Now Architect. Now Archaeologist.

Rad photo of rad band getting rad c/o rad guy Clint, stolen from his Instagram and used without permission in a very un-rad manner. Sorry Clint.

Stage 11 - Albertville to La Toussuire.

Today - the day I'm writing this, not the day that I watched the stage (I'm aware that I play a little fast and loose with tense in this blog, mostly because I like to write about races in the present tense, as it gives them an urgency, whereas I like to write about the daily events of my life in the past tense, as it gives them a little space, and encourages reflection. This kind of thing bothers some people) - is the last day of school holidays. I mean, there's still the weekend to go, and for me the first few days at school are generally pretty cruisy, but this is the last day I'll be able to lie in bed while the rest of you have to go to work - at least until spring break arrives in September. It's a good time to stop and think for a bit, to figure out what the hell has happened over the past two weeks. Plus, the tour is about halfway over - perhaps all over, bar the shouting. So maybe I'll even cast my eyes over what's going on with that.

But let's face it, I probably won't. When I started out with this tour diary I knew that the focus was not going to be the tour itself, but rather my experiences of watching the tour, in the same way that I used to write about going to punk rock shows, rather than just the shows. As such, there's been a lot of JD Salinger and not a lot of Tejay Van Garderen. This is probably something of a shame, firstly because I quite like Tejay Van Garderen, despite the crimes against nomenclature his parents visited upon him, but also secondly because I've been watching the tour every night, and have actually been interested in it most nights (you know, aside from this one). Like the rumour I spread about myself only ever reading the sports section of the Herald-Sun, or the one that here at New Timer House the only coffee we drink is International Roast, my claimed disinterest is a knee-jerk reaction to the expectation that I be up on all things cycling. You could call it working-class pretension, sure, but you could also call it a safeguard against annoying conversations about fancy coffee, popular literature and dickheads pontificating about Chris Froome.

Here in the relative solitude of the bedroom, however, there's no chance of me engaging with dickheads - you know, aside from the one at the keyboard - so I should be just spewing forth with voluminous honesty about Wiggins' potty mouth, Cadel's long-range attacks, Peter Sagan's freaking hilarious shenanigans, Jens Voigt, Vincenzo Nibali, Chris Horner. But I haven't been, really. Sure, there's enough cycling in there for my friend Sarah K to write that "You're writing really well, but I still don't care about cycling at all", but for me the emphasis has been more on the stuff surrounding the tour. Why? Because it's been so freaking rad. Kind of like the record cover above. Sure, there was probably a record attached to that photo, and the record was probably the thread that drew all of the elements together for the photo - much like the tour has been the knots that have tied all of these entries together - but really, who gives a crap what that record sounds like? That photo is radness captured on film. No matter how good the record, it is now a secondary consideration, not entirely necessary.

And you know what? At the moment, the things surrounding me are like that photo. Not the skater in the photo though, and not the band. No, when I wake up in the morning these days, things are like that sky. 

When I'm back at work next week things might go back to being rough. I'll be getting less sleep, drinking coffee for survival rather than joy, reading psychologists reports rather than renaissance poetry. Perhaps then I'll need to start writing about the racing again, in order to take my mind off the general attrition of everyday life. But perhaps not. Perhaps over the past two weeks, something has changed, that the change will echo through the entire term, and I'll never write about racing again. That'd be ok. I mean, it'd be ok for me. You'd have to go back to reading about the tour on Cycling News. But that's your problem.

The Beat Of You Breathing.

Stage 10 - Macon to Ballegarde-sur-Valserine.

For the last hour I have been talking to FJ, trying to convince him that going to Crown with Ollie is a good idea. "You're fucking twentythree!" I tell him, "This is exactly what you're supposed to be doing! Go out and have some adventures, goddamn it." Eventually he is down with the plan and they head off into the city, leaving me sitting up the back of the bar all by myself. People I know are beginning to spill out. "What's happening?" I ask, "Is the stage finished? Who won?" They look incredulous, as if they fully expect someone who has made a twentyone day commitment to writing a tour diary to be slightly more attentive to the actual tour. I start to wonder if I've been projecting a persona that is somehow in opposition to the person I think I am. Chances are pretty good.

Someone tells me Voeckler won the stage. I like Voeckler, but I can't say I'm particularly interested, especially when I hear that he has once again won from a breakaway. The GC hasn't changed, despite Nibali attempting to snap the elastic attaching him to Team Sky on every descent, and despite Mick Rodgers nearly ending up in a ditch trying to reel him back in.

The more folks talk, the more I realize I don't give a shit. I climb on my bike and head towards bed.

The next day I'm still not particularly interested. Watching the highlights on YouTube, the best thing to occur in the whole stage is Jens Voigt handing old mate from BMC a waterbottle, after old mate missed his musette. What I am interested in, however is FJ's adventures at Crown. Apparently he and Ollie had hit the dancefloor pretty hard, and ended up bumping and grinding Miss Universe Jennifer Hawkins. He's a little worse for wear, so I take him out for breakfast.

