Permanent Vacation

I often find that going on holiday can be an odd time. It’s a time to relax and enjoy a bit of extra time doing things with the family, eat nice food, read a book or two and maybe enjoy a few beers along the way, all without having to worry about getting up in the morning for work, dropping the kids at school and enduring a mammoth commute for ninety minutes each way. It also gives me more time than usual to engage in swimming, biking and running.

This year, as is the way in the CTP household, we took ourselves off to France for our annual holidays. We did a bit of a grand tour around the beautiful country, clocking nearly 2500 miles on our tiny Renault in the process and I was really concerned that chances to exercise would be slim. But how wrong I was.

Swimming

About two weeks before we left, I’d decided to buy a new wetsuit as my existing Aquasphere Challenger had never quite fitted me properly and, as I have improved my swimming considerably in the eighteen months since I bought it, I was finding that the extra buoyancy provided by the thicker neoprene in the legs of the suit was lifting my legs too high in the water and I felt like I was being bent in two along the waist as I swam. After much deliberation, I got myself a Zone 3 Aspire, based on consistent good reviews, a keen price in the end of season sales (£200) and I liked the name and logo, which is daft but true.

I used my new suit a couple of times in the sea off of the Brittany coast but the majority of my swims were ‘skins’ as the water was around 19 degrees and I didn’t need it. The beach near where we were staying was excellent for swimming, about 350 metres long and closely guarded by three classic, almost caricature Baywatch-style lifeguards, complete with tiny Speedos, who spend most of their time working on their tans and chatting up pretty French girls as opposed to actually watching over people who are swimming. I’d swim about fifty metres out from the beach then go along parallel to the beach, turning at each end of the controlled section. I swam for around 45 minutes each day and it felt great. I also got the chance to swim a few times in a beautiful lake in the Jura mountain region a week or so later, again without a wetsuit. It was stunning, a huge 4km long lake, lined by big hills and with the clearest and cleanest water I’ve ever swum in outdoors. It too had a full-time life guard, which was cool and amusing at the same time. So, taking my new wetsuit 2500 miles around France was a waste of time but, apart from that, I had a fab time in the water.

Cycling

I went to France not expecting to cycle at all. I’d bought a nice new Boardman Air 9.0 frame only days before we left, finishing building it up at five o’clock the day before we left and I would have loved to test it out in France but our car is simply too small to include a bike along with all of us and our luggage. However, I did manage to borrow a 21kg (yes, 21kg!) shopping bike for a nice amble along the coast for a couple of hours and I also borrowed a mountain bike for a spectacular ride up the wonderfully titled Col de la Machine in the Vercors mountains.

The ride was completely unexpected, the people we were staying with offering me the chance to use their old, heavy and not used for two years aluminium mountain bike to go and explore the region for a couple of hours. They’d told me about this road up the mountain, not expecting me to take the challenge, but I couldn’t ignore the opportunity to climb a decent 12km, 6% average French col complete with hairpins and thirty degree heat, so I grabbed a bottle of water and a comedy looking kids’ helmet and off I went.

The climb started pretty much as soon as I left the house and I was feeling good and the bikes gears were working properly, which was a relief. All was going well and I was loving the steep gradient, smooth tarmac and lack of cars.

After about twenty minutes when I spotted a 3.5 tonne beer delivery lorry hurtling towards me down the road. Not wanting to get squashed by it if he lost control, I quickened my pace and moved to the side of the road. As the lorry got about 20 metres from me, I heard an almighty metallic crash and, to my horror, spotted three aluminium beer barrels fall off of the side of the lorry and start bouncing down the road towards me.

I really thought that this was it, I was going to get wiped out by a barrel of Heineken on a quiet mountain pass. If you picture the old footage of Barnes Wallace’s Dambusters bouncing bombs being tested on the sea, then that’s what these barrels looked like as they pinged off of the tarmac towards me. One barrel clattered past me and another went in the ditch ahead, leaving one heading for me. It’s amazing how quickly your brain computes things in these situations and, although I had nowhere to go as the road was lined with a wall of granite, I quickly calculated that the barrel seemed empty and that the bouncing was decreasing so meant it would probably not hit my head. The rouge barrel finally came to rest about five metres in front of me, no harm done. The driver had stopped the lorry but didn’t seem at all concerned that he’d been driving way too fast down a mountain with the curtain sides of his lorry open. My French is usually alright, but I was lost for words, so I just told him I was fine and then cycled off, pleased to get the hell out of there and away from the lorry. On reflection, I wish that I’d given him the verbal bollocking of his life, but that was an opportunity missed, sadly.

