So with it all basically done we had to head for Paris to finish it all off. We spent the last two days of the transition stages
saying goodbye to the tour and our favorite members of the presesion. For Stage 17 we got to the Feed Station just in time
to see the bikes, and for Stage 18 we slept the night on the side of the road just after start town. Both were good days and
allowed us to say our goodbyes in comfort and style.
We bagged stage 19 in order to spend a little extra time in Paris. We woke up early in one of the most exciting cities on
the planet and immediatly went looking for a pub in order to watch the days stage. The search was quite difficult, we
searched up and down, there was this one massive street which got us excited but all we could find when we got their was
some Eygptian phallus and a bunch of fountains, we walked all the way up this rediculous street and decided to try to get
up above street level, thankfully the surrender monkeys provided us with a dirty great big Arch that we could climb in order
to try and find a pub. Once we got up above the people on the street we quickly managed to locate a decent looking pub
and got off the streets.
Unfortunatly old Cadel couldn't do the job in the Time Trial stage and the dirty Texans we were with were far to upbeat
about old Levi Liephiemer's performance for us to stomach. We decided to leave our nice little pub and go in search of
answers again, we thought we had stumbled upon the ultimate answer when we found two pyramids, one big one
suspended from the roof pointing down towards a littler one on the floor, but le Comte pointed out that that idea had all
ready been taken so we had to continue our search.
The next day we were in a much better position as we had all reay found a pub, so without wasting much time at all
walking around the streets of old snore town we went to the pub and got to business. We sat in the pub for a good couple
of hours before we finally had to leave our safe little cocoon and venture out onto the streets. The best thing about being an
English speaking person in Paris is that the septics have done such a good job of ruining their own reputation that you can
behave completely inappropriatly and not really worry about the ramifications. There was a solid wall of people lining the
race route when we arrived but we quickly managed to shove our way into a semi decent position about half way up the
front straight of the Champs Elysee. We solved the booze problem when le drame managed to smooth talk the little babe
in Mac Dee's to sell us a couple of beers (sucks to be Quick Burger).
Anyways, as soon as the cyclists had been past us for the last time we scurried back to our pub and watched the finish on
TV, after a few more hours and a couple of hands of 2,3,10 we headed back to the bus for the end of of the trip.
Flashback: its a Saturday in Paris, a few kilometres down the road is a medieval palace packed to the gunnels with
masterpieces, across the river stands the Eiffel Tower, one of the worlds most recognisable objects. Four Aussie's are in
Paris for the first time, are they at any of the countless sites that Paris has to offer? No, they are playing cards in an
English Pub just off the Chumps Elysee, watching the action (that they could be watching live) unfold on television. History
is beckoning as the first aussie to ever threaten the GC of the Tour De France rides to his destiny and the Aussie's have
chosen the sport on TV over a possibly once in a life time chance to see Paris.
No idea on the question, but if our answer was wrong I wouldn't want to be right.
Early the next morning we packed up the bus, the lads packed their bags and I dropped them at the airport. The Tour de Fear was over.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Slowest Mans Pace.
Pro Cycling is one of the most tactical games there is, as is touring around after a grand tour for three weeks. There are a number of stages that potential tour champions go through as the strongest is slowly discovered from the pack. Basically you could devide it into, 1) Strong no problems, 2) Slightly cracking but still going to make it to the end, 3) Got the wobbles, cracks all over, but still going to make it through to the end, 4) Brocken, can't go on- Stuart Ogrady, and lastly 5) Up to his eyeballs in it dirty Khazack cheating C word my mother taught me never to say.
Well over the course of two and a half weeks of hard touring we have seen a number of changes in our tourists, many cracks have appeared but overall we have been dancing between conditions 1 through 3, if someone has had an off day they have mostly managed to come back the next with a strong showing.
Le Drama was the first to show cracks, famously passing out face first in the Savoy after the opening Prolouge. He also cracked majorly on the Mountain of Maddness after a full blown attack of Alcohol feuled Fear and Loathing. Le Comte has also had his ups and down, originally he was struggling with the diet (kid hates the carbs for breakfast) and then in Genevea he was almost overcome by an incredible attack of non alcohol related F&L - the kid near caught a plane home in disgust on the third day in Geneva - but he fought on and looks like he will make it all the way to Paris in some sembalance of form.
The one who had been the strongest was Le Glint - it's all in the name, when the light is in his eyes he is near unstoppable, unfortunatly after the Mountains of Madness the Pilot light filckered briefly and then went out. A mixture of three weeks hard boozing and crazy German Dave's cooking drove the Glint into the sickness on the transition night between the mountains and Barcalona - and anyone who has been near the glint whilst he is ill knows that getting up and about isn't his idea of a cup of tea - to his credit he fought on bravely the next day, but his fellow tourists where exposed to a full blown dose of Jerk Kloss, not the funnest companion when in a strange city giving the dogs a real work out. He briefly rallied that evening after a couple hours of sleep, but the next day on the road to Pamplona he spent his time enclosed in the Fortress of Solitude (the back bed in the bus) trying to sweat his fever out of himself.
Unfortunatly in the race against time he failed, and as Le Count and I started to make plans for our drive from Pamplona to the first HC Climb on todays (Wednesday the 25ths) stage he played his hand and had to withdraw, he was Stage 4 - Finito. In the Tour de France when a rider withdraws he pulls over to the side of the road, takes his number off, gives his bike back to the team, and hitches his way home. But on the Tour De Fear we are a nicer crew with a Slowest Man's Pace policy, so had to keep the old dog with us.
In an effort to nurse him out of his sickness we took the day off the tour and have come to a campsite about 100 km's from Toulose so that he could recover. Or that was the idea, it took us a lot longer to find a campsite then originally planned (in the end we would have been better on the side of the mountain for the day, then the quick run down to Biaritz, but as we say on Le Tour De Fear - C'est La Vie) we tried two campsites last night, but ended up in a truck stop, then tried one this morning near Pau - nothing over two metres could fit in. So we came up with an alternate site about 50 kilometres away, which turned out to be a Naturist campsite, and as it turns out Le Comte and Le Glint are both little girls who weren't up to a night in their nothings (although even I was a little confronted by the odl chap who gave us a wave as we drove into the site) so we had to try to find another campsite.
Luckily Alan Rogers came to the rescue and found one not to far from tomorrow's stage. We have spent the afternoon recuperating, cleaning our clothes (why you need to take clean clothes home in your suit case I will never understand- but we have done it) and basically firing ourselves up for a deamon run home. There are two flat stages left, then the time trial/gonzo run up to paris, and finally the big day on the Champs Elysee on Sunday before the lads go home to the rest of their lives. Who will emerge strongest at the end out of the two remaining contenders? Well that is the final question that needs to be answered!
Well over the course of two and a half weeks of hard touring we have seen a number of changes in our tourists, many cracks have appeared but overall we have been dancing between conditions 1 through 3, if someone has had an off day they have mostly managed to come back the next with a strong showing.
Le Drama was the first to show cracks, famously passing out face first in the Savoy after the opening Prolouge. He also cracked majorly on the Mountain of Maddness after a full blown attack of Alcohol feuled Fear and Loathing. Le Comte has also had his ups and down, originally he was struggling with the diet (kid hates the carbs for breakfast) and then in Genevea he was almost overcome by an incredible attack of non alcohol related F&L - the kid near caught a plane home in disgust on the third day in Geneva - but he fought on and looks like he will make it all the way to Paris in some sembalance of form.
The one who had been the strongest was Le Glint - it's all in the name, when the light is in his eyes he is near unstoppable, unfortunatly after the Mountains of Madness the Pilot light filckered briefly and then went out. A mixture of three weeks hard boozing and crazy German Dave's cooking drove the Glint into the sickness on the transition night between the mountains and Barcalona - and anyone who has been near the glint whilst he is ill knows that getting up and about isn't his idea of a cup of tea - to his credit he fought on bravely the next day, but his fellow tourists where exposed to a full blown dose of Jerk Kloss, not the funnest companion when in a strange city giving the dogs a real work out. He briefly rallied that evening after a couple hours of sleep, but the next day on the road to Pamplona he spent his time enclosed in the Fortress of Solitude (the back bed in the bus) trying to sweat his fever out of himself.
Unfortunatly in the race against time he failed, and as Le Count and I started to make plans for our drive from Pamplona to the first HC Climb on todays (Wednesday the 25ths) stage he played his hand and had to withdraw, he was Stage 4 - Finito. In the Tour de France when a rider withdraws he pulls over to the side of the road, takes his number off, gives his bike back to the team, and hitches his way home. But on the Tour De Fear we are a nicer crew with a Slowest Man's Pace policy, so had to keep the old dog with us.
In an effort to nurse him out of his sickness we took the day off the tour and have come to a campsite about 100 km's from Toulose so that he could recover. Or that was the idea, it took us a lot longer to find a campsite then originally planned (in the end we would have been better on the side of the mountain for the day, then the quick run down to Biaritz, but as we say on Le Tour De Fear - C'est La Vie) we tried two campsites last night, but ended up in a truck stop, then tried one this morning near Pau - nothing over two metres could fit in. So we came up with an alternate site about 50 kilometres away, which turned out to be a Naturist campsite, and as it turns out Le Comte and Le Glint are both little girls who weren't up to a night in their nothings (although even I was a little confronted by the odl chap who gave us a wave as we drove into the site) so we had to try to find another campsite.
Luckily Alan Rogers came to the rescue and found one not to far from tomorrow's stage. We have spent the afternoon recuperating, cleaning our clothes (why you need to take clean clothes home in your suit case I will never understand- but we have done it) and basically firing ourselves up for a deamon run home. There are two flat stages left, then the time trial/gonzo run up to paris, and finally the big day on the Champs Elysee on Sunday before the lads go home to the rest of their lives. Who will emerge strongest at the end out of the two remaining contenders? Well that is the final question that needs to be answered!
Our Spanish Fling
So after 50 mad packed hours on the side of the mountain we decided (or was it The Count who decided?) that we should head into Spain, missing the next stage and the rest day in order to tick another country box in our passports, that was basically all we got out of it.
We drove down to the Northen capital of Barcelona, home of the 92 olympics expecting, I'm not sure, but Barcelona was not really what we were expecting. I have always had an idea of Spain being a little like the wild west of the Westerns of old, surley the Mexican's in those movies where but shadow's of their ancestors? But no, Barcelona was remarkable in its amazing similiarity to near any other European city we have visited. Sure the buildings where nice, but really if I can get it in London or Paris or Praha why am I coming to Spain???? There were a few remarkable things we saw, despite our unimpressed responses, the Gaudi buildings where unique, what he was taking will be a mistery for ages to come. Also the space, Barcelona (cepting for the old part of town) is unique amongst it European sister cities in terms of space. Every street, not just one or two major roads has wide open sidewalks and multiple lanes, it was really quite remarkable.
Other then that the Roman ruins weren't that unique, nor was the harbour (remember we spent last week in the Cote D'Azure), it could have been a mixture of two weeks non stop on the road and the loathing we have begun to feel for each other (when their is no alcolhol being served we are remarkably quite) but Barcelona just wasn't that exciting. If Bris Vegas is a ten, and Monaco and Bath were 9's, and Praha at Christmas time was a 6.5 then I would probably give Barcelona a 4.5 (London being the average with 5).
After a hard days touristing we returned to our campsite (after le Luire got us lost on the municipal train system) we were rewarded for our hard days work with a great afternoon of sun, in which we sat by the pool, eyed off hard bodies (there were lots) and read the Harry Potter's we had managed to find in the tourist section of town - we ended up getting very boozey on the Estralla's and San Miguels and ended up have a local delicacy Pampleas (a seafood delicacy) for dinner - all in all the day ended well.
The next day the first cracks (more on this later) appeared in the Glint - he was sick to the point of spending the night asleep in the smallest room in the Messy Days, we had to beat our way across country to Pamplona for some more touristing, so he had an uncofortable day riding in the back of the whale whislt Le Comte and I beat our path across the country. It was a solid piece of driving, we really got to see a lot of Spanish countryside which was amazing, basically a massive desert, but still inhabited, and every now and then a huge mountain range would rise up - worth putting in the long stints behind the wheel.
Anyways, we eventaully arrived at Pamplona, which was a very impressive tourist trap. We saw the really impressive old Citadel- which according to its own publicity is one of the finest examples of Medieval Millitary Architecture left in the world - and to my slightly trained eye (three semesters of History major at uni...) it was. We also saw the old town and where the bull run goes to - all in all Pamp's (as you call it when you visit it) gets the thumbs up as a tourist option. Overall Spain was a mixed bag, but considering the stage we missed was tainted by a certain 'up to his eyeballs in it dirty Khazack cheating C-bag' and the next day was a rest day it was probably our best option.
We drove down to the Northen capital of Barcelona, home of the 92 olympics expecting, I'm not sure, but Barcelona was not really what we were expecting. I have always had an idea of Spain being a little like the wild west of the Westerns of old, surley the Mexican's in those movies where but shadow's of their ancestors? But no, Barcelona was remarkable in its amazing similiarity to near any other European city we have visited. Sure the buildings where nice, but really if I can get it in London or Paris or Praha why am I coming to Spain???? There were a few remarkable things we saw, despite our unimpressed responses, the Gaudi buildings where unique, what he was taking will be a mistery for ages to come. Also the space, Barcelona (cepting for the old part of town) is unique amongst it European sister cities in terms of space. Every street, not just one or two major roads has wide open sidewalks and multiple lanes, it was really quite remarkable.
Other then that the Roman ruins weren't that unique, nor was the harbour (remember we spent last week in the Cote D'Azure), it could have been a mixture of two weeks non stop on the road and the loathing we have begun to feel for each other (when their is no alcolhol being served we are remarkably quite) but Barcelona just wasn't that exciting. If Bris Vegas is a ten, and Monaco and Bath were 9's, and Praha at Christmas time was a 6.5 then I would probably give Barcelona a 4.5 (London being the average with 5).
After a hard days touristing we returned to our campsite (after le Luire got us lost on the municipal train system) we were rewarded for our hard days work with a great afternoon of sun, in which we sat by the pool, eyed off hard bodies (there were lots) and read the Harry Potter's we had managed to find in the tourist section of town - we ended up getting very boozey on the Estralla's and San Miguels and ended up have a local delicacy Pampleas (a seafood delicacy) for dinner - all in all the day ended well.
The next day the first cracks (more on this later) appeared in the Glint - he was sick to the point of spending the night asleep in the smallest room in the Messy Days, we had to beat our way across country to Pamplona for some more touristing, so he had an uncofortable day riding in the back of the whale whislt Le Comte and I beat our path across the country. It was a solid piece of driving, we really got to see a lot of Spanish countryside which was amazing, basically a massive desert, but still inhabited, and every now and then a huge mountain range would rise up - worth putting in the long stints behind the wheel.
Anyways, we eventaully arrived at Pamplona, which was a very impressive tourist trap. We saw the really impressive old Citadel- which according to its own publicity is one of the finest examples of Medieval Millitary Architecture left in the world - and to my slightly trained eye (three semesters of History major at uni...) it was. We also saw the old town and where the bull run goes to - all in all Pamp's (as you call it when you visit it) gets the thumbs up as a tourist option. Overall Spain was a mixed bag, but considering the stage we missed was tainted by a certain 'up to his eyeballs in it dirty Khazack cheating C-bag' and the next day was a rest day it was probably our best option.
Deliverence
If there were any dueling banjo's we could have made a movie out of it, oh wait, we did (see the YouTube post- still to come) 50 hours ago three boys drove up towards the Plateau De Beille, now three men are speeding towards Barcelona.