Keep It To Yourself.

Rest Day.

"You must always have a secret plan. Everything depends on this; it is the only question. So as not to be conquered by the conquered territory in which you lead your life, so as not to feel the horrible weight of inertia wrecking your will and bending you to the ground, so as not to spend a single night more wondering what there is to do or how to connect with your neighbors and countrymen, you must make secret plans without respite. Plan for adventure, plan for pleasure, plan for pandemonium, as you wish; but plan, lay plans constantly."

I bet Cadel has a secret plan.

It's Easy To Live.

Stage 9 - Arc-et-Senans to Besancon (ITT)

As if I stayed up to watch this. Everyone knows that Time Trials are code for 'Get an early night'. Instead I rode my bike around with FJ, visited Blakey and Katie, went and hung out with an old friend late into the night. And then, when FJ posted this, I laughed my ass off. It was a pretty normal night. I didn't read any poetry, didn't mope over any Salinger. Eventually I went to bed, and some time after that I went to sleep. Not the full eight hours, but edging ever closer.

This morning I'd been on the computer for a while before I remembered that something pretty important had gone down last night. Only then did I wander over to Cycling News to check out the damage. And it seems that there was quite a bit of damage done, mostly in Wiggins' post-stage press conferences, but also in the Time Trial. Cadel's Tour is now essentially a battle for second, but I can't see him going quietly into that good night. The next two weeks, as he rages against the dying of the light, is going to be damn good watching.

Metal! Revolution!

Do you have a friend who used to have a sweet fixie, but who now considers full fenders, racks, and a dynamo a bare minimum for their 4km commute?  Did your roadie friend suddenly rock up to the bunch ride with those clip on fenders, their excuse being that, you know, what if it rains?  Perhaps someone you used to rip trailz with all of a sudden doesn't really want to get rad anymore, and instead rides fire trails on weird wheel sizes.  Maybe you recognise some of these tendencies in yourself.  If you recognise any of these scenarios, you may have been affected by what we call 'the beardo effect'. Heavy Metal Monday needs to interrupt the normal Tour De France schedule to discuss a most distressing of bike sub-sub-sulctures: the Beardo.

Beardos, it should be added, don't necessarily have to have a beard.  It's more of an attitude, or an approach to life.  The beard, if you will, is attached to the soul of the person.  Beardo's love the following things: mudguards, brass, racks, the verb 'portaging', new dynamo lights for use, old dynamo lights for polishing and talking about, cantilever brakes, steel, artisan tyre manufactures, talking about psi, the word 'supple', stupid shaped handlebars, not slamming their stem, waxing lyrical about certain cup and cone designs actually being more water resistant than a great deal of the sealed bearings on the market which, by the way, aren't strictly speaking 'sealed', gravel, lumens, the word randoneur, proper placement of load across a bicycle, sneering at credit card touring and, finally, 650b wheel size, and telling MTBers that they were into it way before they were.

Beardos aren't necessarily old either.  At this stage in their development as a bike sub-sub culture, they are made up of two distinct groups.  Old people who never moved on from the technology they grew up with.  Perhaps they thought Audax rides were a bit too competitive for their liking, or you know, maybe they used to race 'back in the day'.  Regardless, they stick to steel like the shellac on their old singles.  These are classic beardos.

Then there is the new generation.  These are comprised of three distinct sub groups.  MTB riders who totally nerded out.  Roadies who can't flatten their back and put it in the big dog. And, finally, fixie kids who, in a direct reaction to the militant minimalism of the 2007 track bike, responded by putting way more carrying devices on their bicycles then they would ever need.

It is much more common now, for example, to see a hipster riding a steel bike with a big front rack, full mudguards and perhaps even a poorly positioned Shimano dynamo front hub, than it is to see some guy riding a toight as a tiger track bike, all rolled up jeans and overly tight chain tension.

By the same token, we hear mutterings on the bunch ride that, you know, it's great that old mate isn't splashing water in my face anymore by having put on mudguards, but, it makes my bike look uncool, you know?

And finally the split in the MTBer community has been highlighted by those who spend more time positioning their helmet light than taking sweet jumps at the Youies.

Having recognised the problem, the community, and from which bike subcultures this sub-sub culture have emerged from, perhaps it is time to figure out how it can be stopped.

The first step is open ridicule.  When you see a full beardo riding by, tell them their mudguards are ill fitted.  That should stop them in their tracks for a good 35 minutes.  Don't actually approach them, or you will get caught in a conversation about 650b that will span the natural length of the universe.

The second is prevention.  If, on a day ride out on gravel roads you see an at risk beardo, or some one who looks like they might have put just that little bit too much time thinking about which tyres to run, and at which psi, tell them bluntly that you're running 22mm tyres, at 150psi.  Then put it in the big dog, and storm off, at a minimum of 400 watts.  Don't worry, their big dog is probably a 48 tooth, possibly even a 46 so they ain't gonna give no chase.  This will have the potential beardo in serious doubts as to their lifestyle choice.