I carried on my way and got to the top of the col, only being passed by two deeply tanned, fluorescent jersey wearing Italians on their lovely Colnago bikes. Judging by the quizzed, half-laughing looks I got from them, I think they thought I was a bit bonkers as I made my way on a knackered mountain bike. I turned round at the top of the col as it was, without exception, the most dangerous yet stunning road I’ve ever been on. The road clung to a sheer cliff face with a 100m vertical drop to the left hand side, protected only by a knee height wall that a puff of wind would have had me over. I basically nearly wet myself and, coupled with my near death by beer barrel encounter, decided that enough was enough, wimped out and made my way back down the hill to engage in a spot of cheese and baguette eating.

Running

My running whilst on holiday wasn’t anywhere near as exciting as the cycling but quite rewarding, none the less. It was the first time I’d run since the Slateman triathlon in May, which was the only time I’d run since January because of my knee injury, so I was a bit nervous because of my lack of form. On the whole, it went ok, helped hugely by having either lovely rugged Breton coastline to stare at or amazing forest trails in the Jura to keep me occupied. I was encouraged and it didn’t hurt too much, so I’ll probably do a bit more in the autumn.

So there we have it, from my initial concerns that I’d get hardly any triathlon training done on holiday, I managed to come home feeling really fit and relaxed after doing some exercise just about every day and also fulfilling my family and dad duties and hugely enjoying that too. I even managed to watch a couple of stages of the Tour de l’Avenir (Tour of the Future) cycle race as it passed through the Jura region, which was a bonus.

As triathletes, we usually feel we need all the kit under the sun to do anything, but I managed to really get my training back on track having taken just very basic running and swim kit with me. Having time to train was probably the biggest difference between what I did in France and my usual routine at home, giving me the space to train, recover and then do it again. How nice it would be to be able to do that all the time.

Le Tour et Le Tour

I’m fortunate enough to have seen the Tour de France on many occasions and it’s always fun and different to the last time.

Amongst my many great memories are cooking to near death on the Champs Elysees as the sweltering sun beat down on us for hours before the race came by in 2008; watching in breathless awe on the final few metres of a completely flat sprint stage that finished down a dual carriage-way and which Robbie McEwan emerged from the snarling bunch to win; waiting by the start of a team TT, close enough to touch the likes of Cadel Evans, Cav, Gilbert, Greipel, Wiggo, Thomas, Voekler and Schleck; witnessing a big pile-up under the flamme rouge on a steep-hill finish in Les Herbiers; seeing Tom Boonen get mobbed, One Direction style, by fans maddened by too much sun (including me, I love Tom!) about a minute after he finished a TT in Rennes and, of course, witnessing Wiggo triumph in the final TT of the 2012 Tour edition in Chartres. And then there were two glorious days in Yorkshire last year, which was bonkers.

So, with the Tour de France starting this year in Holland and then working its way along the north coast of France, the lure of the Grand Boucle proved to be too tempting to resist and I made a late decision to pop across la Manche and watch Stage 6 of my favourite yearly sporting spectacle.

Simplicity was the key to my adventure being successful.

I put the kids to bed at 7.30pm, kissed Mrs CTP a fond farewell and headed in the car to Newhaven with my trusty single speed bike in the back. Once there, I unloaded, got changed into my cycling kit and headed for the midnight ferry to Dieppe. I was travelling light, just a tiny rucksack packed with arm and leg warmers, a lightweight rain jacket, earphones, ear plugs, iPhone and emergency charger, sunscreen, tooth brush, credit card, 40 Euros cash, a hat, a magazine and a pair of lightweight trainers.

There was a gaggle of about 40 cyclists gathered waiting to get on the ferry for the four hour crossing. Once we had perched our bikes in the car deck and made our way upstairs to the lounges, I bought a nice ham baguette and a bottle of beer, then settled down for a short kip. After four lumpy hours on the channel, we got to Dieppe and unloaded onto the quay.

I cycled into town, which is right next to the port, and it was empty of all but a few workmen putting up barriers and advertising hoardings. The intrepid few British cyclists who had made the trip slowly dispersed as we made our separate ways onto the Tour route. Not knowing the area at all, I decided to turn right onto the stage route and head for the stage’s two Category Four hills just outside town.