It started innocently enough, Thursday we caught up with le Chez then headed for Montpellier. Along the way Kid dynamite decided we should change plans on the fly and head to the Pont De Garde, an ancient Roman Aquaduct. It sounded like a reasonable plan, but le glint and I should have known better then to follow through on a Count plan. We arrived at the Pont De Garde to find masses of traffic for the Miss Kitten/DJ Hell conccert that was also on at the Pont De Garde that night. Our planned campsite had the Complet sign out - that means it was full. All of a sudden it was 9 PM and we were lost. Thankfully it is at such time that leaders emerge, and your very own Drama quickly took charge of the situation finding an alternate campsite and negoiating entry for our whale for the night.
So the next morning we got up nice and early and went to the Pont De Garde- 2000 years old and still as solid as the day it was built- quite impressive, the only downer was as I came off the ancient relic and noticed someone had spray painted "Le Tour de Fear 2007" on the timeless stones. We boarded Messy and headed for the start in Montpellier, it was good to get back into the swing of the Tour, the energy in the start town as we counted down to the depart is always incredible, as is the laugh we all have after the cyclists have left for the day on their 250KM journey, and we let the secret out of the bag- cars have been invented.
So anyways the cyclists left and so did we, off to the Plateau De Beille for the 50 hour count down to the Tour. We kicked a couple of goals along the way, including working out how to get a refilled gas bottle, and showing le Count his first Carefours (a very impressive retail chain). Finally at around 8 pm we reached the base of the mighty Beille, and started our 16 kilometre ascent of the mountain. After a few kilo's we realised that despite arriving 50 hours before the bikes were scheduled we were in fact late, as their were all ready a large number of people crammed onto the side of the hill, or so we thought. We quickly got the best site (and the first) we saw and settled in to play Cabin Fever, a 50 hour marathon living in each others pockets.
The first night was fairly standard, we had come so far by the time we got their that we just had a few brews and fell asleep, energized by the excitement of what lay ahead. (We just crossed the border into Espaniol). Bright and early the next morning we awoke to start the countdown, at that point their was still around 31 hours left. Le Comte et Le Drame passed a couple of hours with a Burke and Wills style ascent of the Mountain, whilst Le Leuire guarded the bus. The walk was incredible, we went for 55 minutes up, only manged to walk 3.5 kilometres, but went up close to 400 metres, average gradient was around 9 percent. The incredible thing was two hairpins after leaving the comfort of the Messy Days behind we entered a cloud which we never got out of, so our scenic walk was pretty much just slogging up a hill with vision at less then 30 metres in any direction, still it was good exercise.
We returned to the bus in the rain and the cabin fever really hit, as we were stuck inside for the next 3 hours, it hailed at one point as the mountain showed it mighty power with a big storm. We forged ahead in the 2,3,10 competition with Le Comte opening a very strong lead, at the 50 game mark he leads 23 to 19 to 8, I will let you work out who only had 8 wins on the board (kloss). Not much really happened all afternoon, we had brief naps and then watched the time trial stage in Albi on Messy Days Vision, the mighty Cadence Cadel Evans rode himself right into the GC contention witha solid effort. Finally we decided ti was time to hit the booze and the time started to go much faster, The Gendarmes turned up and told us to turn the bus around, which ended up being a good idea (we were now nose down the mountain, drove straight off this evening) and then the people began to arrive. We had thought the mountain was packed when we arrived, but as the people who had been at Albi began arriving our little minds were blown. Litterarly 1000 campervans drove past in little over an hour, ever possible place on the mountain around us was filled with other Tour freaks vying for the best spot to watch the cyclists pass the next day. One drink quickly became a lot of drinks, so the next bit gets a little hazy, we were boozing on the dreaded Vodka so Le Drame can't be expected to have remembered too much of what was happening, but we made some British friends and got very drunk - the brits where not girls. Not much later we ran into Deleted Scences Deleted Scences Deleted Scences.
Bright and early I awoke with a slight swagger in my stride, remembering how smart I had been in getting to bed early. My swagger slowly left as the lads brought me up to speed with the full blown alcohol fuelled attack of the Fear and Loathing we had suffered - an important answer had been found, Drama still cant drink Vodka! After a few hours our British friends packed up their tent and got on their bikes for the ascent to the top. Their departure left a conspicous tent (read car) sized space next to our bus- our hopes rose that a car full of spanish strippers off for a weekend on the mountain would turn up, but these dreams where quickly quashed when a single bloke in a red citroen asked if he could park there - grudginly we said yes.
It turned out to be the best move we have ever pulled off, he was German Dave, and not only did he have a TV, and Satelite dish, he had the generator that would provide the power needed to watch said TV. He also spoke perfect French, English, and Spanish and fed us full of Pastis - a 45% strong alcholic beverage that the Frenchies are a little partial too. The last couple of before the bikes arrived then flew past as we got drunk, swapped stories, and watched the Formula One race at the Nurburg ring - which he proudly pronounced was 20 KM's from his house. We found another answer, yes Men of any race/religion/creed or sexual orientation can become friends over the course of an afternoon as long as they share the same general love affair of all things sport (Dave also scored points when we found out he had left his missus at the Med for the weekend so he could do the Tour in piece).
After the motor race ended, and our new Spanish friends (who were very happy after Alonso stole the GP from Massa) left the bikes where upon us. As they past we were over the moon that Cadence had managed to stay with the leaders, unfortunatly he couldn't stay with them the whole way but he still did a very solid job, third is a lot better then those in positions 4 through 181 could hope for. Finally all the bikes had past and our 50 hour marathon on the side of the mountain was done. Ruefelly we waved good by to German Dave and headed off for the next part of the journey, Barcelona and Pamplona in 36 hours.
It started innocently enough, Thursday we caught up with le Chez then headed for Montpellier. Along the way Kid dynamite decided we should change plans on the fly and head to the Pont De Garde, an ancient Roman Aquaduct. It sounded like a reasonable plan, but le glint and I should have known better then to follow through on a Count plan. We arrived at the Pont De Garde to find masses of traffic for the Miss Kitten/DJ Hell conccert that was also on at the Pont De Garde that night. Our planned campsite had the Complet sign out - that means it was full. All of a sudden it was 9 PM and we were lost. Thankfully it is at such time that leaders emerge, and your very own Drama quickly took charge of the situation finding an alternate campsite and negoiating entry for our whale for the night.
So the next morning we got up nice and early and went to the Pont De Garde- 2000 years old and still as solid as the day it was built- quite impressive, the only downer was as I came off the ancient relic and noticed someone had spray painted "Le Tour de Fear 2007" on the timeless stones. We boarded Messy and headed for the start in Montpellier, it was good to get back into the swing of the Tour, the energy in the start town as we counted down to the depart is always incredible, as is the laugh we all have after the cyclists have left for the day on their 250KM journey, and we let the secret out of the bag- cars have been invented.
So anyways the cyclists left and so did we, off to the Plateau De Beille for the 50 hour count down to the Tour. We kicked a couple of goals along the way, including working out how to get a refilled gas bottle, and showing le Count his first Carefours (a very impressive retail chain). Finally at around 8 pm we reached the base of the mighty Beille, and started our 16 kilometre ascent of the mountain. After a few kilo's we realised that despite arriving 50 hours before the bikes were scheduled we were in fact late, as their were all ready a large number of people crammed onto the side of the hill, or so we thought. We quickly got the best site (and the first) we saw and settled in to play Cabin Fever, a 50 hour marathon living in each others pockets.
The first night was fairly standard, we had come so far by the time we got their that we just had a few brews and fell asleep, energized by the excitement of what lay ahead. (We just crossed the border into Espaniol). Bright and early the next morning we awoke to start the countdown, at that point their was still around 31 hours left. Le Comte et Le Drame passed a couple of hours with a Burke and Wills style ascent of the Mountain, whilst Le Leuire guarded the bus. The walk was incredible, we went for 55 minutes up, only manged to walk 3.5 kilometres, but went up close to 400 metres, average gradient was around 9 percent. The incredible thing was two hairpins after leaving the comfort of the Messy Days behind we entered a cloud which we never got out of, so our scenic walk was pretty much just slogging up a hill with vision at less then 30 metres in any direction, still it was good exercise.
We returned to the bus in the rain and the cabin fever really hit, as we were stuck inside for the next 3 hours, it hailed at one point as the mountain showed it mighty power with a big storm. We forged ahead in the 2,3,10 competition with Le Comte opening a very strong lead, at the 50 game mark he leads 23 to 19 to 8, I will let you work out who only had 8 wins on the board (kloss). Not much really happened all afternoon, we had brief naps and then watched the time trial stage in Albi on Messy Days Vision, the mighty Cadence Cadel Evans rode himself right into the GC contention witha solid effort. Finally we decided ti was time to hit the booze and the time started to go much faster, The Gendarmes turned up and told us to turn the bus around, which ended up being a good idea (we were now nose down the mountain, drove straight off this evening) and then the people began to arrive. We had thought the mountain was packed when we arrived, but as the people who had been at Albi began arriving our little minds were blown. Litterarly 1000 campervans drove past in little over an hour, ever possible place on the mountain around us was filled with other Tour freaks vying for the best spot to watch the cyclists pass the next day. One drink quickly became a lot of drinks, so the next bit gets a little hazy, we were boozing on the dreaded Vodka so Le Drame can't be expected to have remembered too much of what was happening, but we made some British friends and got very drunk - the brits where not girls. Not much later we ran into Deleted Scences Deleted Scences Deleted Scences.
Bright and early I awoke with a slight swagger in my stride, remembering how smart I had been in getting to bed early. My swagger slowly left as the lads brought me up to speed with the full blown alcohol fuelled attack of the Fear and Loathing we had suffered - an important answer had been found, Drama still cant drink Vodka! After a few hours our British friends packed up their tent and got on their bikes for the ascent to the top. Their departure left a conspicous tent (read car) sized space next to our bus- our hopes rose that a car full of spanish strippers off for a weekend on the mountain would turn up, but these dreams where quickly quashed when a single bloke in a red citroen asked if he could park there - grudginly we said yes.
It turned out to be the best move we have ever pulled off, he was German Dave, and not only did he have a TV, and Satelite dish, he had the generator that would provide the power needed to watch said TV. He also spoke perfect French, English, and Spanish and fed us full of Pastis - a 45% strong alcholic beverage that the Frenchies are a little partial too. The last couple of before the bikes arrived then flew past as we got drunk, swapped stories, and watched the Formula One race at the Nurburg ring - which he proudly pronounced was 20 KM's from his house. We found another answer, yes Men of any race/religion/creed or sexual orientation can become friends over the course of an afternoon as long as they share the same general love affair of all things sport (Dave also scored points when we found out he had left his missus at the Med for the weekend so he could do the Tour in piece).
After the motor race ended, and our new Spanish friends (who were very happy after Alonso stole the GP from Massa) left the bikes where upon us. As they past we were over the moon that Cadence had managed to stay with the leaders, unfortunatly he couldn't stay with them the whole way but he still did a very solid job, third is a lot better then those in positions 4 through 181 could hope for. Finally all the bikes had past and our 50 hour marathon on the side of the mountain was done. Ruefelly we waved good by to German Dave and headed off for the next part of the journey, Barcelona and Pamplona in 36 hours.
Friday, July 20, 2007
Cote De Azure - City of Dreams
So we left Geneva around 5 pm on the tuesday and using the long hours of sunlite in the South of France we high tailed it for the Cote De Azure, more specifically Antibes and a visit from Le Chez. We managed about 500 kilometres that night before pulling over to a side of the road truck stop, finishing the last 100 kilometres off first thing the next morning. We found an excellent campsite just outside of Antibes, set up, then headed for the train to Monaco.
Monaco is fast becoming a favorite town of the Lovell connection on this trip, the atmosphere during Grand Prix weekend was amazing, and we can now report that the city still has the kind of high energy atmosphere even when just visiting on a weekday during the summer. We managed to tick a few extra boxes then we did at GP time, including the Palace, the Cathredral, the Jaque Cristou Institute, the Beau Rivarge (the corner not the hotel) and finally ended up back at the Cafe de Paris, our traditional pre Monte Carlo Casino watering hole. We were hot and sweaty after a big days touristing so a couple of the local brews (cleverly named Monaco beer) slipped down easily. We slowly gained the courage to go back to the site of one of our greatest triumphs and attempt to take the Black Jack tables once again. Unfortunatly, the Casino saw us coming this time and sent out their sharpest dealer for the battle. He won easily, for tax (and Meg killing Dav) reasons I can't tell you how much we lost, but we are almost back to even with the Casino Monte Carlo after this visit. Beaten, but not finished we got back on the train for Antibes.
The only thing that could help us come back from our Casino defeat was a big night at the disco's, so we scrubbed up and headed for Siesta, a bar/resturant/casino/discotheque just down the road from our campsite. It was excellent, first thier were two babes belting out show tunes while we ate, then their were some fire works, and then their was a lot of alchol - good times had by all.
The next day we got up to find a message from Le Chez on the Jimmy Jam - he was back in town, so we backed up camp, had a quick dip in the Med (saw more girls who had forgotten their tops while dressing that morning) and went to the Antibes harbour to check out the Seafirma, Jason's house- it was moderatly impressive. Anyways, after a quick catch up with the big fella we were back on the road for Montpellier, and todays bicycle race - that's right we did come voer here to see the Tour de France. We're now about 30 Kilometres out of Montpellier, were we're going to see the start of stage and get some much needed supplies for the Messy Days. After that we head for the Plateau De Belle and 50 hours sitting on the side of the road waiting for the bikes to come, it should be messy but if I'm expecting we will find a number of answers up their.
A final note, we will need sms updates of the score in the big came tomorrow morning.
Monaco is fast becoming a favorite town of the Lovell connection on this trip, the atmosphere during Grand Prix weekend was amazing, and we can now report that the city still has the kind of high energy atmosphere even when just visiting on a weekday during the summer. We managed to tick a few extra boxes then we did at GP time, including the Palace, the Cathredral, the Jaque Cristou Institute, the Beau Rivarge (the corner not the hotel) and finally ended up back at the Cafe de Paris, our traditional pre Monte Carlo Casino watering hole. We were hot and sweaty after a big days touristing so a couple of the local brews (cleverly named Monaco beer) slipped down easily. We slowly gained the courage to go back to the site of one of our greatest triumphs and attempt to take the Black Jack tables once again. Unfortunatly, the Casino saw us coming this time and sent out their sharpest dealer for the battle. He won easily, for tax (and Meg killing Dav) reasons I can't tell you how much we lost, but we are almost back to even with the Casino Monte Carlo after this visit. Beaten, but not finished we got back on the train for Antibes.
The only thing that could help us come back from our Casino defeat was a big night at the disco's, so we scrubbed up and headed for Siesta, a bar/resturant/casino/discotheque just down the road from our campsite. It was excellent, first thier were two babes belting out show tunes while we ate, then their were some fire works, and then their was a lot of alchol - good times had by all.
The next day we got up to find a message from Le Chez on the Jimmy Jam - he was back in town, so we backed up camp, had a quick dip in the Med (saw more girls who had forgotten their tops while dressing that morning) and went to the Antibes harbour to check out the Seafirma, Jason's house- it was moderatly impressive. Anyways, after a quick catch up with the big fella we were back on the road for Montpellier, and todays bicycle race - that's right we did come voer here to see the Tour de France. We're now about 30 Kilometres out of Montpellier, were we're going to see the start of stage and get some much needed supplies for the Messy Days. After that we head for the Plateau De Belle and 50 hours sitting on the side of the road waiting for the bikes to come, it should be messy but if I'm expecting we will find a number of answers up their.
A final note, we will need sms updates of the score in the big came tomorrow morning.
Geneva- City of Dreams
So on the advice of old le comte we decided to ditch the fantasticness of the Tour going through the Alps in order to spend a day in the Swiss town of Geneva.
