Airplanes and geeks

We were up at 3.30am at the classy departure point that is the Heathrow Holiday Inn. Not because we had to be up that early. But because Tam was scared of the door. I can't even be bothered to explain her reasoning, but we disagreed on this for about an hour before having to leave for Terminal 1. I continued to disagree (on my own, she had a pain au chocolate and couldn't care less what I thought) until she fell asleep again all the way to the south of France. Thank god. I was regretting everything for a while there.

The group is still a pile of stereotypes for me. I might sort it out soon but I'm still getting over the panic I experience whenever I have to do things like this. Tam met and charmed everyone within three minutes - "Hello, did you know there is both a human Bradley Wiggins and a cat Bradley Wiggins?" I hid behind sunglasses with a fixed grin on my face and stuttered out a monosyllable every five minutes or so. They still think I go by the name of Margaret, five hours in, so I'm doing brilliantly - haven't even managed to introduce myself properly.

However, we have a couple with a six-year-old child! American, very pleasant, unaware as yet that me being a parent does not automatically make me useful company for other parents. I am going to bleed them dry - it is such a bonus having a friend for Tam. I might even be able to get plastered up Alpe d'Huez in a couple of days. They are also going to mind Tam each morning so I can go running (in the hills, hmm, I suspect I'll manage 10 minutes then die, it ain't no treadmill round here).

THERE ARE A LOT OF WEIRD CYCLING GEEKS. Yes, I am a cycling geek. Yes, I am weird. If you can imagine such a thing, these people are geekier and weirder. An Australian man who speaks like Yoda - and I don't think he knows it - who started to sweat when it looked like we might miss the last 75km of today's stage. A Canadian woman who is already wearing the Tour de France beret she got in her welcome pack and is pushing us all to put them on for a group photo this evening (steam started to come out of my ears at this point). An indistinguishable amount of indistinguishably aged American women who suddenly shout things that make me jump - like when we go over a bump in the road and they roar "do we get that as part of the package HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA." A middle-aged woman who refuses to speak to anyone, won't let anyone help her with her seven (?) suitcases and shouted at the hotel owner for having dinner arranged too late (8pm). Tam gave her a Laughing Cow. It didn't help.

I can still speak French. Hurrah! With the predictable wild smattering of unwanted Khmer words, but when I get it right people think I'm French, which I didn't think would happen after so long out of the country. Always nice to be the best at things too - the rest of the group are VERY confident French speakers but I've seldom heard anything so atrocious - and I have a fair few Australian friends (you know who you are). The hotel owners have of course fallen in love with Tam and inexplicably thought I too might be lovable, so have adopted me. Actually, they are pretty nice and far less threatening than the shouty American women, but they won't let me speak English now - especially as I let them know I'm Welsh - they are also rugby fans.

And the cycling bit (avoid reading if you couldn't give a shit): only caught the end today on TV and all went to plan. But I had been nervous: yesterday's stage was carnage, apart from for the Manx Oompa Loompa, revealing a Team Sky in bits and a Chris Froome unsupported and strategically naive. Froome apparently said (The Guardian) "Brad won the Tour de France last year and he's got a big engine. Having him would have definitely upped our ranks. Both in the mountains and the flats, he's quite a versatile rider in that respect." Hmm. Interesting. Personally, I like Contador mixing things up - crazed fool going for a win, not just a podium place, got to respect that and enjoy the spectacle, especially after fellow doper Valverde made a perfect twat of himself with his response to an ill-timed puncture yesterday.

As The Guardian also said, today's stage was the "good cop rubbing a gentle hand down your chops, telling you it won't be so bad. He's hoping you won't hear tomorrow's bad cop eating glass and punching kittens in the corridor outside." 

We're off to see the bad cop beat the shit out of some men tomorrow and my god we're going to be close.