The roads were pretty much clear of any traffic and the weather dry, so I decided to keep going past the climbs until I found a nice café. This was a slight mistake as there weren’t many cafés around and the ones that were dotted along the route were closed as it was still only 6.00am. I was getting a bit cranky from a lack of food and caffeine but, two hours after getting off the boat, I got a waft of baking bread as I passed a small village, so I stopped to find the boulangerie nestled on the square of a picture perfect Normandy village. I was so hungry as purchased a tasty croissant aux amandes that I forgot to be embarrassed about how my French linguistic skills were escaping me, I was just happy to eat something. Then I turned round and headed back to the second climb again as I knew there was a small town at the foot of it, which meant cafés and coffee.

By now people were waking up and I got a few cheers as I made along the Tour route in the wrong direction from crazy Belgian fans as they sat outside their campervans. Once I got to the town, Pourville-sur-Mer, the crowds were thickening, so I got a coffee and a baguette and watched the world go by for a while, taking in the wonderful atmosphere that the Tour brings as small French towns light up with excitement for the day. I then went back up the climb, just for something to do (no mean feat on a single speed bike, I assure you), found a spot near the top and parked myself there to wait for the Tour.

Now, some people question the wisdom of spending five hours waiting to see a bike race go by for probably no more than twenty seconds, but that’s not the point. It’s the atmosphere, the smiling faces, families and friends huddled in groups on deckchairs eating enough food to feed, well, the Tour de France. It’s the wiry, leather skinned retired gentlemen on ancient steel framed bikes and wearing faded cycling club kit who nail the climb before sitting down at the road side with a bottle of beer. It’s the incredibly serious local police officers urging the crowds to move back hours before we even get a scent of cycling action. It’s the way that normal people, men, women and children, turn into rabid animals as they fight for a sample of washing powder or a cheap keyring thrown from a Caravan float as it flies by and it’s also about the rather clueless British MAMILs who stand out completely on their expensive bikes, breathless and exhilarated from the short climb.

It’s warm, amiable and quite beautiful to witness.

The vehicles flying by us towards the finish in Le Havre increased in number and speed and I cheered Dave Brailsford as he wafted past in his Jag. Then, eventually, the Tour came by.

I got a great view of the breakaway battle for the KOM points and then the peloton flowed past with Cav right at the front, conveniently, for us British fans who needed to spot at least one star from the UK to tell everyone about. I shouted his name but I don’t think he heard me. Even on a climb, they go by so quick it’s hard to properly identify anyone in particular, so I was happy with seeing Cav and getting a positive IDs of Ian Stannard, Michał Kwiatkowski in his rainbow World Champs jersey, the back of Chris Froome’s head and Tony Martin in the yellow jersey. The rest were just a blur of matching helmets, colourful jerseys and finely shaved legs.

Once they’d passed, I had a very broken yet convivial chat with a French bloke and his son who were amazed that I’d ridden a single speed bike up the hill and then I made my way back to Dieppe and the ferry. The town was still humming with happy crowds and the couple of dozen or so of British cyclists who were waiting at the port for the boat enthusiastically swapped ‘spot the Tour rider’ stories from their day.

The ferry ride home was perfect with sunshine, calm seas, tired legs and listening to Pearl Jam on my iPhone.

We landed at about 9.00pm and I was home by midnight, totally knackered. I did the whole thing using up one day of leave from work and spent £80 in total, including ferry, food and fuel for the car.

The Tour is one of the greatest sporting spectacles on the planet and it happens right on our doorstep every year. The French put on a very good bike race and all we have to do is turn up and enjoy it.

Allez, allez!

Pimp My Ride

As Lance said, It’s Not About The Bike. Clearly, it would seem.

Now we’re drawing ever nearer to zero hour in Tenby, I thought I’d focus the blog on the some of the kit I’ll be using at Ironman Wales 2013, starting with my trusty Planet X Pro Carbon bike.

I bought the frame for this bike five years ago when I was preparing for the 2009 Etape Du Tour that went up the crazy climb that is Mont Ventoux. I built it up using bits from my old Specialized Allez Sport and from various bargain eBay purchases. It’s a fantastic bike; light, reasonably comfortable and quick. Over the years, I’ve slowly replaced the donor parts with new components and now it’s fully spec’d up with Ultegra groupset and FSA finishing kit.