At first it seemed as if the rookie had pulled off a master stroke, Geneva was amazing at first glance. I don't think anyone expected it, but it was actually a resort town, built onto the side of a massive mountain lake Genevians love their sun, most activities in the town are focussed on the massive parks, waterslide parks, and marina's surrounding the lake. Or of course the more well to do can just simply get on their boats for the day. We got in nice and early (thanks to a hard night on the side of the road) and set up camp in a well appointed camp site. After some much needed showering and abolutions we set off on the bus into town. We walked around the town for a little while, marveling at the nice old buildings, the many private investment banks, and the watches, lots of watches. Eventually though we were drawn down to the lake to marvel at the massive water spout, the thousands of hard bodies sunning themselves (some without their tops on), and the huge gardens along the banks of the lake. We were due for a night at the disco's but by the time we got back into camp we were really quite tired out, thankfully we found out that the resturant at the campsite was actually a proper, gourmet style resturant, so we managed to have a big night in (a couple of bottles of Rose helped). The really notable thing was the quality of the Steak Tartare consumed by Drama - I'm giving it a five star rating.
So the next day we got up with high hopes of a solid mornings touristing then off to the Alps for the important Col de Galibrier. Unfortunatly my touring mates, le comte et le glinte, can faff unlike any two others I have ever seen, you would think they were chicks the way it takes them 4 hours to break camp. So we finally got up to the Palace of Nations, the site of the original League of Nations, and went for a quick walk around, a play in the interactive fountain (photos to follow), a look at the big chair (like 30 foot high) and a look at the massive building that housed Woodrows failed dream. Upbeat with what lay ahead we hurried back to the Messy Days and jumped aboard, unfortunatly that was all we did as a fuse in the starter motor was blown. I am sure anyone who knows either the Count, the Glint,or myself knows how solid we are with the tools in hand, however the Messy Days was too big a fixing challange for us. Instead we got the incredibly fun challange of using our limited French to arrange a tow, and find a Fiat dealership to fix the old girl (its hard to do sign language down the phone). Anyways, we eventually got it all sorted, and after a casual four hour wait for a tow truck big enough for the Messy Days to be found we were at the Dealership, for round two of the English/French conflict.
By the time we had dropped off the bus and packed a suitcase for the night the fear and loathing was decending on the Glint, the spark in his eye so long a beacon for those looking for a good time was flickering, his jaw was set and his answers were becomeing terser and terser. The lack of a bus however did provided him with an oppurtunity to get a hotel room, an option he had been looking for since the first night in Dunkirk. When we were in Monaco earlier in the year we stayed in the well appointed Hotel Beau Rivarge, we had noticed the day before that Geneva also had a Beau Rivarge, the one in Nice was nice the one in Geneva??? 5 star opulence- about as much rose marble as all the Jew Gold in the world could have purchased. Long story short we had a very comfortable night.
The next day (I think this was Tuesday) was probably the worst of the trip, we were supposed to be on the side of a mountain letting our inner boys out, instead we were sitting around cafes in Geneva waiting for news, any news, from the mechanic. Slowly the day dragged on, with visions of two to three more days in Geneva flashing before our eyes. Finally the Glint shook off his funk and decided we should head out to the Dealership so he could "sort them out", thankfully (for the people at the dealership) when we got out there, their were two delightful old chaps hip deep in the Messy's engine and after a brief wait in the car park of the dealership Messy roared back to live with 2.8 litres of pure diesel power. The fuse that had sidelined the Messy Days Express and the search for answers for 26 hours was about an inch by an inch in size.
We lost no time in racing to the French border and getting the blast out of Geneva, the trip was back on track.
At first it seemed as if the rookie had pulled off a master stroke, Geneva was amazing at first glance. I don't think anyone expected it, but it was actually a resort town, built onto the side of a massive mountain lake Genevians love their sun, most activities in the town are focussed on the massive parks, waterslide parks, and marina's surrounding the lake. Or of course the more well to do can just simply get on their boats for the day. We got in nice and early (thanks to a hard night on the side of the road) and set up camp in a well appointed camp site. After some much needed showering and abolutions we set off on the bus into town. We walked around the town for a little while, marveling at the nice old buildings, the many private investment banks, and the watches, lots of watches. Eventually though we were drawn down to the lake to marvel at the massive water spout, the thousands of hard bodies sunning themselves (some without their tops on), and the huge gardens along the banks of the lake. We were due for a night at the disco's but by the time we got back into camp we were really quite tired out, thankfully we found out that the resturant at the campsite was actually a proper, gourmet style resturant, so we managed to have a big night in (a couple of bottles of Rose helped). The really notable thing was the quality of the Steak Tartare consumed by Drama - I'm giving it a five star rating.
So the next day we got up with high hopes of a solid mornings touristing then off to the Alps for the important Col de Galibrier. Unfortunatly my touring mates, le comte et le glinte, can faff unlike any two others I have ever seen, you would think they were chicks the way it takes them 4 hours to break camp. So we finally got up to the Palace of Nations, the site of the original League of Nations, and went for a quick walk around, a play in the interactive fountain (photos to follow), a look at the big chair (like 30 foot high) and a look at the massive building that housed Woodrows failed dream. Upbeat with what lay ahead we hurried back to the Messy Days and jumped aboard, unfortunatly that was all we did as a fuse in the starter motor was blown. I am sure anyone who knows either the Count, the Glint,or myself knows how solid we are with the tools in hand, however the Messy Days was too big a fixing challange for us. Instead we got the incredibly fun challange of using our limited French to arrange a tow, and find a Fiat dealership to fix the old girl (its hard to do sign language down the phone). Anyways, we eventually got it all sorted, and after a casual four hour wait for a tow truck big enough for the Messy Days to be found we were at the Dealership, for round two of the English/French conflict.
By the time we had dropped off the bus and packed a suitcase for the night the fear and loathing was decending on the Glint, the spark in his eye so long a beacon for those looking for a good time was flickering, his jaw was set and his answers were becomeing terser and terser. The lack of a bus however did provided him with an oppurtunity to get a hotel room, an option he had been looking for since the first night in Dunkirk. When we were in Monaco earlier in the year we stayed in the well appointed Hotel Beau Rivarge, we had noticed the day before that Geneva also had a Beau Rivarge, the one in Nice was nice the one in Geneva??? 5 star opulence- about as much rose marble as all the Jew Gold in the world could have purchased. Long story short we had a very comfortable night.
The next day (I think this was Tuesday) was probably the worst of the trip, we were supposed to be on the side of a mountain letting our inner boys out, instead we were sitting around cafes in Geneva waiting for news, any news, from the mechanic. Slowly the day dragged on, with visions of two to three more days in Geneva flashing before our eyes. Finally the Glint shook off his funk and decided we should head out to the Dealership so he could "sort them out", thankfully (for the people at the dealership) when we got out there, their were two delightful old chaps hip deep in the Messy's engine and after a brief wait in the car park of the dealership Messy roared back to live with 2.8 litres of pure diesel power. The fuse that had sidelined the Messy Days Express and the search for answers for 26 hours was about an inch by an inch in size.
We lost no time in racing to the French border and getting the blast out of Geneva, the trip was back on track.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
So I'm not a Goatee Guy
A small side story to Le Tour de Fear is our beard growing contest. In a true display of the tribal competitive nature that evolves whenever males get together and drink too much, we have been having a beard growing contest. Without the day to day drudgery of employment, our beloved tourists have quickly worked out that shaving was going to be highly overrated when we were on the side of a road in the French Alps. So all of us started on the first Saturday of the tour (Le Compte was still in Australia and neither Le Drame or myself have any idea if he started at the right time or not. His facial hair was quite impressive when we picked him up so questions were asked, however, either way he had to fly 30 hours around the world with it itching like crazy so we were not too concerned). Anyway, we all started growing as the tour kicked off and after a week of travelling and two days camping on the side of the road, we looked like the Kelly Gang somewhere out the back of Glenrowan.
I don’t have to tell you men what happens on the quintessential ‘Lads Night’ or ‘Boys Weekend Away’ but for the benefit of our female readers, I will paint a little picture. Every male group I have been a part of or observed in action does this in some way or another. Regional variances always occur and it seems to evolve with current trends but it always happens. It is done without consideration for ones own physical appearance or for the feelings and relationship status of the female in question. What I am talking about is essentially a Rating system. Every woman or group of women are subject to it, unbeknownst to them, but as they walk along the street, stand in a bar or have coffee in a café, all the men around them are grading, judging and rating them according to a system that he and his friends have adopted. There is the classic 1–10 system, 1 being the lowest, 10 being the highest. There is the “Hot or Not” theory. The little more obscure “Built for Speed/Built for comfort and the popularised “Tucker Max” 5-Star system (see website, www.tuckermax.com for details). Whatever approach, it is universal and uncompromising.
Now that I have given this little description all the men reading will be craving my blood and all the women will me saying my boyfriend/husband/brother would never be that chauvinistic, he’s too nice and has too higher respect for women. I’m telling you that he definitely does it. And he doesn’t really have to be with ‘the boys’ to do it, generally when a male sees a female he goes through his rating system and grades her accordingly. Having his mates around to agree with him is merely a bonus.
(Even as I write this I am cringing at the way it sounds. I don’t see women as objects and I don’t think my companions do either, but if you read on you’ll understand why I had to include that last part)
With our Beard growing competition in full swing and the three of us scratching and rubbing our chins incessantly, it was time for us to spend almost two days camping on the side of the road as we followed the tour through the start of the Alps stages. I am sure you can imagine how this progressed. Three men walking up and down mountain roads in 30degree heat, sweating, with no real need to bathe, yes it got a little messy. Our beloved motor home had clothes strung from one end to another, the grey water from washing up dinner stuck in the sink because the angle of the mountain wouldn’t let it drain, a distinct lack of deodorant between my fellow tourists made for a delightful stench, I think you get the picture.
It was well into the second day away from soap and water when seeds were planted that would see The Loathing raise its ugly head for me some 24 hours later. Our rating and grading of the fairer sex had been humming along quite nicely over the initial week of our tour. Innocent enough, incredibly witty and of a very high standard, the French women didn’t know what had hit them. We had been sitting on the side of the road on the Colombrie (see post below), playing our beloved 2-3-10 when Le Drame noted a 3-Star, Built for Comfort, 7.75 with an overall rating of ‘Yes’ (actually we were in France so it was more like ‘Wie Monsuire’, but that doesn’t really matter does it?) when Le Comte noted that so many of the European Women had been given ‘Yes’ ratings that maybe Le Drame and the rest of us should just start pointing out the women that were actually No’s.
Not much more was said about it, a few more women were rated in the standard fashion and we watched the bike race we have all begun to love stream past in a way that would have you questioning why we flew half way round the world to watch it.
We spent that night at a truck stop on the side of the A41 after I had driven the HMAS Messy Days for 6 hours straight (again see post below), a few drinks and 5 hours later we woke and knocked over the hour drive to Geneva is what seemed to be 40 minutes flat. We checked in (is that the term?) to the camping ground and got set up then the three of us headed for showers where I made the decision that I needed to trim my beard. As the days had passed, the spiky whiskers grew mainly from my moustache and chin and the disappointing display that my sideburns and cheeks had put in we’re easily removed with the strokes of my Gillette Fusion razor (did I tell you about our sponsorship deal???) and I had my first ever Goatee.
As it was now mid morning, we had a full day of touristing and box ticking ahead and Le Tour de Fear again switched to foot falcon mode and we were off to explore Switzerland’s second biggest city. The United Nations, The Red Cross museum, The old part of the city, the fountain and a precocious pirate show were all on the list. What I hadn’t counted on and what isn’t in any of the tourist information was the genetic side of Geneva. For hundreds of years, Switzerland has been a proud sovereign nation and has obviously enjoyed being at the high end of the gene pool. Swiss women are hot!!! I know that every man alive was in love with Martina Hingis when she burst onto the WTA as a precocious 15 year old and Renee Zellwegger (her parents are Swiss) has enchanted men across the world in all her roles, even as Bridget Jones. It is the later that became the problem. Zellwegger played an overweight, neurotic head case as Bridget Jones but there was an underlying attractiveness to her. This is what Switzerland is like. As we wandered the streets of Geneva, sass was being thrown between us about how no women had yet been rated a ‘No’. Centuries of inbreeding have produced a race of people that just have an underlying attractiveness to them. I thought the Czech Republic over Christmas and Mrs Raikkonen in Monaco had defined my meaning of a hot woman, but Switzerland takes the cake. Although Mrs Raikkonen and the women of Prague rated very highly, Geneva has an overall high rating. There is something in their face and bone structure that makes them a truly attractive race.
I don’t know if it was the Goatee or not, I mean it could have been that I am accompanied by a man who’s girlfriend is on the other side of the world and another who’s drought would compete with the son of God’s, but I found myself thinking things that I am not proud of. It is not appropriate to go into here but just know that my underlying respect for another human being’s right to merely exist had been thrown completely out the window. It was sometime on our second day in Geneva when my realisation of this fact resulted in a full blown attack of the loathing. The clouds had formed and I was hating the person I had become. Within an hour I had checked us into a 5 Star hotel (the HMAS Messy days had broken down, see post below), I had purposely booked a separate room for myself and I had shaved off my Goatee. Now I don’t mean any disrespect to the facial hair oriented men of this world but it was definitely the growing of a beard that led to my demise. When I am clean shaven I know who I am, I have an underlying respect for women, I am confident, proud and I have never before looked at another human being and rated them in the way I did in Geneva.
The purpose of the post is to prove the fact that answers are being found, we are still a little hazy on the question, but yes answers are being found.
P.S. Meg, Be rest assured Marty hasn’t actually been rating any of the women on this trip or been involved in anything mentioned above.
P.P.S He was standing over my shoulder dictating to me as I wrote that
Le Luire 2007
I don’t have to tell you men what happens on the quintessential ‘Lads Night’ or ‘Boys Weekend Away’ but for the benefit of our female readers, I will paint a little picture. Every male group I have been a part of or observed in action does this in some way or another. Regional variances always occur and it seems to evolve with current trends but it always happens. It is done without consideration for ones own physical appearance or for the feelings and relationship status of the female in question. What I am talking about is essentially a Rating system. Every woman or group of women are subject to it, unbeknownst to them, but as they walk along the street, stand in a bar or have coffee in a café, all the men around them are grading, judging and rating them according to a system that he and his friends have adopted. There is the classic 1–10 system, 1 being the lowest, 10 being the highest. There is the “Hot or Not” theory. The little more obscure “Built for Speed/Built for comfort and the popularised “Tucker Max” 5-Star system (see website, www.tuckermax.com for details). Whatever approach, it is universal and uncompromising.
Now that I have given this little description all the men reading will be craving my blood and all the women will me saying my boyfriend/husband/brother would never be that chauvinistic, he’s too nice and has too higher respect for women. I’m telling you that he definitely does it. And he doesn’t really have to be with ‘the boys’ to do it, generally when a male sees a female he goes through his rating system and grades her accordingly. Having his mates around to agree with him is merely a bonus.
(Even as I write this I am cringing at the way it sounds. I don’t see women as objects and I don’t think my companions do either, but if you read on you’ll understand why I had to include that last part)
With our Beard growing competition in full swing and the three of us scratching and rubbing our chins incessantly, it was time for us to spend almost two days camping on the side of the road as we followed the tour through the start of the Alps stages. I am sure you can imagine how this progressed. Three men walking up and down mountain roads in 30degree heat, sweating, with no real need to bathe, yes it got a little messy. Our beloved motor home had clothes strung from one end to another, the grey water from washing up dinner stuck in the sink because the angle of the mountain wouldn’t let it drain, a distinct lack of deodorant between my fellow tourists made for a delightful stench, I think you get the picture.