Once gone full beardo, there is no going back.  So loud and inefficient is their coffee bean hand grinder, that they won't be able to hear you over the smugness.  But we can save many bike riders from a life of supple tyre pressure and skinny, hairy legs.  Direct action is the only way.

Pump up those tyres, to max recommended psi!  Slam that stem!  Melt all the steel in the land, and remove any scientific evidence about the benefits of having a brass bell over an alloy one.  Make those mudguards rattly, remove the dynamo, and affix the invisible and non water proof knog lights.  Shave those legs, by force if necessary.  Bring back the mudgauardless bunch ride, this isn't Washington state.   Demand that your bike shop stock nothing from Brookes, or any new 650b MTBs.  Deny any affiliation with anyone who tours 'properly'.

The revolution is rolling through.  It cannot and must not be on 650b wheels.  The entire bike community is depending on you.

I Hate These Songs.

Stage Eight - Belfort to Porrentruy.

What I didn't mention yesterday is that it was a late one, that Sime and I were still being mean to the general population at 4am, despite the fact that I was due in Castlemaine for my nephew's 1st birthday party at midday. Sometimes it's nice to make the writing about the riding, rather than me. But when I pulled into my sister's driveway it was definitely all about me.

I play a weird role in my family, especially the extended family. By time my old man was thirty three he'd had four children, he and my ma owned a house, were known and respected in the community. My sister, older than me, started a little later, but still has a growing family, a home in the country, a husband with a good job. Their friends, of course, vaguely follow suit. While they're not Today Tonight fans, and are unlikely to call me homophobic epithets, they do view me with a bemused interest which I play up with relish. I tell stories about late nights and regret, vaguely hinting at irresponsible dalliances and playing up my reliance on next-day coffee. It's kinda fun, and I feel like I'm providing a valuable service.

When the time comes to drive home, however, the suffering become real, and I wonder if I'm going to be able to survive the two hours without dozing off. I call Jamesy, I text folks, I eat lots of fruit, but nothing is working. Eventually I entertain myself by making a soul playlist on the iPod, and that gets me home.

When I come barging in through the door Hurley is there. I drop my stuff and demand we go out for dinner at once. In a few minutes we're at Tiba's again. Somehow we always end up there on a Sunday night, and somehow we're always totally fucking wrecked. We spend a lot of time rehashing the events of the weekend, but also equal amounts of time staring at the walls. When the food comes we eat ravenously, and it seems to revitalize us somehow, because once we have returned home we are equal parts hilarious and ridiculous.

The problem with sleep deprivation, however, is that the pendulum swings hard. By the time we get to Domestique I'm freaking wrecked, slumped in my seat and not speaking to anyone. I'm on the internet a lot, and a chain of events is being set in place that I'm inclined to follow through. Sarah Kizuk and I have been emailing back and forth a lot lately, and she finishes her email with "come fucking visit me." It comes off like an order, not an invitation. She's in St John's, Newfoundland, a place I never made it to when I was living in Quebec, but always kinda wanted to. Plus, she's an old friend, has known me through a lot of crap, and is probably the most sensitive and intuitive person I know. The idea of sitting up with her for the rest of the night drinking weird tea, then walking down to the harbour in the morning and watching icebergs drift by, plants itself in my heart and begins to take root.

Seemingly minutes later Leith posts on Facebook that his flight home from Hobart has been delayed, and asks if anyone is still awake to do an airport run to pick up him and Grover at 2.15. I do some quick math and figure out that the stage is going to finish around 1.30, and add in that it takes about half an hour to get to the airport. My hand goes up. It's going to be another late night.

It's a freaking great stage - watching the best cyclists in the world roll turns together like it's a handicap race is incredible, and a sight rarely seen in pro cycling - but I'm grumpy and belligerent, and keep yelling out for them to put the tennis on. Of course, when they do flip over in the ads, the tennis has been rained out. We go back to the cycling and FDJ's Thibault Pinot has stayed away solo. The footage of Marc Madiot in the team car, screaming at his young charge, is the highlight of the night.

On the way out to the airport I realize that I the credit card in my pocket probably has enough left on it to get me to Toronto. From there it's an easy bus ride to Montreal, where I still know a bunch of people. A day there and then I'd be once again standing on the side of the Trans-Canada, thumbing rides out to the edge of the Atlantic. The roots grow a little deeper.

As I walk through the sliding doors Leith and Grover are there walking towards me. I don't have a second to think about Newfoundland, Sarah K, weird oat tea or icebergs. They dump a box of leftover records in my arms and I toss Leith the keys.

It seems that I wasn't the only one feeling belligerent, however. In the post stage press conference Brad Wiggins, perhaps a little tired and definitely a little fed up, takes aim at the folks raising questions about the legitimacy of his performance. In five minutes he drops both the F and the C words. You can see the full quote here. Sure, it's probably bad for the sponsors, and Team Sky's PR machine will be in overdrive tonight, but if I ever see the guy, I'm going to totally high five him.