I bought the Planet X 52mm carbon deep section wheels last year when I won five hundred quid on the in-house lotto at work and they too are awesome pieces of kit. Being a seasoned roadie who likes hills, I ummm’ed and ahhh’ed for ages before I went down the deep section route but, now I have them, wouldn’t consider anything else. I’ve used them on the Dragon Ride up big hills and in very windy conditions and, frankly, I can’t see what the fuss regarding handling is all about and the aero positives outweigh any weight disadvantage negatives . They are smooth and fast. Fantastic hoops.

I did consider getting a time trial frame for Ironman Wales as I saw a very good offer a few months back and considered several factors, including the hilly Ironman Wales bike course. To be honest, the fact that the Pembrokeshire course is hilly didn’t eventually have any sway on my decision to stick with what I’ve got. I’d love a TT bike and reckon it would be alright to use one on a course with short, sharp hills such as at Ironman Wales. It was down to cash; I simply couldn’t justify purchasing a TT bike for what is effectively one 112 bike ride so decided to stick with what I’ve got. My heart is, and always has been, set on a nice titanium road frame, and so I’ll keep saving for that purchase one day in the future.

Therefore, I’ve had to pimp my ride.

I’ve had the tri-bars in the garage for ages after I did a time-trial with the A5 Rangers in 2006. I considered lighter ones but these do the job and are comfortable enough to keep in the aero position for hours at a time. I’ve added some bar tape for comfort and I cable tied an old bottle cage between them to carry my third bottle and it works just fine.

I got the position set up at Phil Corley Cycles in Milton Keynes (which you can read about here) and I find the overall tri position quite comfy and am able to maintain it without too many aches and pains.

I’ve used a compact chain set for a long time but have decided to go with an 11-28 cassette for Ironman Wales to make things a little easier on my legs. The tyres and Continental GP4000S.

I’ve added the bento box which is ace for carrying salty snacks and the pack under the saddle has a spare tube and levers, puncture kit, chain link, tyre boot, cable tie and multi tool in it. I’ll carry another tube and CO2 inflator in my jersey pockets.

Will this be ok for Tenby? I think so. I’m not and never will be a world champion; it’s all too easy to get carried away with these things and end up with a £4000 bike that’s being powered along by £1000 legs.

So there we have it. My ride.

Golden Balls

One thing that I’ve found from all this Ironman Wales lark is how quickly the weeks go by.

My already busy life of family, work, iPod playlist compilation, bike tinkering, ironing, delivering kids to school, mowing the lawn, modest DIY, watching Masterchef/The Apprentice/various sports on TV and writing a blog that has a readership reaching into double figures is now supplemented by Ironman training.

A lot of Ironman training.

I stated building my Ironman Wales in mid-January and my 24 week plan commenced in March. As I write this, there are just eight full weeks of preparation left until the big day in Tenby and three of those are tapering leaving only five weeks of full-on training to go.

It’s whizzed by but, on the whole, I’m feeling ready for the challenge ahead.

My swimming is coming on well despite a sense of impending doom due to my hapless technique and persistent post-operation shoulder worries but the lessons with Keith at the Swim Shed are positive. I’m breathing on both sides now and feel a little less out of control in the water. My long bike rides are just that, long, boring and totally necessary.

But I do have some concerns over my running.

It’s not my ability to cover the full marathon distance. In fact, since re-discovering my running mojo, I have few doubts that my running engine is much like the one in my car; old but reasonably well maintained. Unfortunately, like my lovely 13 year old VW Golf, old machines are prone to the odd niggle and my body is now starting to show signs from the constant battering it’s getting with a few injuries coming to the fore.

For ten years now I’ve worn custom-made orthotics following a stress fracture to my shin so my running gait is not that pretty to start with and I now have developed issues with the metatarsals in my right foot.

Alas, I fear this is the closest I’ll ever get to knowing what it’s like to be David Beckham and I can sympathise with ol’ Becks as to what it’s like to be hampered by a poorly foot. I sense the pain coming on after running about eight miles and it feels like I’m running on a big, hot pebble. I’ve got a metatarsal arch support in my right shoe now as well as the orthotics which, added to the cost of new Asics Gel Kayano’s means it would have been cheaper to buy Mrs CTP a nice pair of Jimmy Choo’s for her birthday, but I think they would chafe after a few miles if I went jogging in them.

So, eight weeks to go.

Will our dashing hero make it to the Ironman Wales starting line in one piece? Will his car keep running long enough to get him there in the first place? Is Mrs CTP ever going to get a nice pair of strappy heels? And who is the mysterious swim guru Keith?

