JC's Traveblog

Well, there goes another Wimbledon and another Great British hope. I’m not sure Andy Murray actually wants or appreciates English support given his previous comments concerning English football but thanks for the nerve-racking, Andy. I spotted another comment on Twitter that made it quite clear that there is at least one Scot who vehemently dislikes the English supporting Andy Murray. According to this idiot, it’s OK for the Scots to (mis)manage the country’s parliament but the English are not allowed to support a Scot. So much for a United Kingdom. Oh, and this ardent Scotsman so loves Scotland that he lives in New Zealand. Go figure! Actually, I much prefer to watch a tense final in which I don’t have a partisan interest so it’s better for both parties that Andy Murray didn’t make it. Unfortunately, the somewhat extended Wimbledon Mens’ Final rather scuppered my plans to watch the first road stage of this year’s Tour de France live so thank technology for video recorders.

Today, with Wimbledon a distant memory, I settled down to enjoy unfettered live coverage of Stage 3 of the Tour de France on ITV4’s interactive satellite service. We’d normally have been enjoying La Belle France ourselves over June and into early July but this year we changed our behaviour and enjoyed a terrific walking tour of Corfu instead. As a result and as a Francophile, I’m feeling a little starved of French scenery and culture. Today’s stage from Marseille to La Grand Motte was to go through some very appealing Provençal scenery that would address at least one of those addictions.

The usual form of a flat (non-mountain) stage in the Tour de France is a leg in which a handful of riders breaks away for most of the race, gets caught by the pack (le peloton) just a few kilometres from the finish, then the sprinters take over in a mad scramble for the line. One has to admire these guys; they can ride 100+ miles cruising at 25 mph, then finish at speeds of 40+ mph over a short dash. I can sometimes cruise at 15 mph over considerably shorter distances.

Today’s flat stage did not follow the usual form. After 3½ hours glued to ITV4’s interactive satellite coverage, cross-winds resulted in its building up to what has to be the most exciting finish I was about to see. The peloton split and the speed built inexorably as the leading contenders began jostling for the upper hand. The excitement of the commentators built up, too. I was on the edge of my seat with less than a kilometre of the 196 kilometres remaining. Then, suddenly … BLAM – there it wasn’t. Cataclysmic change! An inane episode of some ancient series drivel replaced the Tour de France coverage. I pressed all the buttons I could find that would do anything on the controller but all to no avail, it was gone. Ended. Cruelly snatched away in the dying seconds.

At 5 o’clock the transmission apparently automatically switched itself off. Brilliant! Does the BBC break transmission in the middle of the 5th set at Wimbledon? No, of course not. The BBC reschedules other programmes, switches them to another channel, does anything but destroy the excitement of the finale. Would someone care to note the lesson from the professionals?

Still, I got to see a lot of Provence.

This week turned into something of a week for services. I began by making a booking for Billy Bailey’s next service way out in the future (1st Feb 2010). This was just because the caravan agent is apt to get very busy and Billy’s next service is time-critical.

On Thursday it was the turn of my mountain bike which had, since my slightly embarrassing excursion on it into the Grand Union Canal, developed an irritating noise related to the pedal speed, cadence in cycling speak. I’m happy to report that, after a “B service” at Phil Corley’s in Milton Keynes, which included a new chain, new rear gear set and new bottom bracket, all now seems well. Memo to self: try to stay on the canal tow path in the future.

On Friday it was the turn of our much loved but recently somewhat neglected Mazda MX5. He’s 10 years old now and had had neither his 9- nor 10-year service. Tut, tut! In our defence, though it’s technically no excuse, we do only about 2000 miles a year in Mazzie these days. Now he knows we still love him.

Most of the services this week have, of course, been thundering over the nets in Wimbledon at the “All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club”. It’s typical isn’t it? The Club’s world famous, show case tournament is frequently plagued and delayed by good ol’ English rain. The year after the Club eventually bites the bullet and installs a multi-million pound retractable roof over its exhibition Centre Court, we have yet to have a rain delay. Great stuff! In a change to the norm, this year I can sense all the commentators almost willing a thunderstorm to occur just to provide the brand new television spectacle of watching the roof mechanism swing into action. What a fickle world. Worry not, Wimbledon is unlikely to have a completely dry fortnight.

Actually, I can’t see how much help keeping play going on a single court would be to the scheduling of a tournament occupying 20 courts for much of its time. Still, I’m sure it will help with other events. We’ve also noticed that the extra overhanging structures supporting the roof seem to worsen the high contrast between bright sunlight across one half of Centre Court and shadows of the retracted roof cast by the westering sun across the other, when, as this year, said sun actually deigns to shine. Some of the players, dazzled by the brilliant northern European sun, seem to be struggling to see balls screaming at them at 120 mph out of the relative darkness. I can’t think why.

One such player yesterday was the inventively named Mardy Fish. Having been fortunate enough to spend a considerable time in America, I’m familiar with the difficulties caused on the west of the Atlantic by the letter “T”, pronunciation of which is frequently transmogrified into a “D”: water becomes wa-d-er, for example. Mr Fish’s parents have clearly been very farsighted in solving this pronunciation issue and, rather than calling their son Marty, changed the spelling to match the pronunciation that would inevitably result: Mardy. Very clever.