It was well into the second day away from soap and water when seeds were planted that would see The Loathing raise its ugly head for me some 24 hours later. Our rating and grading of the fairer sex had been humming along quite nicely over the initial week of our tour. Innocent enough, incredibly witty and of a very high standard, the French women didn’t know what had hit them. We had been sitting on the side of the road on the Colombrie (see post below), playing our beloved 2-3-10 when Le Drame noted a 3-Star, Built for Comfort, 7.75 with an overall rating of ‘Yes’ (actually we were in France so it was more like ‘Wie Monsuire’, but that doesn’t really matter does it?) when Le Comte noted that so many of the European Women had been given ‘Yes’ ratings that maybe Le Drame and the rest of us should just start pointing out the women that were actually No’s.
Not much more was said about it, a few more women were rated in the standard fashion and we watched the bike race we have all begun to love stream past in a way that would have you questioning why we flew half way round the world to watch it.
We spent that night at a truck stop on the side of the A41 after I had driven the HMAS Messy Days for 6 hours straight (again see post below), a few drinks and 5 hours later we woke and knocked over the hour drive to Geneva is what seemed to be 40 minutes flat. We checked in (is that the term?) to the camping ground and got set up then the three of us headed for showers where I made the decision that I needed to trim my beard. As the days had passed, the spiky whiskers grew mainly from my moustache and chin and the disappointing display that my sideburns and cheeks had put in we’re easily removed with the strokes of my Gillette Fusion razor (did I tell you about our sponsorship deal???) and I had my first ever Goatee.
As it was now mid morning, we had a full day of touristing and box ticking ahead and Le Tour de Fear again switched to foot falcon mode and we were off to explore Switzerland’s second biggest city. The United Nations, The Red Cross museum, The old part of the city, the fountain and a precocious pirate show were all on the list. What I hadn’t counted on and what isn’t in any of the tourist information was the genetic side of Geneva. For hundreds of years, Switzerland has been a proud sovereign nation and has obviously enjoyed being at the high end of the gene pool. Swiss women are hot!!! I know that every man alive was in love with Martina Hingis when she burst onto the WTA as a precocious 15 year old and Renee Zellwegger (her parents are Swiss) has enchanted men across the world in all her roles, even as Bridget Jones. It is the later that became the problem. Zellwegger played an overweight, neurotic head case as Bridget Jones but there was an underlying attractiveness to her. This is what Switzerland is like. As we wandered the streets of Geneva, sass was being thrown between us about how no women had yet been rated a ‘No’. Centuries of inbreeding have produced a race of people that just have an underlying attractiveness to them. I thought the Czech Republic over Christmas and Mrs Raikkonen in Monaco had defined my meaning of a hot woman, but Switzerland takes the cake. Although Mrs Raikkonen and the women of Prague rated very highly, Geneva has an overall high rating. There is something in their face and bone structure that makes them a truly attractive race.
I don’t know if it was the Goatee or not, I mean it could have been that I am accompanied by a man who’s girlfriend is on the other side of the world and another who’s drought would compete with the son of God’s, but I found myself thinking things that I am not proud of. It is not appropriate to go into here but just know that my underlying respect for another human being’s right to merely exist had been thrown completely out the window. It was sometime on our second day in Geneva when my realisation of this fact resulted in a full blown attack of the loathing. The clouds had formed and I was hating the person I had become. Within an hour I had checked us into a 5 Star hotel (the HMAS Messy days had broken down, see post below), I had purposely booked a separate room for myself and I had shaved off my Goatee. Now I don’t mean any disrespect to the facial hair oriented men of this world but it was definitely the growing of a beard that led to my demise. When I am clean shaven I know who I am, I have an underlying respect for women, I am confident, proud and I have never before looked at another human being and rated them in the way I did in Geneva.
The purpose of the post is to prove the fact that answers are being found, we are still a little hazy on the question, but yes answers are being found.
P.S. Meg, Be rest assured Marty hasn’t actually been rating any of the women on this trip or been involved in anything mentioned above.
P.P.S He was standing over my shoulder dictating to me as I wrote that
Le Luire 2007
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Stranded
So I didn't think that traveling would be easy, but no one could have predicted we would run into as many challenges as we have in this first week of the tour. We are currently holed up in a hotel in Geneva, after the Messy Days Express broke down yesterday.
The tour didn't start strong, we missed the train to Dover by about 2 minutes, the next day we got lost in Dunkirk and couldn't find anywhere to eat, more problems. We finished that day in Ghent, Belgium, where after getting horribly lost again we managed to get the Messy Days bogged thanks to our parking not on the concrete tire paths provided but on the grass so that our awning would look more impressive.
Day 4 provided more challenges as our Tom Tom broke down as we tried to go into France, all of a sudden we were back to navigating by the sun, this day also saw us get to our campsite so late that the reception had all ready shut, leaving us on the side of the road for the night.
Day 5 was full of positives, we did briefly get stuck in a huge traffic jam out side of Charles De Gaulle and we didn't actually camp at the camp site we originally planned on, but all in all that day wasn't that bad.
Day 6 will live in infamy, we set off in high spirits, the Kloss had fixed the Tom Tom and we were heading for a Feed Station. Unfortunately, trouble was just around the corner as we managed to get the Messy Days stuck in a ditch when we tried to park on the side of the road. Thankfully 20 or so people on the side of the road came and helped and we manged to push the 4,500 kilo beast back on the road. The rest of day 6 was fine, except for when we arrived at the Col de la Colombiere where we were going to stay the night, the only stretch of road that the Messy Days could stop on was a serious 6 degree incline, not a comfortable nights sleep.
Day 7 was an excellent day for the tourists, we saw an excellent stage of cycling and had a fun day in the sun. the trouble struck when we got caught in a ridiculous traffic jam, a 50 minute journey blew out to closer to 5 hours, we spent another night on the side of the road. Day 8 isn't even worth a mention, we cut the Tour de France to spend the day in Geneva, Switzerland and had an all round enjoyable day. The only real problem was we missed a bus and had to spend 25 minutes waiting for the next one.
Day 9 provided the piece de resistance however when half way through the day, just as we got ready to head for the Col De Galibrier (massive hill on today's stage) the Messy Days wouldn't start. Four hours on the side of the road later a tow truck finally arrived and we headed off for the Fiat Dealership to try and get it fixed. It is now mid day on the next day, the only English speaking person at Fiat is not giving us much hope of salvation today so the trip is really off the rails. The lack of other languages amongst our touring team is really quite noticeable, and is helping us understand why other Europeans tend to treat us English speaking monkeys with contempt.
The only upside is that surely after this nothing worse can happen. Hopefully tomorrow we will be back on the road for Monaco and Anitbes, then rejoin the tour for the race to Paris.
The tour didn't start strong, we missed the train to Dover by about 2 minutes, the next day we got lost in Dunkirk and couldn't find anywhere to eat, more problems. We finished that day in Ghent, Belgium, where after getting horribly lost again we managed to get the Messy Days bogged thanks to our parking not on the concrete tire paths provided but on the grass so that our awning would look more impressive.
Day 4 provided more challenges as our Tom Tom broke down as we tried to go into France, all of a sudden we were back to navigating by the sun, this day also saw us get to our campsite so late that the reception had all ready shut, leaving us on the side of the road for the night.
Day 5 was full of positives, we did briefly get stuck in a huge traffic jam out side of Charles De Gaulle and we didn't actually camp at the camp site we originally planned on, but all in all that day wasn't that bad.
Day 6 will live in infamy, we set off in high spirits, the Kloss had fixed the Tom Tom and we were heading for a Feed Station. Unfortunately, trouble was just around the corner as we managed to get the Messy Days stuck in a ditch when we tried to park on the side of the road. Thankfully 20 or so people on the side of the road came and helped and we manged to push the 4,500 kilo beast back on the road. The rest of day 6 was fine, except for when we arrived at the Col de la Colombiere where we were going to stay the night, the only stretch of road that the Messy Days could stop on was a serious 6 degree incline, not a comfortable nights sleep.
Day 7 was an excellent day for the tourists, we saw an excellent stage of cycling and had a fun day in the sun. the trouble struck when we got caught in a ridiculous traffic jam, a 50 minute journey blew out to closer to 5 hours, we spent another night on the side of the road. Day 8 isn't even worth a mention, we cut the Tour de France to spend the day in Geneva, Switzerland and had an all round enjoyable day. The only real problem was we missed a bus and had to spend 25 minutes waiting for the next one.
Day 9 provided the piece de resistance however when half way through the day, just as we got ready to head for the Col De Galibrier (massive hill on today's stage) the Messy Days wouldn't start. Four hours on the side of the road later a tow truck finally arrived and we headed off for the Fiat Dealership to try and get it fixed. It is now mid day on the next day, the only English speaking person at Fiat is not giving us much hope of salvation today so the trip is really off the rails. The lack of other languages amongst our touring team is really quite noticeable, and is helping us understand why other Europeans tend to treat us English speaking monkeys with contempt.
The only upside is that surely after this nothing worse can happen. Hopefully tomorrow we will be back on the road for Monaco and Anitbes, then rejoin the tour for the race to Paris.
Monday, July 16, 2007
Col de la Colombiere
The side of the road, Eastern France, Geneva is 25 kilometers to the North East, we have been driving for an amazing five and a half hours, on a trip Tom Tom promised would be 45 minutes.
Flashback - Late on the 13th of July, we have had a succesful afternoon (after the crash in Fontaines) and seen the bikes as they sprinted into Bourg-en-bresse, this was a gonzo hour fifteen minute drive achieved in a cool ninety minutes thanks to some rediculous navigation from Le Luire, thankfully the cyclists weren't feeling frisky so we managed to see the bikes come through. Anyways, we have seen all this and drive for the Col De La Colombiere, the first major climb of this years tour. Around 8:30-9:00 pm we rolled into the town of Repose and were shocked to see the Gendarmes had all ready shut the roads, a full 17 hours before the bikes, tail between the legs we headed off up the alternate route out of town.
After a few minutes Le Luire pulled the Messy Days over on the side of the road "what's happening?" I asked, "This seems allright" The Glint said. Shocked I looked out the truck and there we were parked on a 20 degree slope, this is what we were going to sleep on for the night. A little bit afraid of a ghost bus run down the mountain in the middle of the night after the handbrake let go I saved the lads lives by setting up a few extra rocks to serve as additional chocks. The bus rested safely on the rocks all night but the campers didn't have the best nights sleep on the slope.
Thankfully we woke the next morning and the bus hadn't taken things into its own hands, after a quite hour or two reading on the side of the road we headed the two kilometres back to the bottom of the climb to check out the town, as with all towns that the tour passess through they had put on a show for the visiting guests, lots of stalls, lots of beer, do you need to know anything else? We had a couple of beers and savoured the local customs for about an hour before we decided to head off up the climb to stake out a position to wait for the bikes.
Five minutes later we were barely ten metres in height up the hill and we were sucking in some deep breaths. Thankfully we quickly got our mountain legs and headed up through first one, then two, three, four, and five hairpins up the mountain. Let me tell you there is little that can compare too climbing a mountain in the French Alps in early July with the sun beating down and a few beers in the belly.
Shortcut to three hours later, we had sat on the side of the road, sweated rather profusely, and got some free stuff off the procession. Finally the cyclists came along, the only thing better then going through the pain of climbing up the side of the mountain was watching the pain the on the poor cyclists faces as they struggled their way up the Colombiere, I can garuntee that Roby McEwan was not appreciating the Aussie Flag in his face as he struggled his way up past the 4000 metres to go section. Overall today marks the point where we finally managed to see the tour go over a mega hill- it was steeper, longer and harder then anything we had imagined, overall we were sitting back very satisfied in ourselves, Bastille Day in Repose on the side of the mountain, with the sun, a few cans, and the Tour de France - I highly recommend it.
Over the moon we walked back to the Messy Days (up the mountain we had parked on) and set off for the next days start town, fearlessly Le Luire took the whale over the Colombiere - there is no stronger test of a driver then the Messy Days over an Alps Mountain pass, unfortunatly when we hit the town we smashed our way into some horrible traffic... three hours later we were free.
We managed to spend the time getting boozed and throwing the sass, but you have to remember that le Luire was driving so couldn't get boozed- I have no idea how he kept his sanity. Anyways, long story short, it was dark by the time we were on the open road again so we decided to cut the tour for a day and head off for Geneva. We briefly got lost around Lake Agency (very pretty) but we finally found the A40 and headed for Geneva, which brings us to our current position, a public car park on the side of motorway, with the Messy Days Card table out and a bottle of wine, living life.
Flashback - Late on the 13th of July, we have had a succesful afternoon (after the crash in Fontaines) and seen the bikes as they sprinted into Bourg-en-bresse, this was a gonzo hour fifteen minute drive achieved in a cool ninety minutes thanks to some rediculous navigation from Le Luire, thankfully the cyclists weren't feeling frisky so we managed to see the bikes come through. Anyways, we have seen all this and drive for the Col De La Colombiere, the first major climb of this years tour. Around 8:30-9:00 pm we rolled into the town of Repose and were shocked to see the Gendarmes had all ready shut the roads, a full 17 hours before the bikes, tail between the legs we headed off up the alternate route out of town.
After a few minutes Le Luire pulled the Messy Days over on the side of the road "what's happening?" I asked, "This seems allright" The Glint said. Shocked I looked out the truck and there we were parked on a 20 degree slope, this is what we were going to sleep on for the night. A little bit afraid of a ghost bus run down the mountain in the middle of the night after the handbrake let go I saved the lads lives by setting up a few extra rocks to serve as additional chocks. The bus rested safely on the rocks all night but the campers didn't have the best nights sleep on the slope.
Thankfully we woke the next morning and the bus hadn't taken things into its own hands, after a quite hour or two reading on the side of the road we headed the two kilometres back to the bottom of the climb to check out the town, as with all towns that the tour passess through they had put on a show for the visiting guests, lots of stalls, lots of beer, do you need to know anything else? We had a couple of beers and savoured the local customs for about an hour before we decided to head off up the climb to stake out a position to wait for the bikes.
Five minutes later we were barely ten metres in height up the hill and we were sucking in some deep breaths. Thankfully we quickly got our mountain legs and headed up through first one, then two, three, four, and five hairpins up the mountain. Let me tell you there is little that can compare too climbing a mountain in the French Alps in early July with the sun beating down and a few beers in the belly.
Shortcut to three hours later, we had sat on the side of the road, sweated rather profusely, and got some free stuff off the procession. Finally the cyclists came along, the only thing better then going through the pain of climbing up the side of the mountain was watching the pain the on the poor cyclists faces as they struggled their way up the Colombiere, I can garuntee that Roby McEwan was not appreciating the Aussie Flag in his face as he struggled his way up past the 4000 metres to go section. Overall today marks the point where we finally managed to see the tour go over a mega hill- it was steeper, longer and harder then anything we had imagined, overall we were sitting back very satisfied in ourselves, Bastille Day in Repose on the side of the mountain, with the sun, a few cans, and the Tour de France - I highly recommend it.
Over the moon we walked back to the Messy Days (up the mountain we had parked on) and set off for the next days start town, fearlessly Le Luire took the whale over the Colombiere - there is no stronger test of a driver then the Messy Days over an Alps Mountain pass, unfortunatly when we hit the town we smashed our way into some horrible traffic... three hours later we were free.
We managed to spend the time getting boozed and throwing the sass, but you have to remember that le Luire was driving so couldn't get boozed- I have no idea how he kept his sanity. Anyways, long story short, it was dark by the time we were on the open road again so we decided to cut the tour for a day and head off for Geneva. We briefly got lost around Lake Agency (very pretty) but we finally found the A40 and headed for Geneva, which brings us to our current position, a public car park on the side of motorway, with the Messy Days Card table out and a bottle of wine, living life.