The First Sign Of First Light.

pic c/o Damoh, who had a better seat than me.

Stage Seven - Tomblaine to Le Planche des Belle Filles

There's this Bukowski poem I like. Well, to be fair there are a few. But I'm not one of those Bukowski guys, those guys who totally buy into the Bukowski schtick, who actually believe his 'drink your way to the truth' bullshit. I actually read other poets, you know? But right now the Bukowski poem I'm thinking of is called Dow Average Down, and is from Play The Piano Drunk Like A Percussion Instrument Until The Fingers Begin To Bleed A Bit. I'm thinking about it because of this stanza:

"you find yourself
alone again in your
bedroom grabbing your
guts and saying, o, shit
no, not again."

In the poem he's describing the process of falling out of love. Rereading it now I'm annoyed by the narcissism - those who know me will suggest ironically so - but that stanza continues to jump out at me. I think he's got it backwards, though. For me, the way out of a relationship is pretty simple - sure, it hurts, but it's a familiar pain, and by my age you pretty much know how to deal with both the pain and the suddenly acute practical needs of being alone again. It's the way into the relationship that is scary as all hell. There's a reason why they call it 'falling' in love and not 'cruising along and waking up one morning' in love. Sure, there's excitement and anticipation, but there's also crashing uncertainties, so many plummeting variables, all those jinxes to remove. It's never the right time, it's never the right person, there's always something that could and probably will go wrong. And so you find yourself alone again in your bedroom...

Last night was the first real hill stage of the tour, and it lived up to every expectation. Early on Jelmer had pontificated that Cadel would win. I was feeling a little expansive by that time, plus I was on my "I know way more about cycling than you do" high horse (horse subheading: "Don't you know I write a blog?"), so I offered to bet him five hundred dollars that Cadel would not win today's stage. I figured that it was too early in the race for him to be blowing himself apart, that he'd conserve his energies for the more serious climbs in the weeks to come. And when Sky went to the front and started blowing it apart I felt pretty good about my wager. Cadel was hanging in there, sure, but I was certain that he was just mitigating any potential time losses, that he would simply mark Wiggins until they cross the line.

But I forgot I was dealing with the new Cadel, the post-world-championships Cadel, the Cadel who throws it down and leaves nothing on the road. Even though there were two of the best climbers in the world with him - Wiggins and Froome - who also happened to be on the same team - he had a crack. Jelmer reminded me of my bet. KO reminded me of my bet. Folks around standing around us in the bar asked about the bet, and were filled in on the finer details. But I wasn't worried. There were two riders from Sky there! Surely they were going to 1-2 him, left jab to right hook for the knockout blow. Froome chases Evans and bridges across. I expect Wiggins to counter - right hook for the knockout blow - but Froome keeps on jabbing away and eventually scores enough points on them both. It's a huge move, but both Evans and Wiggins have over a minute on him in the GC, so they let him take the stage.

I reckon at the start of the stage Evans would've probably been aware that this was pretty much how it was going to pan out, that Sky would get on the front and shell everyone, that he'd be once again left without teammates in the mountains and would have to fend for himself. It's how he won The Tour last year. He probably knew what he was in for. He probably felt excitement and anticipation, but was probably also totally petrified. Before the stage he was probably in the team bus, grabbing his guts and saying, o, shit no, not again.

This Could Be The Year For The Real Thing.

Stage Six - Epernay to Metz

Ollie comes over and brings a sixer for himself and some crazy Rockstar energy drink for me. Up to this point I've never before consumed any of those fancy energy drinks - Coca Cola is about as hard as I get. But I look at the label. As well as the usual shit - caffeine and guarana - it has both taurine and a bunch of B vitamins in it. Both of the latter I take on a regular basis regardless - they're part of basic vegan maintenance. So I launch into it. An hour later my brain feels a little electricky. Everyone tells me I'm going to crash before the end of the stage. I don't care. Those neurons are jumping around everywhere and I'm cranking the music loud.

An evening watching The Tour is by definition a quiet night, but it's Friday, so in order to mitigate the mellowness we head up to the Domestique Pop-Up Bar. It's only open from Thursdays to Sundays throughout The Tour, and then will disappear into the wilderness again, but it's a brilliant idea that has been well executed.

It's freaking cold outside - my phone tells me 4 degrees - but inside it's all shirtsleeves. They have a bunch of those outdoor space heaters on. Inside. That's a stroke of genius - I always felt a little guilty releasing all of that heat out into the atmosphere just so I could sit outside, but inside I have no such qualms.

The stage today is flat and non-eventful. For the first two hours FJ goes around pointing out the elephant in the room - that pro cycling is boring. He is later seen jumping out of his seat in excitement about what is unfolding in front of him on the big screen. Everyone else seems content to sit and chat until the final ten minutes, when another sprint will unfurl like a flag.

