YOU HAVE GOT TO BE TOUGH TO BE A CYCLING SUPPORTER

I ENJOYED a grandstand view of last weekend’s cycle tour. The route takes competitors right past my front gate so, without even moving from my doorstep, I can experience the whole event close up.

I hear the sizzle of tyres on tar, the panting breathing of the riders, the occasional muttered “move over, you dwerce!” and the smell of bicycle oil and sweat on the fresh dawn breeze. (I’m not sure what a dwerce is, but it seems to be a term of affection among racing cyclists.)

As in previous years, I was amazed at the stamina that was displayed during the event. In the pre-dawn light, a family set up folding chairs and a sun umbrella on the pavement next to my house and settled down to await the cyclists.

In due course, the leaders hove into view and the family leapt from their chairs and stood, clapping enthusiastically and shouting woo-woo as loudly as they could. The river of cycles grew from a trickle to a stream and then to a full-on flood and my spectator family clapped and woo-wooed every new group that passed.

It must have been very heartening for the cyclists to have such encouragement. I had my breakfast to the accompaniment of more clapping and unrestrained woo-wooing. When it was time for me to break for my morning coffee and rusk, the woo-wooing continued unabated.

I had a few domestic chores to complete during the morning, so several thousand cyclists whizzed past my house without my encouragement, but my little roadside group kept up their enthusiastic clapping and wooing.

Eventually, the river of bikes slowed to a trickle, and the tail-enders didn’t seem to need encouragement as they were doing a good line in fellowship themselves.

My roadside team eventually packed up and left, taking their umbrella and folding chairs. I estimated they’d been clapping and cheering without a break for about four-and-a-half hours. You see what I mean? You gotta be tough to be a cycling supporter. Not many other sporting events can claim to produce four-and-a-half hours of continuous clapping and woo-wooing.

Last Laugh

THE operatic soprano complained to her husband: “Why do you always go out on to the balcony when I practise my singing?

Don’t you like my voice?”

“It’s not that,” said her husband. “I just want the neighbours to see that I’m not beating my wife.”