Friday, July 13, 2007
Whats Been Happening
We've found our first answer, still not sure on what the question is but this afternoon we got it absolutly right.
Its been a long few days. When we last posted we were crowing the arrival of tom tom and thinking we knew all there was to know about motorhoming. We were wrong.
Wednesday saw us leave the lovely town of Ghent, and the embarrasement of the bogging behind us. We headed for the start town of Waregem, then decided half way we would rather see an intermediate sprint so headed for the town of Tourlin, just north of the France-Belguim border. Tom tom took us with no problems from the main highway to the small town, a picturesque square and a cathedral are all you need to know. Unfortunatly we couldn't find the bicycle race that had attracted us to town. After some walking however we managed to find it on the western side of town and stood around to wait for the bikes, it was great. After the peleton came thru (ten minutes after the break away of two) we got some grocerices, had lunch by the side of a canal and headed off for France and the finishing town of Compingaire.
This brought about a disaster as the Belgish nature of Tom Tom was exposed, the sim card for our Tom Tom was for Belguim and the Netherlands, France and the rest of Europe be dammed. We were quickly lost again. After a number of attempts to find the right onramp we finally found the road for France and were once again back on track. Compingaire was well sorted for the Tour de France, we were running a little late by the time we got there, but they had set up a nice park and ride system to take us into the centre of town, kudos, we ran for the bus a little worried that it was 10 to 5 and the bikes were due 10 after, we finally got into town around 5:20, with no idea if the bikes had come or not. We needent have worried as the cyclists were a good hour ten late into town. The breakaway, who passed us in Tourlin (110 km out of the finish) 10 minutes up, were swampped 500 metres short of the line. In an amazinging move Cancellara (?) the wearer of the mailot jeune then went of the front to lead out the sprinters, we weren't sure if it was him or night, but as he came over the line with his arms araised we all went nuts - seeing the wearer of the yellow win a stage - tick.
(Note - I am writing this sitting in the back of the Messy Days as we Gonzo our way down the A6 in a desperate bid to get to Bourg-En-Bresse within the next hour in order to see the finish of the stage. Le Liure is driving (jerkily, I almost just dropped the computer) and Le Comte is trying to find the tour coverage on the small TV we brought).
After the amazing finish into Compaigne we watched the Jersey presentation (Muchos Ladies) and then headed off to find that nights campsite. Following the good book (Alan Rogers Camp Sites of France Guide) we drove off towards Soison. Following the meagre written instuctions we managed to find the camp site on only our second attempt, unfortunatly by the time we go there the reception was shut - we were homeless for the night. Soundenly Le Glint remembered we were driving a 'house on wheels' as he called it - of course! we thought we could just try and find the tour route and camp on the side of the road. We followed the signs for Villier's Cottes (the next days start town) in high spirits, until we got to the town and realised that we couldn't work out where the actual tour route went. Defeated we stopped at a servo (stole 120 litres of water) and Le Glint fired up the Jim Jam for some google mapping - optimistically he decided we were on the right road so we set off again, remarkably we had managed to find the route through shear luck, so following the once again meagre written directions in the cycling magazine's we headed off for the first caterorgized climb of the tour - about 30 KM's away - with a minimum of fuss we followed the bright yellow arrows which line the tour route towards our destination, at one point stopping to help a nice South African couple, Jean and Monique, find their way. Finally we found a small country lane with four other campers parked on the side of the road, we pulled over and set up camp.
Early the next morning we walked the fifty or so metres to the main road and set up the Messy Days Card Table right by the route. It was everything we had always dreamed, except it was cold - apparently Northern France in the Summer is rather disapointing. Anyways, we sat around reading, listening to the phat beats on a jerry rigged speaker of Le Leuire creation, and waving to the people who went past. We also spent a brief period talking to Jean and Monique- our new Saffer friends, it didn't take us long to work the recent victory of the mighty Wallabies into the conversation, but they were more cycling die hards then rugby followers. So in the end 15 hours after we pulled up on the side of the road the cycles went past - remarkably we had chosen an outrageously good position as the break away which would dominate the rest of the stage chose that moment to leap out from the front - good stuff. Finally we packed up the whale and headed off for Paris, to pick up the Count. Paris was easy, as was the Carefours (greatest store in the world) that we stopped off to buy some more supplies (French map for Tom Tom, TV, Ipod Speakers etc), that all went fine, but finding the campsite was a mission impossible - the lousy jerks at Google Maps had marked a non existent exit on their web sites - we got lost. We tried to load the new Tom Tom map using my laptop - but then the provided sd card was too small, and it wouldn't let us load the map onto my camera's sd card - once more we were in a tight space. Using the Jim Jam as only he can le glint eventually found us the camp site we wanted (about 90 minutes later) with some very back road approaches- but importantly we were there, we managed to power up the batteries, fill the water, and empty the sewage, and get a good nights sleep.
Up the next morning with the sparrows in order to get to Charles De Gaulle to meet the count we drove off followed by a stange smell. Eventually we got to the airport and had to try and decifer the all of a sudden very French road sign - what the hell was Auto Gare 1 and 2? Rolling a dice we followed the signs for Auto Gare 2, thankfully fate (or Le Glints simply incompetence in taking a turn clearly marked for vehicle service (we're not a service vehicle)) intervened and we got turned around heading for Auto Gare 1. When we got to the very retro terminal we couldn't find a park so I had to do a Gonzo run into the international terminal to try and find le Comte - as impossible as that sounds a mixture of luck and the crazy fancy dress I was wearing (a gangstar rap out fit complete with bling) Le Comte saw the drama bobbing and weaving his way through the crowd, with a brief handshake and a slightly longer explanation of the clothes we went outside to find the Messy Days, and the third member of the Tour de Fear team had arrived.
With a good feeling in our bellies (Le Leuire et Le Drame needed a foil after the misadventures of the early parts of the trip) we headed off for the start town of Chablis - a lovely small town in the heart of the white wine country. Start towns are a lot of fun, all the towns that get the tour so far have gone to a lot of effort to pretty up there facades for the tour, Chablis was no exception. With a slightly wide eyed Count we toured around the town, having a few drinks (read chablis) and checking out the teams as the warmed up, finally we wanded over to the start line and watched the roll out - very enjoyable morning. With the Count flagging from his 30 hours of travelling we headed straight for a camp site, arriving around 3:30 in the afternoon. We had a lovely afternoon sitting in the nice campsite and recharging our batteries for the coming days. Eventually we headed up into the small town of Aviuex-Le-Duc and had an incredable four course meal (snails baby), in the end we had a massive night, and we really knew we were on the tour de fear for real. The other remarkable thing was that the Gling wearing his IT nerd hat - managed to hack the Tom Tom in such a way that we could load the maps we needed onto my Camera's SD card- we were back in business.
This morning dawned fantastically fine and promised a nice day - we weren't disapointed - in the middle of France we were finally finding the Summer we had been promised. We set off to try and spend our day on the side of the road at the food stop of todays stage - about half way along, we got there easily - Tom Tom in full force is incredible (NOTE: we are know lost again, the road tom tom wanted us to go on was shut so I told Glint to follow the tour signs, for some reason he followed Tom Tom who made us do a U turn and head back to the original turn off that was shut) We found the route and were cruising along when we found a fantastic paddock that looked perfect for spending our morning waiting for the bikes, unfortunatly the physics involved with getting a 4,500 kg whale of a bus down a slight decline to get off the road were beyond the driver (le Drama) within seconds we were nose deep in a french wheat field with no reconizable way of getting the thing out. The Fear and loathing struck and struck hard, le Leuire stormed off down the road, swearing his head off and throwing the keys off into the field, Le Comte curled up into the fetal position and the drama, seeing no other recourse cracked a beer to try and drink away his shame. Thankfully, the people who watch the tour de france are a generally friendly bunch so we soon had thirty willing helpers standing around the bus (Le Glint having returned from his storm off and Le Count uncurling off the ground) with much beard scratching and humming and haahing we contemplated what to do, (picture it 30 blokes, 3 (us) spoke english, the rest spoke a mixture of dutch, german, french and a few unidentified languages standing around a bus with one side of its nose buried in a field and its wheels off the ground) we decided that pushing was the key and with an all mighty effrot we finally managed to get the bus out of the ditch and back on the road. After quickly distributing some thankyou beers we fled the scene with our tails between our legs. Maybe twenty kilometres later we decided we had gone far enough that the story of our excapades wouldn't catch up with us so we pulled over, set up the Messy Days Card Table, got out the tanning lotion, cracked some beers and sat down ot wait for the tour. One game of Trivial Pursuit (predictably won by the count) and a lot tanning later the cyclists finally came past and we realised we had come upon an answer - Life is about sitting on the side of the road, in the blazing sun, beers in hand watching sport. We will try to build on this basic Thesis over the next two weeks, but that's pretty much were we are at, at the moment.
That's the basic update for now. Rhys and Julie I have mobile credit so havn't responded to your messages but we now have the internet so we might send some emails out. Tonight sees us off up the Col De Columbiere - the first real mountain stage, then the couple of days after that should see us hit Geneva for some touristing, with us finally catching up with Le Fromage in Antibe on Tuesday night - should be phat city.
Its been a long few days. When we last posted we were crowing the arrival of tom tom and thinking we knew all there was to know about motorhoming. We were wrong.
Wednesday saw us leave the lovely town of Ghent, and the embarrasement of the bogging behind us. We headed for the start town of Waregem, then decided half way we would rather see an intermediate sprint so headed for the town of Tourlin, just north of the France-Belguim border. Tom tom took us with no problems from the main highway to the small town, a picturesque square and a cathedral are all you need to know. Unfortunatly we couldn't find the bicycle race that had attracted us to town. After some walking however we managed to find it on the western side of town and stood around to wait for the bikes, it was great. After the peleton came thru (ten minutes after the break away of two) we got some grocerices, had lunch by the side of a canal and headed off for France and the finishing town of Compingaire.
This brought about a disaster as the Belgish nature of Tom Tom was exposed, the sim card for our Tom Tom was for Belguim and the Netherlands, France and the rest of Europe be dammed. We were quickly lost again. After a number of attempts to find the right onramp we finally found the road for France and were once again back on track. Compingaire was well sorted for the Tour de France, we were running a little late by the time we got there, but they had set up a nice park and ride system to take us into the centre of town, kudos, we ran for the bus a little worried that it was 10 to 5 and the bikes were due 10 after, we finally got into town around 5:20, with no idea if the bikes had come or not. We needent have worried as the cyclists were a good hour ten late into town. The breakaway, who passed us in Tourlin (110 km out of the finish) 10 minutes up, were swampped 500 metres short of the line. In an amazinging move Cancellara (?) the wearer of the mailot jeune then went of the front to lead out the sprinters, we weren't sure if it was him or night, but as he came over the line with his arms araised we all went nuts - seeing the wearer of the yellow win a stage - tick.
(Note - I am writing this sitting in the back of the Messy Days as we Gonzo our way down the A6 in a desperate bid to get to Bourg-En-Bresse within the next hour in order to see the finish of the stage. Le Liure is driving (jerkily, I almost just dropped the computer) and Le Comte is trying to find the tour coverage on the small TV we brought).
After the amazing finish into Compaigne we watched the Jersey presentation (Muchos Ladies) and then headed off to find that nights campsite. Following the good book (Alan Rogers Camp Sites of France Guide) we drove off towards Soison. Following the meagre written instuctions we managed to find the camp site on only our second attempt, unfortunatly by the time we go there the reception was shut - we were homeless for the night. Soundenly Le Glint remembered we were driving a 'house on wheels' as he called it - of course! we thought we could just try and find the tour route and camp on the side of the road. We followed the signs for Villier's Cottes (the next days start town) in high spirits, until we got to the town and realised that we couldn't work out where the actual tour route went. Defeated we stopped at a servo (stole 120 litres of water) and Le Glint fired up the Jim Jam for some google mapping - optimistically he decided we were on the right road so we set off again, remarkably we had managed to find the route through shear luck, so following the once again meagre written directions in the cycling magazine's we headed off for the first caterorgized climb of the tour - about 30 KM's away - with a minimum of fuss we followed the bright yellow arrows which line the tour route towards our destination, at one point stopping to help a nice South African couple, Jean and Monique, find their way. Finally we found a small country lane with four other campers parked on the side of the road, we pulled over and set up camp.
Early the next morning we walked the fifty or so metres to the main road and set up the Messy Days Card Table right by the route. It was everything we had always dreamed, except it was cold - apparently Northern France in the Summer is rather disapointing. Anyways, we sat around reading, listening to the phat beats on a jerry rigged speaker of Le Leuire creation, and waving to the people who went past. We also spent a brief period talking to Jean and Monique- our new Saffer friends, it didn't take us long to work the recent victory of the mighty Wallabies into the conversation, but they were more cycling die hards then rugby followers. So in the end 15 hours after we pulled up on the side of the road the cycles went past - remarkably we had chosen an outrageously good position as the break away which would dominate the rest of the stage chose that moment to leap out from the front - good stuff. Finally we packed up the whale and headed off for Paris, to pick up the Count. Paris was easy, as was the Carefours (greatest store in the world) that we stopped off to buy some more supplies (French map for Tom Tom, TV, Ipod Speakers etc), that all went fine, but finding the campsite was a mission impossible - the lousy jerks at Google Maps had marked a non existent exit on their web sites - we got lost. We tried to load the new Tom Tom map using my laptop - but then the provided sd card was too small, and it wouldn't let us load the map onto my camera's sd card - once more we were in a tight space. Using the Jim Jam as only he can le glint eventually found us the camp site we wanted (about 90 minutes later) with some very back road approaches- but importantly we were there, we managed to power up the batteries, fill the water, and empty the sewage, and get a good nights sleep.
Up the next morning with the sparrows in order to get to Charles De Gaulle to meet the count we drove off followed by a stange smell. Eventually we got to the airport and had to try and decifer the all of a sudden very French road sign - what the hell was Auto Gare 1 and 2? Rolling a dice we followed the signs for Auto Gare 2, thankfully fate (or Le Glints simply incompetence in taking a turn clearly marked for vehicle service (we're not a service vehicle)) intervened and we got turned around heading for Auto Gare 1. When we got to the very retro terminal we couldn't find a park so I had to do a Gonzo run into the international terminal to try and find le Comte - as impossible as that sounds a mixture of luck and the crazy fancy dress I was wearing (a gangstar rap out fit complete with bling) Le Comte saw the drama bobbing and weaving his way through the crowd, with a brief handshake and a slightly longer explanation of the clothes we went outside to find the Messy Days, and the third member of the Tour de Fear team had arrived.
With a good feeling in our bellies (Le Leuire et Le Drame needed a foil after the misadventures of the early parts of the trip) we headed off for the start town of Chablis - a lovely small town in the heart of the white wine country. Start towns are a lot of fun, all the towns that get the tour so far have gone to a lot of effort to pretty up there facades for the tour, Chablis was no exception. With a slightly wide eyed Count we toured around the town, having a few drinks (read chablis) and checking out the teams as the warmed up, finally we wanded over to the start line and watched the roll out - very enjoyable morning. With the Count flagging from his 30 hours of travelling we headed straight for a camp site, arriving around 3:30 in the afternoon. We had a lovely afternoon sitting in the nice campsite and recharging our batteries for the coming days. Eventually we headed up into the small town of Aviuex-Le-Duc and had an incredable four course meal (snails baby), in the end we had a massive night, and we really knew we were on the tour de fear for real. The other remarkable thing was that the Gling wearing his IT nerd hat - managed to hack the Tom Tom in such a way that we could load the maps we needed onto my Camera's SD card- we were back in business.
