jim60lejog: The Yellow Jersey

The Yellow Jersey

Guest Contributor: James Strother (jnr)

So Dad beat me to it but I couldn't resist a final round-up of the last stage of Dad's tour...

After much deliberation and his typically pragmatic desire to get the job done, Dad passed up the offer of a performance-enhancing full English to set off bright and early from the Rose in Vale at 8am for the final 39 miles of a trip that has seen him ride 984 miles, savour many a dram (week 1) and pint (week 2) and somewhat suspiciously survive without a single reported puncture. The weather – in bleak contrast to the party’s spirits Saturday night – was miserable and damp but while the sun was beaming from London to Manchester, the only bright yellow blob lighting up the South West was Dad’s yellow jersey birthday present as he careered through the last of the English and Cornish countryside.

The previous evening saw thirteen of us for dinner at the hotel with plenty of wine but none of the raucousness of Mum and Dad and friends’ famed New Year’s parties, despite a certain Mr Cairns persuading the chaps to head to the local beforehand as only he could. Some lovely speeches and memories rounded off the evening.

L’early départ meant that by 10am he was halfway, the weather was rising and there wasn’t a word of the much maligned toothache. In fact, the only injury being talked about was the previous evening's crab-inflicted gash to Dave’s hand. Who knew crabs were at their most dangerous, served on a beautifully presented dinner plate? Some nifty plaster work brought a new meaning to the term dressed crab.

No human feat would be complete without a bit of drama and a race against the clock and so as the ‘caravan’ arrived at Land’s End, the worry was whether Dad would hit the 12:30 target arrival time, in order for flights to be caught and traffic to be missed. En route, the support vehicles passed Dad at various points around Penzance which appeared to be going for St Albans’ record of most pubs per capita, only with supermarkets. 12:30 looked in doubt; the course was relentlessly hilly, with narrow Cornish roads accompanied by high hedges; and over 950 miles’ worth of lactic acid only a pedal away. ‘Encouraging’ texts were sent to the Garmin but still an anxious wait looked likely.

But by noon, Garmin was giving us hope. The green dot on the screen and the yellow blob in the lanes were tearing along at a rate of knots Dad could only dream of achieving on the water…. In the end, there was no need to worry, and over the crest of the hill at approximately ten past 12, Dad raced into view to literal shrieks from the welcoming party. The yellow jersey is usually a procession on the final stage but this was real cycling, as Dad flew down the final straight faster than the champagne into plastic flutes, he arced to a stop in a moment of exhaustion and achievement…

Pictures by the famous sign followed, as did more champagne and hugs from Mum and Granny. While the Land’s End weather did its best impression of John O’Groats, the photos and subsequent pasties attested that after 984 miles, 16 days and 90 hours of riding, Dad had succeeded where the Romans failed, in successfully navigating from one end of the country to t’other.