Fearlessly leading the Tour de Farce from behind

Iam often asked to recall columns readers have missed or misplaced. As my tenure of the Stoep comes to an end, I am recalling this one which was one of dozens about the Tours de Farce when six of us (all over 60) from 2002 onwards explored Europe on bicycles to bring back to Africa tales of the funny natives there.

My companions are as inexperienced as I am. None of us even owned a bike until three months ago, and here we are, about to cycle 1 000km down the Danube. The fellow in charge of the cycle hire depot in Passau (Bavaria) asked with obvious concern, “Are you sure you guys are going to be all right?”

We were wearing canary-yellow shirts emblazoned with the words “Cycle Lab”, the name of the firm that fitted us out.

The man was, I think, misled by the word “Lab”. He probably thought we were part of some heartless geriatric experiment.

We had spent the previous day walking around the medieval section of Passau, which is set on a great river junction on a wedge of land between the Rivers Danube and Inn. The town’s denizens have traditionally made fine swords that over the centuries have done a lot to trim the population of Central Europe.

We should have spent the previous evening carbo-loading and having an early night but, without our wives around to say, “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” we had recklessly spent it wining and dining and toasting each other.

I was toasted as a “terribly good leader” and might have coloured a little. We even toasted our wives back home. (God bless them, I think somebody said.)

The expedition had been labelled the “Tour de Farce” which, I felt, was uncalled for but the name stuck.

I was feeling the first pangs of anxiety. As the instigator and modest L*E*A*D*E*R of this expedition, I felt responsible for the welfare of these men and for ensuring that they were returned intact to their loved ones, if any.

I did a final check of my bike. I clicked the gears and rang the bell one more time. Then I said, with just a hint of drama that the occasion demanded, “Right, gentlemen. Let’s go!” They had, in fact, already gone. I caught up with them as they were baulking at the formidable stream of peak-hour traffic that was slowly crowding into the modern part of town. Worse, the city centre was undergoing extensive roadworks and there were many confusing deviations and signs in very poor English, such as Ausfahrt, Schritt fahren and Umgehungsstrasse.

Frankly, I find everything in German sounds a little intimidating. To my ear even Ich liebe dich (I love you) sounds like an order for a panzer division to move forward.

I led the peloton into the traffic, which immediately engulfed us. We became scattered – a yellow shirt here and a yellow shirt there. I had suggested at the start that any survivors should muster on the far side of the Danube where the riverside cycle track began.

Some of my colleagues must have been hopelessly disoriented because, at one point, I spotted Harvey pedalling towards me and, crossing a flyover, I spotted a yellow-shirted figure pedalling furiously beneath me.

Much later, I came across all five dozen riders under a tree at the appointed spot. They said they’d been waiting 20 minutes.

It was not the last time they were to wait for me and I was greatly touched by their reliance on my leadership and their nervousness about going on without me.

After a great deal of handshaking, we set off. Naturally, they insisted I went in front.