and even a film night.

We’re soon heading uphill out of Broughton. Neil's keen to talk about the highlight of this year’s bash. In landing a round of the mountain bike EnduroWorld Series (Saturday 31^st May to Sunday 1^st of June), TweedLove has come up trumps.

“With 600 competitors it will be the biggest enduro race in Britain to date,” Neil enthuses. “On the start list so far we have 14 current or ex world champions – I think that's a first in Britain. It's such a star-studded race.”

And it’s not just for the professionals.

“Your average weekend warrior can race against the world’s elite. Enduro is a really inclusive part of the sport … like what most people do at the weekends on the trails around Peebles — they meet up with their mates, pedal up the hill and have a great time coming back down. That's what makes the festival and the event such a great fit ... we share their ethos.”

That inclusive ethos permeates TweedLove:

“We'd encourage folk to just come down and have a go. A lot of the kids and family events are either free or really cheap to take part in. There's everything from balance-bike stuff to things for primary school kids and beyond.”

Another inclusive example is the Glentress Seven trail race (Saturday 24^th May), which Neil describes as, “pretty competitive but also really friendly. It's ridden in teams so you'll have riders sitting having a coffee and cake whilst their teammates are off out riding.”

We’re now cruising through Biggar and mention of cake makes me reach for an energy bar.

With TweedLove entering its fifth year, I’m guessing the Borders folk are supportive?

“The festival has grown pretty quickly but it has been like pushing at an open door. There is so much goodwill in the community, so many people who want to see things happen.”

Neil forecasts competitor and spectator numbers totalling around 12,000 and a positive economic impact of

around £1.25million. However, as he explains, it's about more than having a successful festival:

“Hosting the Enduro World Series has put Peebles on a list with Whistler, places in the Alps, the Italian Riviera, Colorado and Chile. This is now officially recognised as one of the best places in the world to ride, so the long-term impact of increased visitor numbers is going to be colossal.”

Talking of colossal, I’m out of puff, having just crested the Dreva, a local cycling legend.

Back on the road to Peebles and the Cycling Club’s collective genius is again showing its worth: a sneaky left and we're down by the river; over a footbridge, up a steep gravel climb and we hit stretch of dusty farm track. My grin grows another inch.

“Just one more climb,” Neil says for the umpteenth time as we whizz back along the valley. Sadly, this time it is the last.

Back in Peebles, Neil points over to what’s currently a grassy expanse of riverbank, but will imminently be the Enduro encampment.

“Over there'll be a huge event village and expo, with food stalls, a big stage and start ramp, and loads of the biggest bike companies from all over the world -- like a music festival, but with athletes. I do sometimes find it hard to believe that it's actually going to happen here.” He pauses as we swig from our water bottles. “It will be absolutely buzzing.”

Remembering Marco

On February 15th 2004 my friend Drew and I rolled out on a solemn bike ride. We were sporting black armbands, strips of cotton cut from an old t-shirt — a shabby yet honest tribute. Our conversation came in fits and starts, interspersed by long moments of silent gloom. We were in shock, saddened and more than a little angry: the man of our shared sporting inspiration had died the previous day of a cocaine overdose.

The aforementioned Drew, my Breakaway travelling partner, had been inspired to get into cycling by Eurosport's coverage of the 1998 Tour. He had never seen an athlete, in any sport, quite like Marco. It was the guts, the determination, the panache and the daring (attacking on the rain-soaked Galibier ascent, solo and so far from the finish). For Drew it was love at first sight. By the end of that summer he was riding around Edinburgh on a Mercatone Uno replica Bianchi, sporting the matching kit, bandanna and all.

Not Been There, Not Done That

In the weeks and months after returning home from my Breakaway travels I exuded an air of ascender's arrogance. In a couple of weeks I’d climbed almost three times the height of Everest. I’d taken on and (just about) survived many of cycling’s biggest names: Ventoux, Galibier, Izoard, Stelvio ... .

None of the climbs that Scotland had to offer could perturb me. “Think this is bad?” I’d shout at my legs, “this is nothing compared to the [insert famous-name climb] and you survived that!”

I’d been there, done that — or so I thought.

With every grand tour comes a clutch of climbs, some big names, some I’d never heard of, whose tarmac my tyres have yet to touch. The routes of 2014’s big three prove no exception.

Never Meet Your Heroes - Redux

Back in June last year I wrote this short blog about 'meeting' the polka dot jersey won and worn by one of my cycling heroes, Robert Millar, at the 1984 Tour de France. 

I'd encountered it after stumbling into Billy Bilsland Cycles on the way home from an afternoon watching the British Road Race Championships at Glasgow Green.

Well it seems as if another trip west (surely a pilgrimage?) is on the cards. Billy Bilsland Cycles have this week unveiled an addition to their Millar tribute. Alongside the signed and framed spotty jersey you can now see the actual Peugeot bike upon which Millar rode to that famous victory.

Apparently the bike hadn't been seen in public for 30 years, having been in the ownership of a private collector. Well now (but unlike it's ilusive original owner) the bike is very much back in the public eye — and in one of Scotland's best bike shops too. Definitely worth a trip to Glasgow, if only to marvel at the size of the inner chainring — what, no compact?!

There's more info and a full gallery at Billy Bilsland's Facebook page.

(Still reckon retro Peugeots look better in fluro pink, like my old steed.)