Find out in our next exciting instalment!

 

Thursday             Run 13 miles

Friday                    Open water swim 4000 metres

Saturady              Bike ride 76 miles

Sunday                 Run 14 miles. Watch tennis on telly.

Monday               Rest day

Tuesday               Rest Day

Wednesday        Swim Shed lessons

Thursday             80 miles bike ride

Friday                    3500 metre open water swim

Saturday              12 mile run

 

He’s Behind You!

I’m trying to do two swims, two runs and two bike rides in a week with one rest day and, so far, it’s working out ok. Sunday is cycling day for me as, like most middle-aged aspiring Irondad’s, I have more time on Sunday than during the rest of the week.

I’ve got into the habit of heading over to a reasonably lumpy part of countryside not too far from where I live, the thinking being that I need to once again get used to riding over hills as there are many to be found on the Ironman Wales bike course.

It’s an area I know well. In fact, I spent a lot of time doing hill reps in the same area when I was training for the 2009 Etape Du Tour. That all went really well until I got to France on the big day and realised that Mont Ventoux is an awful lot bigger, steeper and hotter than anything the leafy Shires have to offer and it was therefore inevitable that the sight of me dragging my sorry arse up the mighty Géant de Provence in 35 degree heat was not going to be pretty.

So, although my local hills are not exceptionally massive, they’re all I have on my doorstep and will do the job for now, particularly as I’m still churning along on my wonderful old single speed bike which ensures my legs feel well worked by the time I get home for tea and a hot-cross bun.

It was a very snowy and cold morning but I was doing well, making good progress as I came down a longish shallow slope. As I did so, I overtook a bloke running along the side of the road who was light on his toes and chipping along at a fair rate.

Now, before I carry on, I want to get my excuses in early.

1) He was at least twenty years younger than me.

2) He looked very fit indeed.

3) He had compression shorts on in stupid cold and windy weather so he must have been remarkably tough.

4) It was really cold.

5) I’ve got a heavy winter bike with lights on.

6) I was approaching a junction so was on the brakes a bit.

7) I had a glass of Rosé last night.

8) I don’t think my energy bars agree with my tummy very much.

9) I stubbed my toe really, really hard on the bed the other day.

10) Did I mention that it was really, really cold?

Anyway, I’m shooting down this hill, flat on the tank, thinking I’m Wiggo descending the Tourmalet when I hear footsteps behind me.

Yes, footsteps.

I glanced over and I nearly jumped out of my skin when I saw a blur of fluorescent lycra and sinew. This lad had caught up and was overtaking me!

Damn those young people.

He smiled at me, evidently very pleased with his efforts. I kind of grimaced back, looking and certainly feeling a tad embarrassed. I wasn’t sure what to say but was absolutely sure I didn’t want to communicate anything that would stoke his ego anymore than it probably was already, so I opted for the time-honoured blokey greeting of a nod and saying ‘alright mate’ whilst trying to look tough and unbothered by his amazing physical feat at the same time.

I didn’t wait for the response, he clearly was alright.

 

Monday               1500m swim
Tuesday              1 hour turbo session
Wednesday        10km run in the dark
Thursday             Rest day
Friday               2150m swim
Saturday             13km run (not enough time for more, had to go to work)
Sunday               35 mile bike hilly ride (it was VERY cold)

Lance-gate

What can I say about Lance-gate that hasn’t been said already?

His appearance with Oprah was just about what everyone expected and I was pleased that he admitted to doping but could have done with more explanation; the closed question format that the host used was obviously pre-agreed and my recent flu jab probed much deeper than any of Oprah’s attempts to get to the bottom of it all.

I hope there’s more to come from Lance, but I fear all of this is just a lawyer driven charade to keep him out of the courts. Such a shame, once upon a time he was my cycling hero and I was looking forward to seeing him tackle an Ironman.

Who knows, maybe one day he will?

The Turbo Era

If it’s not one thing, then it’s another.

After a week in bed with a virus in December and the on-going recovery from my shoulder operation, I’ve started 2013 with a whimper by catching flu. And no, I don’t have the over-emphasised ‘man-flu’; I genuinely was floored and spent a few days with high temperatures and shivers that I thought were going to rattle the bones out of my body. Not pleasant.

