Monday 16th July 2012. Here I sit, dazed, confused and not entirely sure if the last 10 days actually happened...
Back to work and back to reality after 10 days of blood and dust up in the French alps. My legs are killing me. Cut to shreds, bruised and battered. They look like they've had sausages taped to them and then been thrown into a pit of hungry dogs. Mauled. My wrists are creaking and my fingers are locked in a bar shaped grip, like an Action-Man claw. My arse cheeks are dead and feel like they've been both been punched by the school bully. Walking is an interesting experience.
Bikes in boxes and hand weapons in your luggage. After a bit of research me and J-balls realised flying out and renting a motor was going to cost the same if not less than driving out - when you factor in channel tunnel, french tolls, diesel, breakdown cover, wear n tear on your van... bla bla. So after 3 days of packing and repacking our gear, to try and get it at least close to the whopping 32kg Easyjet generously allow - with extra money for sports gear... we headed over to Liverpool to catch our flight. With hand luggage that weighed more than a small fat man.
All went pretty smoothly, apart from my hand luggage - which contained most of the small but crucial nick-nacks from my bike... So surprise then I got sent down the special queue to have my bag gone over by an overzealous little scouser. He didn't seem concerned by the huge roll of gaffer tape and cassette rings - which, had I been in the terrorism game, would be the tools I'd go for given the choice - instead he went for some teeny weeny zip ties, 4cm, and said they could be used as restraints. "For what?!?! A mouse aye ya daft scouse bastard!!!?" I said. In my head...
Back to work and back to reality after 10 days of blood and dust up in the French alps. My legs are killing me. Cut to shreds, bruised and battered. They look like they've had sausages taped to them and then been thrown into a pit of hungry dogs. Mauled. My wrists are creaking and my fingers are locked in a bar shaped grip, like an Action-Man claw. My arse cheeks are dead and feel like they've been both been punched by the school bully. Walking is an interesting experience.
Bikes in boxes and hand weapons in your luggage. After a bit of research me and J-balls realised flying out and renting a motor was going to cost the same if not less than driving out - when you factor in channel tunnel, french tolls, diesel, breakdown cover, wear n tear on your van... bla bla. So after 3 days of packing and repacking our gear, to try and get it at least close to the whopping 32kg Easyjet generously allow - with extra money for sports gear... we headed over to Liverpool to catch our flight. With hand luggage that weighed more than a small fat man.
All went pretty smoothly, apart from my hand luggage - which contained most of the small but crucial nick-nacks from my bike... So surprise then I got sent down the special queue to have my bag gone over by an overzealous little scouser. He didn't seem concerned by the huge roll of gaffer tape and cassette rings - which, had I been in the terrorism game, would be the tools I'd go for given the choice - instead he went for some teeny weeny zip ties, 4cm, and said they could be used as restraints. "For what?!?! A mouse aye ya daft scouse bastard!!!?" I said. In my head...
Then once he got going it was my linkage, shock bushings, cable ferrules, Park chain breaker (he picked this up and flicked the tiny 3cm x 5mm bar that turns the breaker, then looked at me raising eyebrows, as if to say "that could do some serious damage..") and more understandably my chain. Things were starting to look pretty bad so I bargained with him and while he went off to ask his superior about my chain I bundled the other most important bits back in to the bag... I lost a chain, my pride and some zip ties. I'll take that.
The other members of our band of brothers made their way out in 2 vans of 4 in each. Needless to say - flying turned out to be an altogether more speedy and relaxing affair than the usual non-stop, 15 hour, red-eyed, redbull-fueled drive and our 2 hour trip with beer and chips in a hat caused some envy.
Geneva then and the bike box delivering conveyor belt broke down. So we took the opportunity to people watch and check out who else was onto our little fly-with-bike plan... Seems 7 orthodox jews with Konas and a whole bunch of bald English blokes with road bikes. Does riding a road bike make you bald? Or does it help to be bald if you ride a road bike? Dunno. Sweating, dragging cardboard boxed bikes around, it seems you need to pack a 2 euro bit if you want a trolley at Geneva airport. A 2 pence works just as well though we discovered. A Moroccan gent, with a fairly hard to ignore twitch, sorted us our rental car and laughed openly at my attempts at French.