This morning dawned fantastically fine and promised a nice day - we weren't disapointed - in the middle of France we were finally finding the Summer we had been promised. We set off to try and spend our day on the side of the road at the food stop of todays stage - about half way along, we got there easily - Tom Tom in full force is incredible (NOTE: we are know lost again, the road tom tom wanted us to go on was shut so I told Glint to follow the tour signs, for some reason he followed Tom Tom who made us do a U turn and head back to the original turn off that was shut) We found the route and were cruising along when we found a fantastic paddock that looked perfect for spending our morning waiting for the bikes, unfortunatly the physics involved with getting a 4,500 kg whale of a bus down a slight decline to get off the road were beyond the driver (le Drama) within seconds we were nose deep in a french wheat field with no reconizable way of getting the thing out. The Fear and loathing struck and struck hard, le Leuire stormed off down the road, swearing his head off and throwing the keys off into the field, Le Comte curled up into the fetal position and the drama, seeing no other recourse cracked a beer to try and drink away his shame. Thankfully, the people who watch the tour de france are a generally friendly bunch so we soon had thirty willing helpers standing around the bus (Le Glint having returned from his storm off and Le Count uncurling off the ground) with much beard scratching and humming and haahing we contemplated what to do, (picture it 30 blokes, 3 (us) spoke english, the rest spoke a mixture of dutch, german, french and a few unidentified languages standing around a bus with one side of its nose buried in a field and its wheels off the ground) we decided that pushing was the key and with an all mighty effrot we finally managed to get the bus out of the ditch and back on the road. After quickly distributing some thankyou beers we fled the scene with our tails between our legs. Maybe twenty kilometres later we decided we had gone far enough that the story of our excapades wouldn't catch up with us so we pulled over, set up the Messy Days Card Table, got out the tanning lotion, cracked some beers and sat down ot wait for the tour. One game of Trivial Pursuit (predictably won by the count) and a lot tanning later the cyclists finally came past and we realised we had come upon an answer - Life is about sitting on the side of the road, in the blazing sun, beers in hand watching sport. We will try to build on this basic Thesis over the next two weeks, but that's pretty much were we are at, at the moment.
That's the basic update for now. Rhys and Julie I have mobile credit so havn't responded to your messages but we now have the internet so we might send some emails out. Tonight sees us off up the Col De Columbiere - the first real mountain stage, then the couple of days after that should see us hit Geneva for some touristing, with us finally catching up with Le Fromage in Antibe on Tuesday night - should be phat city.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
The Weary Traveller
The bright lights and even brighter jerseys of the opening stages of the Tour de France, as well as the co-sanction Tour de Fear have once again captured the imaginations of cycling fans and "living life" fans across the globe. Yet the amazing performances of Robbie McEwen, Fabian Cancellara, Le Drame and Le Luire have failed to hide one glaring deficiency - the missing link, the prodigal son, the final fragment of the Holy Trinity, Le Comte.
Fear not fans, he is on his way.
After a torturous 10 hours sleep in the last 3 days, 14 hours of which was consecutive packing/moving into the 2x3m storage cell that is his home, he is on his way (See below for interesting side story). Of course, it has not beenm without its dramas. Le Comte, whose flight actually departs from Sydney International Airport at 2:20pm thought he had outfoxed the travel authorities when he found a JetStar domestic flight that departed Brisbane International at 9am (a little earlier than he had planned) and arrived in Sydney International - the dilemma and general drama of making the arduous journey from Sydney domestic to international? Solved.
However, it was only the night before that he realised he therefore needed to be at the airport 2 hours before his flight! Fast-forward 5 hours of sleep and its 4am as Le Comte is packing his bags at Le Mount Cotton, including all the undies he had washed the night before and hadnt quite dried. Needless to say the bag was hastily packed, the dark drive completed without issue (except for the crawl on the Gateway, honestly, they should build one right next to it and double the traffic flow...there's an idea Pete! An even better idea would have been doing it 10 years ago!)
So an hour spent at the airport saying passionate goodbyes to Le Countess, who will continue to undertake my work as the Man, I mean Person of the People. Easily slipped through the dragnet that is customs and off I go on the 30+ hour trip that will get me to my destination - Le Tour de Fear!
Look out Le Drame and Le Luire, I am coming to get you, I may have had a crash only 25 kms from the finish but my team (read the Bundy Bear and Berocca Man) have dropped back to ride me back into the pack, and I feel like a bit of a McEwen-esque sprint finish...If you have a green shirt, be prepared to hand it over
Le Comte
Interesting Side Story
As painful as the day moving was it didnt go without laughs, probably the funniest was when Le Comte, by now 2/3's packed and moved, realised he hadnt located his passport yet and the next 20 mins were spent searching and praying it wasn't in the 2 x 3m cell...lucky for him he hadnt packed his sock drawer yet!
Fear not fans, he is on his way.
After a torturous 10 hours sleep in the last 3 days, 14 hours of which was consecutive packing/moving into the 2x3m storage cell that is his home, he is on his way (See below for interesting side story). Of course, it has not beenm without its dramas. Le Comte, whose flight actually departs from Sydney International Airport at 2:20pm thought he had outfoxed the travel authorities when he found a JetStar domestic flight that departed Brisbane International at 9am (a little earlier than he had planned) and arrived in Sydney International - the dilemma and general drama of making the arduous journey from Sydney domestic to international? Solved.
However, it was only the night before that he realised he therefore needed to be at the airport 2 hours before his flight! Fast-forward 5 hours of sleep and its 4am as Le Comte is packing his bags at Le Mount Cotton, including all the undies he had washed the night before and hadnt quite dried. Needless to say the bag was hastily packed, the dark drive completed without issue (except for the crawl on the Gateway, honestly, they should build one right next to it and double the traffic flow...there's an idea Pete! An even better idea would have been doing it 10 years ago!)
So an hour spent at the airport saying passionate goodbyes to Le Countess, who will continue to undertake my work as the Man, I mean Person of the People. Easily slipped through the dragnet that is customs and off I go on the 30+ hour trip that will get me to my destination - Le Tour de Fear!
Look out Le Drame and Le Luire, I am coming to get you, I may have had a crash only 25 kms from the finish but my team (read the Bundy Bear and Berocca Man) have dropped back to ride me back into the pack, and I feel like a bit of a McEwen-esque sprint finish...If you have a green shirt, be prepared to hand it over
Le Comte
Interesting Side Story
As painful as the day moving was it didnt go without laughs, probably the funniest was when Le Comte, by now 2/3's packed and moved, realised he hadnt located his passport yet and the next 20 mins were spent searching and praying it wasn't in the 2 x 3m cell...lucky for him he hadnt packed his sock drawer yet!
Tour De Fear- Opening Skirmishes
Saturday July 7, 2007 dawned dark and overcast, a fitting prelude to the pall that was about to descend on the town of London. Le Glint had finally arrived in the Old Dart; it was time for the Tour De Fear to begin.
Le Glint and I met for a prologue of our own at the Shaftsterbury Avenue Walkie, to compare form and witness the Might Wallabies destroy a hapless Springboks B team. The early action represented mere shadowing, without the Count present neither le Glint or I wanted to give anything away.
As the Wallabies began to run over the weak boks the first card of the tour was played as le Glint displayed a newly gained skill, GUILE. He began to slow his cadence, slipping behind a little more each pint then racing to catch up at the end. He began to lick his lips and look pained; complaining of the extra sweetness of the Snakey B’s (which was the drink of choice).
Now anyone who knows anything about cycling knows that you attack when your opponents are weak, you turn up the wick so that the damage to your opponents can be maximised, I attacked. Like a fully EPO’d Ullrich, I charged, the beers flowed, and the sass came like a torrent it was like I was dancing on my pedals putting on a show for the watching crowds. It appeared to all watching that, even at this early stage, Drama was up to his old tricks in destroying the likes of le Glint and le Count at any test of skills and abilities.
The cycling had begun by this time, giving me all the chances to display his vast knowledge of cycling as he told anyone within hearing distance (including many of the cyclists) exactly what he thought about each cyclist as they went off on their opening cycle of their own tour. Things almost went wrong with an early visit from the loathing when I pointed out to all the Brits present that David Millar was nothing but a Drug Cheat – as I noted at the time- “if he couldn’t do it without cheating before, how can he do it now?” The brits don’t have a sense of humour about anything.
Anyone else who knows anything about the cycling will also know about the red zone, the time when your legs go from beneath you, when your pilot light flickers brightly for a moment before being distinguished with a frightening coldness It became very clear all of a sudden that le Glint had been foxing, like Lance in 2000 he pretended to be on the ropes to force me to show my cards early, and it worked. Le Glint turned the wick back up just as I entered the red zone. It was messy ladies and gentlemen – I can only give feedback from what I’ve heard from others who were there, as I wasn’t really there (body not mind if you know what I mean) but the long and the short of it was le Glint had out foxed and destroyed me, posting his first victory over the mighty Drama in a long, long time.
The first day ended with Drama face down in a bed at the Savoy, with le Glint partying at the Disco’s till all hours of the morning. Le Glint, such a strong candidate now days, looks fantastic in yellow.
The next day was the official beginning of the Tour De France, gingerly I pulled myself out of bed and booted up for another day. Jlo and I travelled down to the Tower Bridge to meet with le Glint – I don’t need to tell you that he was cock-a-hoop, but hey, after the best part of a decade living in the shadow BA Tron/Drama he was finally a leader in his own right. I don’t want to say that some people were heard to mention the words “Floyd”, “Testosterone” and “Coincidence?” all in the same sentence but they were.
This gives me an opportunity to give you a snapshot of what our tourists will be doing for the next 21 days. We strolled down to London Bridge, amongst a massive crowd of around a million people (spread over 203 km so it wasn’t that thick a crowd) on a nice sunny morning, and stood on the side of the rode and waited for the action to happen. We stood there for probably forty minutes, getting free stuff from the T-Mobile marketing babes and trying to ignore the annoying merchandising staff who drive up and down the course trying to fob off Tour merchandise. Interestingly, in Britain on Sunday the merchandise packs were 20 pounds, in Dunkirk on Monday 20 Euros – beautiful.
Anyways, so there we were watching the street, getting free stuff and waiting. Finally after about an hour we started to note more and more vehicles going by, we sensed the Tour was approaching. Another ten minutes passed, with perhaps 130 more cars going past and finally, finally, 189 cyclists came sweeping up around the hill, past the Tower of London and down onto the Tower Bridge. They were fast, they were colourful, the crowd cheered, and then they were gone. An hour ten of waiting for 20 seconds of gratification, it was magnificent.
Not much else to say about Sunday, I had my final afternoon on the couch at the Pickle, then we caught the train for Dover and the Ferry for Calais, eventually arriving at my new home, the HMAS Messy Days around 11 PM.
Today the Tour de Fear finally really kicked off as we set off to investigate the continent and search for ‘the answer’, to what? – We’ll tell you when we know.
The day started well with the Messy Days handling the trip from Calais (we’re we stayed in the car park) to Dunkirk with ease. That was were the fun began, we were hungry by this time, but couldn’t seem to find any open café’s, we saw a McDee’s but drove past it thinking we could find it later, we were wrong. We drove around the tight, small streets of the once war ravaged Dunkirk in our whale of a bus, trying in vain to find the golden arches that would represent freedom from the ravages of starvation that were fast bringing on a fresh visit of the Loathing.
Finally we found the arches, but were heartbroken to find them shut – we were not happy. Disappointed we drove back into town, parked the bus, and set off for the Tour de France. We got down to the main part of Dunkirk, had a quick tour around the main highlights of the town square, saw the tour cars start to arrive, went to the merchandising tent (we’re we met the first French babe of the tour) and we’re just about to head to the People’s Village when it started to rain, and not just rain, but storm. We weren’t happy, being two lads from Bris Vegas we were naturally in t-shirts, canto’s, and pluggers, and it was cold, driving rain. We brought two Tour de France umbrellas but the damage had been done.
Cold, wet and full of loathing for Dunkirk we went back to the Messy Days, warmed up and went back to Mac Dee’s to finally get some food. Full of delightful Quick Burgers (we nixed Mac Dee’s on the strength of the serving babes at Qucik Burger) we headed off for Ghent in Belgium in order to see the finish of the stage (having written off the start of the stage).
We soon ran into a new problem as Le Glint began to have a problem staying awake – this wouldn’t have been a problem, excepting for the fact that he was driving at the time. We had to pull over for a pit stop just short of Ghent. This gave me a chance to quickly go online and get us some maps so that when we got to Ghent we wouldn’t get lost.
Unfortunately the maps I downloaded weren’t sufficient to enable us to navigate our way to our chosen campsite at Blargassmen in Ghent. With Drama behind the wheel we quickly got lost, really lost, we drove around the suburbs of Ghent for about an hour with the loathing growing and growing, until it all finally came to a head when we got stuck down a small, one lane street that finally became a dead end. Anyone who has ever driven the whale that is the HMAS Messy Days knows that this isn’t a good way to go.
After Le Glint stepped in to get the whale of the beach we were within minutes of a full blown attack of the Fear and Loathing and calling off the entire tour de fear. I was beginning to dial Le Count to tell him to unpack his bags, when all of a sudden Le Glint said “Why can’t we just have a little device on our dash board that shows us where we are and where we are going?”
“It sounds like you are talking about a tom tom” I said,
“Yeah” he replied “something like that”. It was like a light bulb going on- long story short we pulled over at the next big store we saw, brought a Tom Tom and within 9 minutes we were pulling over at the Campsite of dreams in Ghent. We quickly set up camp and headed a KM up the road to the main highway to see the bikes go past. We saw them, they were fantastic, and we came back to the Messy Days happy, happy boys. The tour de fear is back on track Tom Tom has come to the rescue. Tomorrow we head to Waregem, then down to Compignen to see the next stage of the race.
UPDATE - Le Glint has been stripped of his early leader status after he managed to get us bogged this morning by insisting last night that we back into our camp site - shunning the concrete paths they provided for our van- He had to be nose out "it will look cooler" he said - well he certainly looked cool this morning as we tried to dig our way under our 4500 kg Bus in order to get the chocks under the wheels.
Eventually we got free, but the race for the title of best tourist is now wide open.
Le Glint and I met for a prologue of our own at the Shaftsterbury Avenue Walkie, to compare form and witness the Might Wallabies destroy a hapless Springboks B team. The early action represented mere shadowing, without the Count present neither le Glint or I wanted to give anything away.
As the Wallabies began to run over the weak boks the first card of the tour was played as le Glint displayed a newly gained skill, GUILE. He began to slow his cadence, slipping behind a little more each pint then racing to catch up at the end. He began to lick his lips and look pained; complaining of the extra sweetness of the Snakey B’s (which was the drink of choice).
Now anyone who knows anything about cycling knows that you attack when your opponents are weak, you turn up the wick so that the damage to your opponents can be maximised, I attacked. Like a fully EPO’d Ullrich, I charged, the beers flowed, and the sass came like a torrent it was like I was dancing on my pedals putting on a show for the watching crowds. It appeared to all watching that, even at this early stage, Drama was up to his old tricks in destroying the likes of le Glint and le Count at any test of skills and abilities.
The cycling had begun by this time, giving me all the chances to display his vast knowledge of cycling as he told anyone within hearing distance (including many of the cyclists) exactly what he thought about each cyclist as they went off on their opening cycle of their own tour. Things almost went wrong with an early visit from the loathing when I pointed out to all the Brits present that David Millar was nothing but a Drug Cheat – as I noted at the time- “if he couldn’t do it without cheating before, how can he do it now?” The brits don’t have a sense of humour about anything.