As anyone who’s spent a few days in bed ill will know, the thud of the mail hitting the door mat is an exciting moment in the day and, judging by the deeper than usual thud, I guessed this month’s subscription copy of my triathlon magazine. I hastily decided my day would improve considerably if I had some pictures of unaffordable time trial bikes to look at, so decided to go and get the magazine.

Then the fun began.

I was shivering so much that I didn’t want to leave the marginal warmth of my bed. Eventually, I did muster the energy to get out of bed and go downstairs. After ten minutes of delicately negotiating the stairs without my fuzzy head letting me step into thin air, I got to the door. I then let out an old-man style groan as I bent down to pick it up from the floor. I straightened up and promptly collapsed into the front room where I stayed for the rest of the afternoon without even opening the magazine.

Now, I can have my darker moments and motivation can be an issue and I also know that a lot of sport is in the mind but I had to concede that maybe the idea of doing a triathlon anytime soon was going to be a little unrealistic!

That said, prior to my current debilitation, I did take bold cycling step. I invested in a turbo trainer.

Now, being a fairly traditional kind of cyclist, I hadn’t really consider a turbo before a year or two ago. Instead, when the long evenings drew in, I spend my cash on numerous lights and high-visibility layers, preferring to put the miles in on the cold, wet and lonely roads of wintery middle England.

In many ways I have to say I still really enjoy winter cycling and it’s not a big deal as long as you wrap up, light up and don’t fall off.

My issue comes more from having a family, a job and too much time spent in the car every day making mid-week rides just about impossible.

So a turbo it is.

I set it up with my best bike in our conservatory, completely blocking access to the washing machine and the woolly hats and gloves cupboard. My Planet X looks great perched there and I even used it twice, instantly recognising that this could be a valuable and time efficient way of getting some winter miles in.

Then I stopped pedalling, started shivering and retired to bed in a heap.

I have noticed this morning that a towel has appeared on the cross bar of my turbo mantled carbon wonder, so at least it’s getting some practical use, albeit as a clothes horse.

The Day the Circus Left Town

I’m finding it all a little bit sad that 2012 has actually been and gone. On so many levels, it was the most memorable time I’ve known and I think it will be hard to replicate such a series of events, personally and publicly.

2012 will forever mean sport to many people, and it truly was a fantastic year for Great Britain. The Olympics were, of course, the main attraction for the majority and I will never forget the feeling of sheer happiness that washed over the country for those couple of weeks. I cried when London was awarded the Olympics (sad but true) and I literally danced around the house when I found out I had got tickets to the athletics through the ballot. From my whooping and jumping, my wife thought I’d won the lottery and was a little disappointed when I told her it was Olympics tickets. To be with so many excited and smiling people in the Olympic Park was inspiring; it really was happy land.

I was in Hyde Park on Super Saturday for the women’s triathlon (about the only thing GB didn’t win a medal in that day) and the atmosphere was again wonderful. I spoke to all sorts of people from all sorts of countries and it was beautiful, I really felt part of a global community and was proud to be British amongst so many foreigners singing our country’s praises.

The standout moment for me has to be Wiggo winning gold in the TT. I was fortunate enough to have got a ticket and found myself a spot just 75m from the finish line. The atmosphere when Brad came past and over the line was immense and unlike anything I have ever experienced and probably ever will. You can even see me on the TV footage running alongside him with a camera as he ventured out onto the course once more to look for his family. An incredible day.

My 2012 Wiggofest had actually started a week or so before the Olympics when I dragged my family across the channel to watch the final two stages of le Tour. Seeing, first hand, a Brit wearing yellow and winning the final time trial in Chartres was the most amazing thing and I can honestly say it was one of the best days of my life. Chapeau to Chris Froome too, I like him and can’t wait to see what he does when he’s let of the leash.

Gongs for Wiggo and Brailsford are surely deserved, but where is Chrissie Wellington’s? She’s the most amazing athlete and person and her zero to hero rise in triathlon is the stuff of story books.

For me personally, 2012 was the strangest year. In cycling parlance, the first six months were a steep, steep climb. I’m talking Monte Zoncolan proportions here. Very hard, and no mad Italian Tifosi to push me along the way. My head was spinning, I was tired and scared. I then descended and gained a bit of a gap from the chasing pack, but they caught me up again. As the year ended, I was in the peloton, sheltering from the wind and hoping nobody will touch my wheel with theirs and send me down the road on my backside.

What have I learned in 2012? That swimming, cycling and running, my sports, really did change the lives of millions of people for a couple of weeks and the world really did seem a better place.

And that can’t be a bad thing.