Dave makes the mistake of asking me about my recent Salinger obsession. I tell him that Salinger was a victim of what I like to think of as the Weakerthans syndrome - where you love one item of work (Left and Leaving, in the case of the Weakerthans) by an artist so much that you don't even want to look at anything else by that artist, lest the perfection of that work, or your love for it, be diluted somehow. In the case of Salinger, I had my dad's old copy of Catcher in the Rye, and that was enough. Eventually, though, I was bored at my former job, went wandering through the library, and found a copy of Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters / Seymour: an Introduction. I fell in love with the Glass family and realized that sometimes love multiplies, rather than divides. I ask Dave about this in relationship to his young family and he confirms my suspicions, fairly glowing while he talks about his two young daughters.

Each year I think there are more crashes in The Tour than the last, and this one is no exception. This time the bunch gets split and a whole bunch of GC contenders - whose teams were apparently not focused, not attentive or just not committed to sheltering them from the tempests of the first week - get popped out the back. As soon as the first riders hit the deck Orica-GreenEdge go to the front and start turning it up. They're joined by BMC - there seems to be an Australian alliance at work, as BMC are obviously riding to help Cadel gain time on the GC contenders left behind, but also to get Cadel within three ks of the finish, so if there's another crash he won't lose time.

I've been impressed with BMC this Tour. It was a good decision to leave Hushovd out, I reckon. They seem to have a singularity of focus that the other GC teams don't possess - I think I even saw Phillippe Gilbert fetching drinks the other day. True to form they push to the front over the last ten ks, then swing wide to let the sprinters through once they hit the three to go mark. Lotto take over and drag Greipel to 100m to go, but Peter Sagan is on his wheel, and when the spring is uncoiled there's no bringing it back. The dude - and I use that phrase precisely - rips out this victory salute which we're later told is a tribute to the Incredible Hulk - fitting, since like the Hulk, Sagan seems to have made the colour green all his. FJ and I, both Sagan fans, high five, mimic his salute long after the broadcast has been turned off.

We spill out onto the street. It's even colder now - hovering around 2 degrees. Everyone appears to be smoking, but it's just the condensation of their breath. I take Ollie and FJ back to ours, but in the time it takes to drive those ten or eleven blocks both Ollie and I receive texts calling us to respective parties in different parts of the city. Not really wanting to drive, we decide to ride our bikes. Up through Northcote Plaza, along Separation, we ride with our hands in our armpits through quiet streets, not talking too much. Once upon a time we were fierce competitors, battling it out for the win every Tuesday night at DISC. But now some of that drive has disappeared - diluted, perhaps - and we're content to roll side by side until we reach Lygon. He turns into the city and I keep heading west. I put my headphones in and The Last Last One is playing. It's by the Weakerthans, from their first album, Fallow.

Taking Away My Breath.

Stage Five - Rouen to Saint-Quentin

It's the evening of my 33rd birthday and all of a sudden I'm in my living room surrounded by folks who were also present at my 18th birthday, my 21st, my 30th. In deference to the others present we try not to reminisce too much, but the presence of folks who I've known for so long puts me at ease. We sit in the living room drinking tea. After last night's lack of sleep I'm pretty wrecked, and am already sensing that this is where the evening is going to end. And that's ok.

After folks leave I have a quick look at the stage profile. It's flat, barely a bump, and will almost definitely come down to a sprint finish. And look, I do love sprint finishes - I love the chaos, the drama, the elbows out full contact racing. But I don't love the preceding three hours of knowing that it's going to come down to a sprint finish. That's some boring shit right there. There's no way in hell I'm going to sit up listening to Phil and Paul confuse chateaus and castles for three hours. I grab Franny and Zooey and head to bed.

I'm enjoying the book so much that when I realize that I only have a little bit left, when the pages in my right hand feel thinner and thinner, I'm a bit disappointed. Salinger's great gift is that he makes you feel special, as if you're the only one in the entire world who identifies with the protagonist, and everyone else is either an idiot or a total phoney. It's a good feeling, but it's also isolating, and sometimes I think Salinger knows this, and does what he can to counteract it. That's why when relief finally comes to Franny at the end of the book it only does so when she realizes that the prayer she's repeating is to everyone, that there is no one out there who isn't Christ. I ain't one for god or spirituality, but I too find a sense of relief in imagining that there's some kind of hope in all of us, that we're all, somehow, in this together. It's a nice thought to have at the end of pretty great day. Like Franny, for some minutes, before I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, I just lay quiet, smiling at the ceiling.

And the next morning I reach for my computer and watch Sagan get tangled in a crash, Cavendish slip too far back, Gossy go too early, Greipel take another win.

Things Just Getting Good.

Stage Four - Abbeville to Rouen

Ok, so I didn't watch the stage last night. I had every intention to. I figured that there was no better way to welcome in my 33rd year than sitting up late, bleary eyed, willing my body to do things it doesn't really want to do. Some basic maths - and the TV guide - indicated that the stage would finish around the same time that I was born - 1.27am - and that I'd officially be a little bit older just as Mark Cavendish crossed the finish line.

