Footsore on the Downs.

I wish I was walking to these places, it must be 70 miles from end to end along The South Downs Way footpath;

It was still sunny on my second day of freedom and we walked along the ridge from the windmills at Clayton to Ditchling Beacon, a very steep hill indeed.

It's a hard challenge for cyclists and many races climb it.

When we got there, there were still road marks at the top; 'Allez!' and this commemoration of the British cyclist Tommy Simpson who died on the bleak and murderous Mont Ventoux stage of the Tour de France;

 

 

I had a wonderful day on the Downs back in the spring;

 

 

http://helpmesortoutstpeters.blogspot.co.uk/2014/03/in-wonder-at-spring.html

Today was beautiful in a different, September sort of way;

 

 

 

Rolling chalk hills, swooping swallows diving and swirling for the sheer joy of being alive. We made it!

 



With time for a wish on the way back;

But we didn't all make it back in one piece;

I bought these walking shoes in 2011, just before I was diagnosed. They were really cheap but I never thought I'd get to wear them out. It's the second pair of shoes I've worn out this year, my Big Bad Boots went in the springtime. 

It's a testament to Dr Feelgood of Charing Cross Hospital that I lasted this long and to the Orthopaedic and Trauma surgeons at St. Peter's that I still have two legs to walk on.

Neil Harris
(a don't stop till you drop production)

Home:  helpmesortoutstpeters.blogspot.com

Contact me:  neilwithpromisestokeep@gmail.com

It's coming.......

Feeling a bit low? An empty feeling as the World cup carries on without us?

It's coming home
It's coming home
It's coming
Cycling's coming home....

Oh well, it's got me excited. Now all I've got to do is try to work out where I'm going to be and how I get my act together to get there.

Neil Harris
(a don't stop till you drop production)

Home: helpmesortoutstpeters.blogspot.com

Contact me: neilwithpromisestokeep@gmail.com

La Vie.

 

Wednesday.

I woke up in Italy this morning. The sky was blue, the sun was shining. I was in quiet little Egham running away from problems, at the Café Nero for a cappuccino, noodling on the net.

There’s a University and a sixth form college in the town – during the summer when they are shut they are rented out for summer schools. This week one of them was home to a swarm of Italian teenagers, so everywhere I went there was a buzz of Italian.

There was style, there was Peroni and Asti. Campagnolo and the Azurri. Lambretta, Vespa, Campari.

Hot dry Limoncello days. Tutti Frutti cool evenings espresso-ing into endless summer nights.

Amacord and Grappa.

In 1987 I was staying, pennyless, at Tignalle, on the shortest, hardest, cheapest coach trip holiday you could ever imagine. It was a burning hot day, like today. I walked along a path on the side of the mountain that runs high above Lake Garda to the next village, which in those days still had no road. All around me was the striking aromatic smell of wild herbs in sunshine. In my pocket a sun ripened peach. In one of the houses, a woman sang in beautiful Italian, making pasta by hand.

That’s where I went this morning.

Thursday

Early at Tesco’s – seem to be buying far too many carrots. And Mr Freeze’s popsicles. Good diet.

This afternoon it’s the awe inspiring Alpe d’Huez on the Tour de France, the highlight of a magnificent race this year – the high alps.

Stage 13 – racing wind echelons on the flat.

The ride up Mont Ventoux, the bleached white moonscape that means so much to british cycling as the road passes the monument to Tommy Simpson, who died there. Now Chris Froome’s incredible ride will be remembered for a long time too.

Today, two ascents up the Alp – that’s where I should be; at the roadside, watching the caravane publicitaire go by, the silly advertising cars, the glamourous models, the shady businessmen, the CGT lorry, Monsieur Bibendum, L’equipe.

Waiting for the sound of the helicopters coming, the Presidential Guard motorcyclists, the leaders, the yellow jersey, Le Peloton, the team cars, the medics, Le Directeur Sportif, the Broom Wagon.

Allez! Allez! Vites!

Ah, Le Tour.

C’est La belle France. C’est La Vie.

Neil Harris

(a don’t stop till you drop production)