Anyone else who knows anything about the cycling will also know about the red zone, the time when your legs go from beneath you, when your pilot light flickers brightly for a moment before being distinguished with a frightening coldness It became very clear all of a sudden that le Glint had been foxing, like Lance in 2000 he pretended to be on the ropes to force me to show my cards early, and it worked. Le Glint turned the wick back up just as I entered the red zone. It was messy ladies and gentlemen – I can only give feedback from what I’ve heard from others who were there, as I wasn’t really there (body not mind if you know what I mean) but the long and the short of it was le Glint had out foxed and destroyed me, posting his first victory over the mighty Drama in a long, long time.
The first day ended with Drama face down in a bed at the Savoy, with le Glint partying at the Disco’s till all hours of the morning. Le Glint, such a strong candidate now days, looks fantastic in yellow.
The next day was the official beginning of the Tour De France, gingerly I pulled myself out of bed and booted up for another day. Jlo and I travelled down to the Tower Bridge to meet with le Glint – I don’t need to tell you that he was cock-a-hoop, but hey, after the best part of a decade living in the shadow BA Tron/Drama he was finally a leader in his own right. I don’t want to say that some people were heard to mention the words “Floyd”, “Testosterone” and “Coincidence?” all in the same sentence but they were.
This gives me an opportunity to give you a snapshot of what our tourists will be doing for the next 21 days. We strolled down to London Bridge, amongst a massive crowd of around a million people (spread over 203 km so it wasn’t that thick a crowd) on a nice sunny morning, and stood on the side of the rode and waited for the action to happen. We stood there for probably forty minutes, getting free stuff from the T-Mobile marketing babes and trying to ignore the annoying merchandising staff who drive up and down the course trying to fob off Tour merchandise. Interestingly, in Britain on Sunday the merchandise packs were 20 pounds, in Dunkirk on Monday 20 Euros – beautiful.
Anyways, so there we were watching the street, getting free stuff and waiting. Finally after about an hour we started to note more and more vehicles going by, we sensed the Tour was approaching. Another ten minutes passed, with perhaps 130 more cars going past and finally, finally, 189 cyclists came sweeping up around the hill, past the Tower of London and down onto the Tower Bridge. They were fast, they were colourful, the crowd cheered, and then they were gone. An hour ten of waiting for 20 seconds of gratification, it was magnificent.
Not much else to say about Sunday, I had my final afternoon on the couch at the Pickle, then we caught the train for Dover and the Ferry for Calais, eventually arriving at my new home, the HMAS Messy Days around 11 PM.
Today the Tour de Fear finally really kicked off as we set off to investigate the continent and search for ‘the answer’, to what? – We’ll tell you when we know.
The day started well with the Messy Days handling the trip from Calais (we’re we stayed in the car park) to Dunkirk with ease. That was were the fun began, we were hungry by this time, but couldn’t seem to find any open café’s, we saw a McDee’s but drove past it thinking we could find it later, we were wrong. We drove around the tight, small streets of the once war ravaged Dunkirk in our whale of a bus, trying in vain to find the golden arches that would represent freedom from the ravages of starvation that were fast bringing on a fresh visit of the Loathing.
Finally we found the arches, but were heartbroken to find them shut – we were not happy. Disappointed we drove back into town, parked the bus, and set off for the Tour de France. We got down to the main part of Dunkirk, had a quick tour around the main highlights of the town square, saw the tour cars start to arrive, went to the merchandising tent (we’re we met the first French babe of the tour) and we’re just about to head to the People’s Village when it started to rain, and not just rain, but storm. We weren’t happy, being two lads from Bris Vegas we were naturally in t-shirts, canto’s, and pluggers, and it was cold, driving rain. We brought two Tour de France umbrellas but the damage had been done.
Cold, wet and full of loathing for Dunkirk we went back to the Messy Days, warmed up and went back to Mac Dee’s to finally get some food. Full of delightful Quick Burgers (we nixed Mac Dee’s on the strength of the serving babes at Qucik Burger) we headed off for Ghent in Belgium in order to see the finish of the stage (having written off the start of the stage).
We soon ran into a new problem as Le Glint began to have a problem staying awake – this wouldn’t have been a problem, excepting for the fact that he was driving at the time. We had to pull over for a pit stop just short of Ghent. This gave me a chance to quickly go online and get us some maps so that when we got to Ghent we wouldn’t get lost.
Unfortunately the maps I downloaded weren’t sufficient to enable us to navigate our way to our chosen campsite at Blargassmen in Ghent. With Drama behind the wheel we quickly got lost, really lost, we drove around the suburbs of Ghent for about an hour with the loathing growing and growing, until it all finally came to a head when we got stuck down a small, one lane street that finally became a dead end. Anyone who has ever driven the whale that is the HMAS Messy Days knows that this isn’t a good way to go.
After Le Glint stepped in to get the whale of the beach we were within minutes of a full blown attack of the Fear and Loathing and calling off the entire tour de fear. I was beginning to dial Le Count to tell him to unpack his bags, when all of a sudden Le Glint said “Why can’t we just have a little device on our dash board that shows us where we are and where we are going?”
“It sounds like you are talking about a tom tom” I said,
“Yeah” he replied “something like that”. It was like a light bulb going on- long story short we pulled over at the next big store we saw, brought a Tom Tom and within 9 minutes we were pulling over at the Campsite of dreams in Ghent. We quickly set up camp and headed a KM up the road to the main highway to see the bikes go past. We saw them, they were fantastic, and we came back to the Messy Days happy, happy boys. The tour de fear is back on track Tom Tom has come to the rescue. Tomorrow we head to Waregem, then down to Compignen to see the next stage of the race.
UPDATE - Le Glint has been stripped of his early leader status after he managed to get us bogged this morning by insisting last night that we back into our camp site - shunning the concrete paths they provided for our van- He had to be nose out "it will look cooler" he said - well he certainly looked cool this morning as we tried to dig our way under our 4500 kg Bus in order to get the chocks under the wheels.
Eventually we got free, but the race for the title of best tourist is now wide open.
Opening Ceremony
There will be more detail following on this event (when the lovely JLo submits her guest post) but this post needs to be a place holder.
The Tour De France opened on Friday with much fanfare in London; I headed down to Trafalgar Square to witness the extravaganza. And what an event it was – we’re talking about community cycling groups, hip hop dances, a DJ, and Lance Armstrong Tribute films. In short it was horrible, I’ve never actually watched a complete Olympic opening ceremony but if any one was planning to head to London for the 2012 Olympic’s Opening Ceremony I can guarantee that it will be a hit.
A final word before JLo ways in – One of the big things they stress when you’re watching the Tour De France is that its free, all I can say is ‘they’re lucky’.
The Tour De France opened on Friday with much fanfare in London; I headed down to Trafalgar Square to witness the extravaganza. And what an event it was – we’re talking about community cycling groups, hip hop dances, a DJ, and Lance Armstrong Tribute films. In short it was horrible, I’ve never actually watched a complete Olympic opening ceremony but if any one was planning to head to London for the 2012 Olympic’s Opening Ceremony I can guarantee that it will be a hit.
A final word before JLo ways in – One of the big things they stress when you’re watching the Tour De France is that its free, all I can say is ‘they’re lucky’.
Saturday, July 7, 2007
HMAS Messy Days Express
"A specter is haunting Europe" - Marx sure knew what he was talking about. The Kapitan, Interpol super hero and all round nice guy, has taken delivery of the Messy Days Express. Below are some photos to give you some ideas of the sacrifices made by all members of the tour de fear. We wont be doing it comfortable, but we will be doing it- and thats all that matters.
(Three of us have to try and live in this thing?)
(HMAS MessyDays Express: Showing her true colours in the car park at Calais)
(He has the same shirt in grey - the real question is why is he looking so serious... )
(going down a hard road - down a hard road - down know where I've been)
(HMAS MessyDays Express: Showing her true colours in the car park at Calais)
(He has the same shirt in grey - the real question is why is he looking so serious... )
(going down a hard road - down a hard road - down know where I've been)Le Messy Days Express
So maybe it is time to explain a few things about Le Messy Days Express…the name seems so simple, and yet there is more to it than would first appear…in the early days it became quiet clear that, much like a champion racehorse, no matter how impressive the steed, without a good name you cannot have a true champion. Despite all the great races won, it is a catchy and witty name that makes any of the horses performances truly memorable…and so it was that we set out to name the carriage of justice with only one rule – the title had to include the word “express” (the loving relationship between France and the Yanks also had an influence in many of the proposed titles)
Here are the final contenders:
12. The Lone Star Express
11. The Freedom Fries Express
10. The Rainbow Warrior Express
9. The We Saved Your Butts at Normandy Express
8. The 'Ginger cheats who take testosterone to win the tour de France are okay' Express
7. The Michael Rogers Supporters Club Express
6. The Kloden is Kolossal Express
5. The We're Not Tourists Express
4. The Why are there so many Cyclists on the Road? Express
3. The Lady Anna of Fire Express
2. The Lyn's Girl Express
But we finally settled for:
1. The You’re All Surrender Monkeys, Do You Speak English Express
Which, if you take all the first letters you get:
- The Yasm Dyse Express
Or if you look for Anagrams of those first letters you get
- The Messy Day Express
Here are the final contenders:
12. The Lone Star Express
11. The Freedom Fries Express
10. The Rainbow Warrior Express
9. The We Saved Your Butts at Normandy Express
8. The 'Ginger cheats who take testosterone to win the tour de France are okay' Express
7. The Michael Rogers Supporters Club Express
6. The Kloden is Kolossal Express
5. The We're Not Tourists Express
4. The Why are there so many Cyclists on the Road? Express
3. The Lady Anna of Fire Express
2. The Lyn's Girl Express
But we finally settled for:
1. The You’re All Surrender Monkeys, Do You Speak English Express
Which, if you take all the first letters you get:
- The Yasm Dyse Express
Or if you look for Anagrams of those first letters you get
- The Messy Day Express
Le Comte – Biography of a True Man of the People, A True Man for the People
Born under cloudy skies and in blustery winds in Brisbane Town to immigrant parents, it is easy to stereotype the young Le Comte as a battler from below the poverty line, yet that in itself would conflict with his moniker – The Count.
To truly understand the complexity and omnipresence that is Le Comte it is necessary to step back nigh on three generations to the same cloudy skies and blustery winds in the Irish County of Leitrim. Here it is that a caring, loving yet very naive nineteen year old maid (the future great grandmother of Le Comte) is seduced by the brave, courageous and strong-willed son of the Duke...The rest, they say, is history. The maid fleeted away in the still of night to the moorlands of Scotland with a minimal bequest, enough to get by, but not nearly enough to consider a better life, and the young son shipped of into the navy to serve in his fathers’ regiment and learn the discipline so sorely missing in his current demeanour...
And nigh on a hundred years the blood that runs through those veins, runs through those of Le Comtre. A young man brought up on the wrong side of the tracks, in the working class suburbs of Australia, with the earnest and good-willed nature of his great grandmother, the hard working ethos of the generations of the lower working classes, and yet the gallantry and courage, as well as the rebellious streak, that came from the regal blood of his great grandfather...in truth, he is a man of the people, a man who is both of the people and for the people.
From his immigrant roots Le Comtre was quick to sharpen his mind, as well as taking to work from a very early age – a trait that would continue throughout his life. He paid every cent of his education with the currency that was his abilities, his hard work and incessant effort. From suburban factory work, to the underground coal mines, and everything in between, he worked hard to make a living and provide shelter from the rain. Every scar and scraped knuckle worn like a badge of honour.
And yet the sense of adventure, a trait of that thin wisp of regal blood, still flowed in his veins. And so the battler from the wrong side of the tracks, who had travelled that hard road more times than he cared to imagine left his home, put everything he owned into a 2 x 3m storage container, packed a rucksack and hitchhiked the nearest plane to try to lend a helping hand to two of his dearest friends in France.
He wears no crown and asks for no sympathy or assistance, he only asks that everyone on the fair earth be treated equally and that the power of the people prevail.
To truly understand the complexity and omnipresence that is Le Comte it is necessary to step back nigh on three generations to the same cloudy skies and blustery winds in the Irish County of Leitrim. Here it is that a caring, loving yet very naive nineteen year old maid (the future great grandmother of Le Comte) is seduced by the brave, courageous and strong-willed son of the Duke...The rest, they say, is history. The maid fleeted away in the still of night to the moorlands of Scotland with a minimal bequest, enough to get by, but not nearly enough to consider a better life, and the young son shipped of into the navy to serve in his fathers’ regiment and learn the discipline so sorely missing in his current demeanour...
And nigh on a hundred years the blood that runs through those veins, runs through those of Le Comtre. A young man brought up on the wrong side of the tracks, in the working class suburbs of Australia, with the earnest and good-willed nature of his great grandmother, the hard working ethos of the generations of the lower working classes, and yet the gallantry and courage, as well as the rebellious streak, that came from the regal blood of his great grandfather...in truth, he is a man of the people, a man who is both of the people and for the people.
From his immigrant roots Le Comtre was quick to sharpen his mind, as well as taking to work from a very early age – a trait that would continue throughout his life. He paid every cent of his education with the currency that was his abilities, his hard work and incessant effort. From suburban factory work, to the underground coal mines, and everything in between, he worked hard to make a living and provide shelter from the rain. Every scar and scraped knuckle worn like a badge of honour.
And yet the sense of adventure, a trait of that thin wisp of regal blood, still flowed in his veins. And so the battler from the wrong side of the tracks, who had travelled that hard road more times than he cared to imagine left his home, put everything he owned into a 2 x 3m storage container, packed a rucksack and hitchhiked the nearest plane to try to lend a helping hand to two of his dearest friends in France.
He wears no crown and asks for no sympathy or assistance, he only asks that everyone on the fair earth be treated equally and that the power of the people prevail.
Le Count Joins Le Tour
And so it was that in May, as the anticipation and interest began to grow across the globe, Le Tour de Fear was still a definitive two horse race. Le Messy Days Express was a carriage of justice for only two men (despite its enormous carriage) and Team Fear was a mere dynamic duo…
It was still an appealing prospect to follow Le Drame and Le Luine half way across Europe, and yet something was missing…
Essentially, you cannot get a trifecta with only two horses; any true carriage of justice requires a captain, a first mate and most importantly a deck hand (not to mention the fact that it has three beds); and despite the numerous dynamic duos throughout history, the thought of two guys wearing their undies on the outside and living together is a little, well, gay…
And so it was that something substantial was missing…after all, how many positions are there on a dais? How many meals in a day? How many people in the front row? And how can you possibly break a 1-1 dead lock when a decision is put to the vote?
Call it the third part of the Holy Trinity, here to deliver the team from evil (or to evil, depending on the vote)...call it the ubiquitous third party of American politics, here to change the populace outcome of the election and steer the world in a better direction, or just call it someone else who had the life force to put his hand up and join the party...
Call him Le Comte
It was still an appealing prospect to follow Le Drame and Le Luine half way across Europe, and yet something was missing…
Essentially, you cannot get a trifecta with only two horses; any true carriage of justice requires a captain, a first mate and most importantly a deck hand (not to mention the fact that it has three beds); and despite the numerous dynamic duos throughout history, the thought of two guys wearing their undies on the outside and living together is a little, well, gay…
And so it was that something substantial was missing…after all, how many positions are there on a dais? How many meals in a day? How many people in the front row? And how can you possibly break a 1-1 dead lock when a decision is put to the vote?
Call it the third part of the Holy Trinity, here to deliver the team from evil (or to evil, depending on the vote)...call it the ubiquitous third party of American politics, here to change the populace outcome of the election and steer the world in a better direction, or just call it someone else who had the life force to put his hand up and join the party...