Incidentally, I probably should've been born a little earlier - perhaps even on the preceding day. But my dad wouldn't let that happen. He kept urging my ma to keep her legs cross, to hold on just that little bit longer. He just didn't want his first son to be born on the 4th of July.

I went to bed around 11. I thought I'd read Franny and Zooey for a little bit, then fall asleep. But I kinda got caught up with the Glass family. There's this bit where Zooey talks about them all being so critical, how they all judge people so harshly, that they are all guilty of scanning the room for unbelievers. I've been guilty of that in the past, and was thinking about how it's impacted throughout my relationships. That's the kind of thing that keeps a guy up at night. I didn't get to sleep til around 4.

When I woke up I reached for my computer and looked up the highlights on YouTube. It didn't look like a great stage - when the most exciting thing that happens is a crash, it's a sure sign that it hasn't been one for the ages. Not even the highlights were particularly thrilling - they showed Cav on the ground without showing how it happened, and they showed Greipel taking the win without the preceding ten minutes of leadout chaos. I figured I hadn't missed much. It was, however, now my birthday. The text messages were rolling in and my mum had called. I didn't have much planned for the day, but KO hit me up for lunch, and that helped fill in the time. Tonight I'll likely miss stage five as well, because Hurley is in town, and he's insistent I party like it's my birthday. I'll let you know how that works out for us.

Don't Forget, I Know Just What You're Like.

Our correspondent from Standford, Cam McKenzie, takes the wheel for another Music Wednesday:




I think I spent a good part of my 30th year on this planet worrying about turning 30 and being "old". The other day I got there and it turns out it isn't so bad. If I was more inclined to reading, I'd have an aphorism readily available. Something about the constancy of life and the arbitrariness of the dates on which we choose to celebrate it. Instead, I'm doing music Wednesday, so I'm going to get nostalgic, misty-eyed and self-indulgent, and throw up songs that bring something back. This could have been a blog entry about past relationships and regrets and all the things I did right and wrong. That would be cloying and adolescent. Let's make it (at least peripherally) about bikes instead. It will still be cloying and adolescent, but fewer people will be mad at me. Here we go… anecdote, song.



I'm ready to make an admission. Not that long after I first started driving to bike races in my own car, I did a season racing handicaps and scratchers with Carnegie. Mitch V, my partner in crime, had a Justin Timberlake obsession. It was thus on the stereo constantly and I came to like it too. This is called the "familiarity-liking effect". Whenever I hear JT now I get flashbacks to being halfway between Narnargoon and Modella, checking which way the wind is going. If I'd been listening to The Bronx back then I probably would have won a lot more.







I went to a bike race recently with a (non-Australian) team that didn't exactly get tactics, or controlled aggression, or bike racing. They watched their diet and their power meters but didn't watch the race. I was in the car with one of the team officials trying to explain what the problem was. In the end I just plugged in my ipod and said… look… if you're not the sort of person who might like this song, you're not going to be much of a crit rider.







When I was 22, I was at Berkeley for a year. I went to an awards night with the cycling team in fancy dress. We almost got the team banned from the next year's party for getting too rowdy and dressing inappropriately. One of the girls on the team had chosen the theme for us: "sluts". I just went with it, but apparently a mesh singlet was not appropriate at a sit down dinner. Towards the end of the evening, the DJ started playing rap and when Regulators came on I was in the zone and dropped several verses. One of my friends exclaimed: "you're an impostor, you must be from California, that's not Australian". It's a beautiful thing to feel like you're a part of something.






When I really empty out in a road race, I sometimes collapse afterwards. It's happened a more than once. The worst I've ever emptied out, I ended up cramping in both legs and rolled past the finish before collapsing in a bush, hiding from my team mates and crying. I wasn't hiding and crying because I was sad at losing. It wasn't pain either, that was over. I was just empty. A couple of hours after that kind of race, I mellow out and think about things… it's meditative, and I find my head is clearer. Mellow music is good for a mellow mind.






I worked a summer at a bike warehouse, fetching things to ship and building bikes. It was blazing hot and boring as hell and slightly claustrophobic. Plus you were on your feet all day. The upside was, I worked with Sean the Man so the music was usually pretty solid. Probably the most maddening day in there was stocktake. I counted more than 1000 helmets that day. During the process, I found an aero helmet that we couldn't put in stock, because it wasn't Australian standards. It had been a spare for a sponsored track rider. It also had a visor that rendered the wearer unidentifiable*. Sean, I need to admit something. I was aero helmet ninja. It was me that jumped out, punched you in the balls, and yelled "aero helmet ninja strikes again". It was also me who crash tackled you into a pile of empty cardboard boxes, but I think you knew that. Stocktake can make a man do crazy things. In the warehouse, we listened to a lot of Public Enemy and a lot of Wu-Tang. I think BB has already posted the entire PE back catalogue, so I'll make a different move and chuck up a song from the third most played album in the warehouse.

*This may not be true.