The other members of our band of brothers made their way out in 2 vans of 4 in each. Needless to say - flying turned out to be an altogether more speedy and relaxing affair than the usual non-stop, 15 hour, red-eyed, redbull-fueled drive and our 2 hour trip with beer and chips in a hat caused some envy.
Geneva then and the bike box delivering conveyor belt broke down. So we took the opportunity to people watch and check out who else was onto our little fly-with-bike plan... Seems 7 orthodox jews with Konas and a whole bunch of bald English blokes with road bikes. Does riding a road bike make you bald? Or does it help to be bald if you ride a road bike? Dunno. Sweating, dragging cardboard boxed bikes around, it seems you need to pack a 2 euro bit if you want a trolley at Geneva airport. A 2 pence works just as well though we discovered. A Moroccan gent, with a fairly hard to ignore twitch, sorted us our rental car and laughed openly at my attempts at French.
First things first. Find a Decathlon and buy a tent. This meant we needed to get to Annemasse and so we had to drive round the bottom of lake Geneva. I've never seen so many beautiful girls pedaling by on bikes... It was like being in an arty film. An arty film where two sweaty men in a rental car, one wearing a hat that had earlier been used to hold airport burger and chips, gawp at French ladies pedaling by on bikes...
Arriving a few hours later at Bar Bush in Les Gets, the jolly Ex-pats were finishing up a pub quiz. Again. We bought two buckets of Hoegaarden and headed outside to watch marauding packs of British DHers roaming about looking for a woman. In a town full of British DHers roaming about looking for a woman.
After a couple of Hoegaardens and 2 whiskeys we headed up the hill and spent the night on the first empty chalet balcony we could find. We were woken from our drunken slumber by one of the biggest storms I've ever seen. Massive rolls of thunder and lightning that lit up the whole valley for a second, revealing the trees and alps beyond. Up bright and early next morning and a drive over to Chatel to set up camp for Slopestyle.
The next week is a blur of riding, camping, sunburn, getting moved on by the cops, railing berms, nailing drops, hitting step downs, flowing tracks, falling down Champery*, eating crap, smoking tabs, barbecuing by lakes, sleeping rough, playing drunken cards (loser takes a big swig of Monkey Shoulder - Jonny 1 Aaron 12), and having what is know as a great old time. *A note on Champery. Don't go if it's wet. Don't go anyway. But really don't go if it's wet. It will rape you. It will laugh at you as you slide, clinging to your bike, on your ass, pedal pins in shin skin, until it spits you out, next to Danny Harts whip jump, and leave you, stripped of pride and any notion you can ride a bike, curled up like a massive bloody baby in knee pads.
Arriving a few hours later at Bar Bush in Les Gets, the jolly Ex-pats were finishing up a pub quiz. Again. We bought two buckets of Hoegaarden and headed outside to watch marauding packs of British DHers roaming about looking for a woman. In a town full of British DHers roaming about looking for a woman.
After a couple of Hoegaardens and 2 whiskeys we headed up the hill and spent the night on the first empty chalet balcony we could find. We were woken from our drunken slumber by one of the biggest storms I've ever seen. Massive rolls of thunder and lightning that lit up the whole valley for a second, revealing the trees and alps beyond. Up bright and early next morning and a drive over to Chatel to set up camp for Slopestyle.
The next week is a blur of riding, camping, sunburn, getting moved on by the cops, railing berms, nailing drops, hitting step downs, flowing tracks, falling down Champery*, eating crap, smoking tabs, barbecuing by lakes, sleeping rough, playing drunken cards (loser takes a big swig of Monkey Shoulder - Jonny 1 Aaron 12), and having what is know as a great old time. *A note on Champery. Don't go if it's wet. Don't go anyway. But really don't go if it's wet. It will rape you. It will laugh at you as you slide, clinging to your bike, on your ass, pedal pins in shin skin, until it spits you out, next to Danny Harts whip jump, and leave you, stripped of pride and any notion you can ride a bike, curled up like a massive bloody baby in knee pads.
First sling together of my footage...
Neil's high speed impact with Joe Bowman of This is Sheffield. Would have been better if he'd hit a Frenchy... but at around 50mph in snow with failing brakes you can't be picky!!!
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