Call him Le Comte
Le Luire
It is often difficult to discern exactly when Le Luire came into this small world. A somewhat troubled boy, he had the mantle of the forgotten middle child thrust upon him from earliest living memory. Competing for affection with an overachieving, daddy’s girl and a puppy dog eyed, mummy’s favourite is difficult for any young boy, Le Luire was referred to at the dinner table as “That Other Boy” (TOB). Sure he was given the privilege of “Heir to the Throne” and endowed with the family middle name but with his mother’s inability to keep a husband, TOB was never able to relish in the true love of his father.
Without a consistent father figure over his impressionable years, TOB grew to be extremely awkward among his peers. Struggling to make any real friends as their family was moved from town to town. Primary school never provided TOB with any ‘favourable’ memories (or to be more specific, no memories that will assist the picture I'm trying to paint of myself in this story).
The first glimpse of Le Luire came in early high school. Shipped off to boarding school in grade eight in the ultimate display of parental love, TOB had blossomed into a strong, muscular young man. Holidays spent in the Riviera district of the northern rivers saw the young ladies at the campsite captivated by him, following TOB around, flirting incessantly with him and wearing needlessly skimpy bathing suits to prop up their 'insecurities'. However his awkwardness as TOB prevented him from taking advantage of these opportunities, leaving him only to get drunk and hit on his sister's desperate single friends.
TOB grew at an un-even pace through the rest of his teenage years, excelling in certain areas but then failing in others, his frustrations were only enhanced by watching siblings fail at endeavour after endeavour (law school, acting, modelling, reality tv, a father's love, just to name a few). TOB sensed that an opportunity was being exposed to him that he could either let pass by or step up and accept. A family, a herd or a peer group can only truly survive if they have that rock to depend on. An eagle that soars above the chickens, the leader of the pride, a general, a pillar, that one to say “This is where we’re going and this is what we’re doing”. In short, a true Renaissance Man.
The clouds of indifference had parted and a single ray of sunshine beamed through, TOB was no longer and the man that would become Le Luire was born.
(All things to all men)
The problem was that he knew in himself he wasn’t yet ready, he would have to learn how this kind of man was to behave. He resolved to become a student of the world. Having already graduated from the school of hard knocks that was his life so far, he knew he already had a head start. He would focus on becoming all things to all men, learning and modelling the great people and characters from past and present. He would adopt their skills, values and beliefs that would help him serve mankind. Passion, Ambition, Discipline, Humility, Compassion, Modesty - he would have them all.
The next five years brought on a time in the man's life where some had described "The Spark" to have left him completely. They said the great man was finished and no longer could he live up to the standard that he set in his early twenties. What those naysayers didn't realise was that he was busy developing and mastering his skills. The infamous 'Alphabet' game, The B&S Ute, late nights studying the market, the New Years Eve party, dinners on the balcony, singing on the bus home from rugby, the Hawthorne Rd house. All of these were in a way him 'training' and developing himself.
Now ten years later he has reached his goal. He has become all things to all men. The 'Glint' has returned to his eye. Le Luire has arrived. He is made up of three different characters, of which you may know one or all. Le Jim is the all round nice guy, the consummate son, the loving brother. He gives to charity, donates his time to teaching others what he knows and is always there when a friend needs a hand. The Best Mate. Le Money is the hard headed business man. Cold and calculating, he would not only sell his mother to make a deal but he'd send her C.O.D. He has massive goals and will never stop until they are reached. Finally Le Kapitan is the spy who loved me. He is suave and sophisticated, impeccably dressed with exquisite taste. He walks in a room and everyone knows he's there. The ladies, helpless against his unwavering charm, all want him and the men all want to be him.
Together the three characters work harmoniously, without one, the others would wither and die. The man has mastered changing between these alter egos as the situation requires and sometimes within a flash of an eye he can switch and then switch back. They are one: the characters, the man, the life.
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
The World According to Drama: Biography of a Dreamer
Born B.A. Tron to loving parents the Old Grey Mare and the (cleverly titled) Old Man, Drama is the type of knockabout hero whose story resonates with people of all backgrounds.
As a young man he was thrown into the spotlight, filming an ad for a local supermarket at 4 years old set him on his path to a life on the stage and screen.
Growing up in the far north of Queensland as a budding superstar became too hard for the Tron family, with marriage breakups, house moves and well, Drama, being the norm as the young artist grew from a child into a young man. Following his families 35th move in 7 years young B A Tron became disenchanted as a former child star and went in search of a new identity.
First he tried calling himself Sanders, playing the typical high school jock he ran with the right crowds and seemed to be a happy soul. But behind the scenes the role of Sanders never fit him properly. He rebelled against the one dimensional role of his identity and secretly yearned for something more; after a small role in a school production of Bugsey Malone was followed by a scene stealing performance in a independent production of Our Countries Good, the youthful virtue of 'Sanders' was left behind as B.A. took on a new, edgier identity, Drama.
Intent on following his dreams of the silver screens of Broadway Drama left high school and his youthful persona behind to take a Bachelor of Arts degree at the state college. Life in the big university wasn't as smooth as Drama initially imagined, the roles didn't come as quickly as he assumed, and after being knocked back from being allowed to even audition for Big Brother 3 and Australian Idol he sunk to the ultimate depths. He followed in the footsteps of the ultimate child star, Gary Coleman, and became a security guard.
Luckily things turned up for Drama just as things were at their darkest point, when his brilliance was recognized by his mysterious benefactor 'The Money'. 'The Money' was so taken with the story of Drama, and of his incredible talents that he sponsored the young actor on a series of projects. Yet few turned into successes for our young hero.
After a number of attempts to get work on the hit program 'My Restaurant Rules' failed, and his short running reality program 'The Hawthorn Hounds: Online' was pulled from the net for obscene graphics. Drama finally found some success when the critics where widely profuse with their praise of his gonzo writing project 'The Gabba Stackathon'. With a medium that worked discovered, so many years after his initial success in Television commercials, Drama finally thought that his luck was changing.
He decided to launch the most daring project of his career:
A fratire documentary following his brave journey across the world in an attempt to convince Princess Diana to join Take That in a cross America concert tour. Unfortunately the budding film maker discovered that Robbie Williams had left the band, and Princess Di had died!
This marked a new low as Drama faced the ridicule of his critics and a drying up of funding from his backer 'The Money'. In a funk, Drama briefly flirted with a new corporate identity 'Will' this autumn, but has decided to give the Drama moniker one last run with this his most daring artistic endevour ever.
With his long time backer and collaborator 'The Money' back on board, and new collaboration partner 'The Count' joining him, The Tour de Fear represents Drama's last shot at the big time. He goes into this journey with three goals:
a) to get the 'drama' brand recognized on an international stage (watch the side of the bus, and any high jinks involving crowd members upsetting the cyclists in the worlds greatest race)
b) to buy an Apple IPhone
c) to capture the spirit of rock n roll on the pages of this blog as we describe a journey to the corner of Fear and Loathing in the outer suburbs of Hell.
Yossarian Lives
As a young man he was thrown into the spotlight, filming an ad for a local supermarket at 4 years old set him on his path to a life on the stage and screen.
Growing up in the far north of Queensland as a budding superstar became too hard for the Tron family, with marriage breakups, house moves and well, Drama, being the norm as the young artist grew from a child into a young man. Following his families 35th move in 7 years young B A Tron became disenchanted as a former child star and went in search of a new identity.
First he tried calling himself Sanders, playing the typical high school jock he ran with the right crowds and seemed to be a happy soul. But behind the scenes the role of Sanders never fit him properly. He rebelled against the one dimensional role of his identity and secretly yearned for something more; after a small role in a school production of Bugsey Malone was followed by a scene stealing performance in a independent production of Our Countries Good, the youthful virtue of 'Sanders' was left behind as B.A. took on a new, edgier identity, Drama.
Intent on following his dreams of the silver screens of Broadway Drama left high school and his youthful persona behind to take a Bachelor of Arts degree at the state college. Life in the big university wasn't as smooth as Drama initially imagined, the roles didn't come as quickly as he assumed, and after being knocked back from being allowed to even audition for Big Brother 3 and Australian Idol he sunk to the ultimate depths. He followed in the footsteps of the ultimate child star, Gary Coleman, and became a security guard.
Luckily things turned up for Drama just as things were at their darkest point, when his brilliance was recognized by his mysterious benefactor 'The Money'. 'The Money' was so taken with the story of Drama, and of his incredible talents that he sponsored the young actor on a series of projects. Yet few turned into successes for our young hero.
After a number of attempts to get work on the hit program 'My Restaurant Rules' failed, and his short running reality program 'The Hawthorn Hounds: Online' was pulled from the net for obscene graphics. Drama finally found some success when the critics where widely profuse with their praise of his gonzo writing project 'The Gabba Stackathon'. With a medium that worked discovered, so many years after his initial success in Television commercials, Drama finally thought that his luck was changing.
He decided to launch the most daring project of his career:
A fratire documentary following his brave journey across the world in an attempt to convince Princess Diana to join Take That in a cross America concert tour. Unfortunately the budding film maker discovered that Robbie Williams had left the band, and Princess Di had died!
This marked a new low as Drama faced the ridicule of his critics and a drying up of funding from his backer 'The Money'. In a funk, Drama briefly flirted with a new corporate identity 'Will' this autumn, but has decided to give the Drama moniker one last run with this his most daring artistic endevour ever.
With his long time backer and collaborator 'The Money' back on board, and new collaboration partner 'The Count' joining him, The Tour de Fear represents Drama's last shot at the big time. He goes into this journey with three goals:
a) to get the 'drama' brand recognized on an international stage (watch the side of the bus, and any high jinks involving crowd members upsetting the cyclists in the worlds greatest race)
b) to buy an Apple IPhone
c) to capture the spirit of rock n roll on the pages of this blog as we describe a journey to the corner of Fear and Loathing in the outer suburbs of Hell.
Yossarian Lives
Monday, July 2, 2007
Prologue
A small living room in BrisVegas, some 17 000 kilometres away from where it is happening, Le Drame & Le Luire find, themselves enthralled in the events unfolding before them. It is late July, 2004 and the brothers are increasingly aware of the battle forming between the need for adequate sleep and their passion for watching the race they love. For the entire month Le Drame has led the charge, staying up late, night after night, captivated by the television coverage of The Tour de France.
The living room is silent but for the dulcet tones of Phil Liggett, commentator extraordinaire, giving the blow by blow of the time trial that is this stage of one of the oldest sporting events in history. Le Drame & Le Luire sit wrapped in crocheted wool blankets in a pitiful attempt to fight off the crippling bite of winter. Their bodies were always too big for these coverings, toes, a forearm, something always seemed to be exposed to the freezing air that would seep in windows whether they were open or shut. Lance Armstrong, the leader of the race and the man going for an unprecedented 6th title in a row, is seated on his bike in the starting gate. Anticipation has gripped the crowed and it was obvious to all that the television speakers did not do the atmosphere justice. Liggett starts into his usual spiel to bring colour to an important section of the race and Le Drame pipes up “How good would it be to be in the crowd, right now?” “Awesome” the response echos from Le Luire as a second later, Armstrong is away, 15km ahead of him up an incline of 9%. (which is huge)
He starts incredibly, by the first marker he has overtaken the man in front of him and is leading the field by over 20 seconds. As he makes each of the 21 switchback turns (basically a 90o turn up the mountain) the crowd go wild, 270 000 people line the edge of the mountain road. Fans run along side their champion as he dances on the pedals with a distain for the ability of his competitors, he eats into their times with every revolution of the pedals. Liggett’s tone has elevated and the camera doesn’t leave the wearer of the Maillot Jaune.
Breaking the half hour silence since the start, Le Luire can’t contain his excitement. “You know what’d be really good? To be sitting on the side of that mountain with a couple of deck chairs, a bottle of Bordeaux and a triple cream Brie” “Yeah” Le Drame retorted, not even breaking his gaze from the Sony HD Television.
Armstrong continues his dominance of the stage, his cadence increasing as kilometres tick by, 10km, 5km 2km. Inside the final kilometre the man is flying. He leads the second place rider by over a minute and the two brothers in Brisbane are on the edge of their seats. No longer can old man winter affect them, the excitement of the stage has sent their resting hearts a flutter. Five sweeping turns to go, Armstrong is a picture of strength. The determination on his face defining the pain he obviously feels in his legs. The crowd is alive, all aware of the importance of the display the champion has put on. There was now no doubt now that in five days time he would arrive on the Champs Elysees in the Maillot Jaune for the sixth time in a row, setting a new mark for excellence and determination. This was the sort of thing that defined a sport, like a searing leg break across the legs to dismiss Mike Gatting, a Winged Keel to win the Auld Mug for the first time, or a field goal to book ‘Bill’ a seat home on the plane.
One turn to go, Armstrong is flying. He comes out of the sweep like a highly tuned sports car and straightens up for the line. Liggett is yelling commentary to the tune of “the greatest of all time” and Le Drame says “Fuck it, lets go!” and Le Tour De Fear was born…………………
The living room is silent but for the dulcet tones of Phil Liggett, commentator extraordinaire, giving the blow by blow of the time trial that is this stage of one of the oldest sporting events in history. Le Drame & Le Luire sit wrapped in crocheted wool blankets in a pitiful attempt to fight off the crippling bite of winter. Their bodies were always too big for these coverings, toes, a forearm, something always seemed to be exposed to the freezing air that would seep in windows whether they were open or shut. Lance Armstrong, the leader of the race and the man going for an unprecedented 6th title in a row, is seated on his bike in the starting gate. Anticipation has gripped the crowed and it was obvious to all that the television speakers did not do the atmosphere justice. Liggett starts into his usual spiel to bring colour to an important section of the race and Le Drame pipes up “How good would it be to be in the crowd, right now?” “Awesome” the response echos from Le Luire as a second later, Armstrong is away, 15km ahead of him up an incline of 9%. (which is huge)
He starts incredibly, by the first marker he has overtaken the man in front of him and is leading the field by over 20 seconds. As he makes each of the 21 switchback turns (basically a 90o turn up the mountain) the crowd go wild, 270 000 people line the edge of the mountain road. Fans run along side their champion as he dances on the pedals with a distain for the ability of his competitors, he eats into their times with every revolution of the pedals. Liggett’s tone has elevated and the camera doesn’t leave the wearer of the Maillot Jaune.
Breaking the half hour silence since the start, Le Luire can’t contain his excitement. “You know what’d be really good? To be sitting on the side of that mountain with a couple of deck chairs, a bottle of Bordeaux and a triple cream Brie” “Yeah” Le Drame retorted, not even breaking his gaze from the Sony HD Television.
Armstrong continues his dominance of the stage, his cadence increasing as kilometres tick by, 10km, 5km 2km. Inside the final kilometre the man is flying. He leads the second place rider by over a minute and the two brothers in Brisbane are on the edge of their seats. No longer can old man winter affect them, the excitement of the stage has sent their resting hearts a flutter. Five sweeping turns to go, Armstrong is a picture of strength. The determination on his face defining the pain he obviously feels in his legs. The crowd is alive, all aware of the importance of the display the champion has put on. There was now no doubt now that in five days time he would arrive on the Champs Elysees in the Maillot Jaune for the sixth time in a row, setting a new mark for excellence and determination. This was the sort of thing that defined a sport, like a searing leg break across the legs to dismiss Mike Gatting, a Winged Keel to win the Auld Mug for the first time, or a field goal to book ‘Bill’ a seat home on the plane.
One turn to go, Armstrong is flying. He comes out of the sweep like a highly tuned sports car and straightens up for the line. Liggett is yelling commentary to the tune of “the greatest of all time” and Le Drame says “Fuck it, lets go!” and Le Tour De Fear was born…………………
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