In 2010, I lived three months in Pasadena, out on the edge of LA, next to the mountains. There was noone around and my research didn't work out. It was kinda boring. But riding up into the mountains was amazing. Spectacular elevation gain. You could climb from 150m to 2000m. I spent a bit of time doing that, listening to Grandaddy sing songs that complain about LA… several of them were clearly written about the terrain through which I was riding. It was spooky.

I'm In A Bad Mood.

Stage Three - Orchies to Boulonge-Sur-Mur

I've been in a bad mood all day, full of fidgety irritation, ineloquent frustration and occasional bursts of anger. I'm blaming the copious amounts of Vitamin D - I have all this bursting energy all of a sudden, but it's creeping through me, as if I've had too much coffee. Some of it dissipates over lunch with Jen Jen, who laughs at my predicaments and listens while I vomit semi-formed sentences all over the restaurant, but by the time the evening rolls around it has returned.

Fortunately Rolly is in a similar mood, though hopefully without the excess consumption of dietary supplements, and he has decided that heading down to DISC to watch some real-life bike racing is the tonic for him. Well, that and a couple of sneaky beers. He makes one of the beers ginger and I'm in.

Down at the track the numbers are good. There's lots of folks in each grade and the racing looks kinda hard. Decent people are sitting in the stands and my mood is lifting. Sometimes, but not always, it's enough just to be around people, to make polite conversation, to enquire about someone else.

Wary of more alone time - not something I'm usually fussed by, but today seems to be different, so I'm being cautious - I drag Rolly and Dave back to mine for the stage. We pick up some Cokes and some snacks from the Seven-Eleven on the way. Boys set for a big night. At the Seven-Eleven there are a bunch of kids hanging out in the parking lot. Just old enough to be able to drive but still too young to figure out where they should go, they stand around the car, grunting insults at each other and leering at anyone walking past. But we're in our thirties; we have already figured out where we should go.

I mention to Dave and Rolly that I'm already starting to regret writing this tour diary, because the entries have already started to take on a numbing similarity. But that's the first week of the tour. The race starts, a break goes away, it gets brought back, there's a (sometimes uphill) sprint. I ring up some people, they come over and we talk shit, the conversation drops because we're getting tired, we get excited by the end of the stage, folks go home. Tonight is no exception. I only wish that Dave and / or Rolly had figured out their victory salutes before they had come over. That's right, making it to the end of the stage without falling asleep, despite work the next day, they should both consider resisting sleep an achievement worthy of public celebration. They should've done a little dance that pays homage to Forrest Gump. It would've ruled.

Cardiac Arrest.

Stage Two - Vise to Tournai

Yesterday was the first real day of school holidays, and as such I had a list of things to do as long as my arm. Blood tests, new jeans, picking up a script at the chemist - the general detritus of everyday life. Only the last deserves any comment - as part of yet another attempt to fix the sickness that has plagued me for almost two years now, my sports medicine doctor prescribed me a course of Vitamin D tablets, the first of which represented approximately 166 times the recommended daily dose. I've been in a slightly better mood ever since.

The stage tonight looks flat and boring. A breakaway will go, Lotto will chase it down in the hope of getting Greipel a win, and the last five minutes will see the dogs of war unleashed all over the road. Before it starts I get talking to Ella online. She has one of DC's books, and I mention that I'm probably going to go into the store in the next day or two. So she swings by and I once again get some water boiling.

We sit and listen to records and exchange scene gossip. She went to school in Newcastle, knows all the punks from up there, and was down in Melbourne when I was living in Montreal. A lot of gaps being filled in tonight. She also knows all of these people I know from the bike world - mostly the mountain bikers - so we pretty much have an endless supply of people to think and talk about. It's a pretty good time, and neither of us are really paying much attention to the flashing colours of Belgium.

With about eighty ks to go the conversation starts to drop. I figure there's about another hour and a half of racing. I don't have what it takes. I offer Ella the Hurley Bed - aka the couch - but she knows Sean, so wisely declines, and heads off home. I stay up for a bit longer, putzing around on the internet, but eventually my body takes charge and I head to bed.

And the next morning, when I wake up, I watch the final kilometres on YouTube. And it's rad - some of the best, craziest yet safest, fastest sprinting I've ever seen. Cav has no leadout but still comes from absolutely nowhere - at least 30 riders back at 1k to go - to take the win out of Greipel's hands in the final metres. That's good racing, an incredible ride, and I kinda wish that I'd stayed up.

Fancy Things Won't Ever Come In Between.

Stage One - Liege to Seraing.

Now that the tour has started proper, I figure I have to pay some attention. So I wander over to The Inner Ring, which has the best run-down of each individual stage, as well as the most insightful cycling commentary I've ever read. Whoever it is who is responsible - some cycling insider, no doubt - has suggested that this stage, though flat for the most part, has a nasty little kick at the end that will rule out the pure sprinters, and make things interesting. It sounds like a stage I should probably watch.

But I'm still wrecked from the Prologue the night before. FJ has gone over to his mum's house to look after the dog, and will be gone all week. I'm pretty sure I won't make it on my own. So I ring up Rolly, who I know will also be feeling a little worse for wear. He swings by on his way home from the laundromat. It's Sunday night, and he has to work the next day, so he reckons he's not going to stay long. When I show him the stage profile, however, his commitment to a relatively early night seems to waver.

The first few hours are pretty boring. We debrief about the evening before, delicately discussing the facts and gossip emanating from the evening. I make us tea and we kick our shoes off, settling in for the evening. There's a breakaway off the front, but it's nothing more than a TV break - no one thinks they're a chance of staying away.

But then, with about sixty ks to go, things start to get a little interesting - a good fifty ks before I thought they would. Trains of riders were sliding up the side of the peloton, trying to take charge of the chase, perhaps even attempting to shell some of the pure sprinters. I do suggest this to Rolly, but then before I can even finish the sentence Andre Greipel has come to the front, doing a mountain of work for (insert this year's product name) - Lotto. I have once again confirmed my status as the worst predictor of cycling tactics in the world. A bunch of teams are worried about the hill to come, and rightly so - when they hit it, the race breaks apart. Folks are getting popped out the back like popcorn. Cancellara hits it, but my favourite Peter Sagan is hot on his wheel. Eventually Eddie Boassen Hagen bridges, but he's spent from the effort, and when Sagan goes he can't follow.

Across the line the precocious kid does some weird chicken wing dance. I'm into it. He's young, he's destroying all comers, and he's brash as all hell.

Rolly calls it a night. He regrets nothing, but on posts a lot of instagram pictures of empty coffee cups the next day.

When There's No One Around.

Prologue.

I'm writing this with the double edged sword of time passed - sure, hindsight helps, but my memory ain't so great. FJ and I had been riding earlier in the day, and apparently this fatigue sickness isn't abating as quickly as I'd like it to. In short, I was wrecked.

At around 6pm we headed down to Docklands to watch Essendon play Footscray. It wasn't a great car ride. FJ sung along to the stereo and I stared into the road ahead. When the fatigue strikes I'm pretty much useless to anyone - I can't talk, I can't move so great, I can barely think. There was only one thing for it. Artificial stimulation.

Once we'd pulled into the parking lot, bought tickets and located our seats, we set about hitting up the snack bar. The "Healthy Foods" section was disturbingly empty, but it serves themselves right for not having any vegan options. We settled on some dubiously vegan chips and a couple of Cokes. It didn't solve the problem, but it was close enough - no regrets. I also picked up the Footy Record, and let FJ do the wordsearch while we waited for the game to start.

When the opening siren went it was obvious that the game was going to be a one sided affair. There were some pretty smooth skills on display, but only by the Bombers. It was good watching from an aesthetic point of view, but there wasn't a whole lot of passion involved. We kicked back and relaxed, made some vague comments about the game, tried desperately to stay warm and stretched out. The Footscray fans in front of us left at half time, so we were able to kick our feet on the seats, sprawl out a little. Even the security guards didn't seem to care.

Eventually the final siren sounded and we found our way out of the stadium. Rolly had organized a party at Duggan's house, in part to celebrate the beginning of the tour, but mostly to celebrate his birthday. After we drove around West Melbourne for a while, trying to find Duggan's place, we stormed up some stairs and burst into the house, to be greeted by a ten foot screen and box upon box of beers, both ginger and otherwise.

The only thing missing was Rolly. Apparently he had started at The Worker's Club - a bar I swore off when it stopped being The Rob Roy - and was having a little trouble leaving. He missed the first couple of riders, but really, the prologue was a 6.4 kilometre time trial - pretty much nothing interesting was ever going to happen until the last hour or so - and even that was a generous estimation.

When he eventually rolled in - no pun intended - he had a whole bunch of rad blokes with him. The noise in the apartment skyrocketed. Gene promptly snuggled up into Duggan's swag and fell asleep. Benzy was drinking some ridiculous Vodka Cruiser flavour and gave it a surprisingly positive review. Sime and FJ yelled to each other across the room. Rolly danced in front of the screen. I was still totally wrecked, and no amount of ginger beer could recuperate me, so I pretty much just kicked back and enjoyed the lolz.

In front of us - in pretty close to life size - cyclists were tearing themselves inside out. Sylvan Chavanel, with his strangely aerodynamic face, set a hot time early, but was destined to be usurped as the big guns stepped up. First Wiggins - the former track pursuiter, no stranger to turning himself inside out over comparatively short distances - took over the hot seat, then Cancellara made it his own by a massive seven seconds. The rowdiness in Duggan's living room increased significantly - except in Gene's case, because he was still asleep.

As last year's winner, Cadel was last out of the gates. He'd already talked down his chances, and he had a point - the course was far too short for him. By the time he'd finished he was eleven seconds or so down on Wiggins, but three weeks of cycling is a very long time, and he didn't seem too concerned. Nor did any of the rest of us. We piled out the door and into the street. I went looking in my bag for something and found a handful of mandarins. Before I knew it folks were pelting them at each other in the cold, cold night. Man, getting hit by one would've stung.