Sometimes I think if I just sit here and hammer the keys enough ill be a writer. It isn’t quite so easy, but really in essence its not that much harder either.

Lots of people can sit at a computer and write trash all day long, without hassle. Others can occasionally write a good passage but are crippled by negative thoughts that prevent them from stringing those passages together day after day.

I’m the later. For a writer there are weeks where I do not do any productive writing at all. Those days that I do manage to write I either write on auto-pilot and its crap or I’m so constantly talking to myself, telling my subconscious to shut the fuck up, that I cant get anything good out either.

On the rare day that things just click I will chain myself to the computer and write all day – finding the balance is hard. Really really hard. Impossible.

Just hammering out this is hard…

I just sat and looked at that last unfinished sentence for 10 minutes, contemplating not resuming or deleting this whole ensemble of words for good. Right now I’m thinking I should interrupt this writing by grabbing something to eat. Then I need to change the sheets on my bed and I need to watch some stuff on my TiVO. I don’t really need to do any of those things right now, but my brain is trying to distract me. I swear its jealous of my writing or something.

Sometimes i trick it by staring out the window noticing the trees wave, birds come and go and the leaves fall while out of view my fingers work in a flurry writing away. Right now I can see the Japanese maple waving at me and I can hear a bird somewhere calling out… A part of my brain wants to go and look for it, but another part is not telling my body to get up, it wants to keep writing.

It feels like a split personality… A part of me wants to write, but the other more powerful side doesn’t. It keeps talking shit and finding distractions… Look something shiny. Forget the writing, lets google something.

Occasionally it pretends to play nice. Good job you’ve written 200 words today, lets celebrate – how about we watch a movie, you don’t even need to watch it all now, just watch the first 20 minutes, go back and write another 200 and catch another 20 minutes… Good deal right? Wrong . Brain knows that 20 minutes will most likely drag on. Even when I do return to the writing I’ll sit at the screen once again thinking I should delete it all. Then I feel bad at that thought so I just sit and think some more. I might get an idea of something better to write so ill open a new document and hammer out a quick overview of this new brain wave. I’ll return to it in a few days time, maybe.

—

Looking back on this I feel like I am making progress, that I’m improving not just my writing but just as importantly my writing habits. But there is still a lot of improvement needed. I’m working on another draft of my first novel. It’s simultaneously incredibly frustrating, but also very reqarding to see the book take shape and improve in readability and story flow. In the mean time I’ve written a few new short stories, I hope to share them soon.

I’ve discussed the thousand dollar penalty for not getting a draft finished this month, but I haven’t talked about the other side of the coin – the reward. It’s only fair to give a reward, escaping the penalty is great and getting a draft finished will no doubt be a rewarding experience but to complete the trinity of motivation there needs to be a tangible reward.

In this case its the prospect of further travel – booking a flight out of Australia to start the next trip I’ve been contemplating since before I returned in February.

***

As I lay sideways across my queen bed, my feet hanging over the edge, my chin propped on a pillow and my arms extended to my laptop resting on a chair, I think about that feeling of being in a new country, a new city, in a new bed – contemplating the fresh horizon to explore.

New sights, sounds and smells. New culture, customs and quirks of daily life.

I think about breaking out of the daily habits I have got myself back into, replacing the 20 minutes chasing my mums dog and throwing the ball around with climbing the ancient ruins of Ayutthaya or Siem Reap.

That brings me to thoughts of breaking back out of my TV viewing habit. I’m not glued to the thing, but I do have a fair collection of shows I don’t like to miss each week. Instead I could be watching the scenes of Sisowath Quay from our apartment balcony while sipping scotch smoking a very bad cigar – pretending to be Deny Crane and Alan Shaw from one of my all time favourite TV shows Boston Legal. Or the view of Bangkok from the Vertigo rooftop cocktail bar over 60 floors above the city.

I think about leaving behind my daily diet for the delicious pad see-ew topped with kaffir lime juice from the street vendor in Chiang Mai or the amazing pastries found in the back streets of Hanoi (compliments of French colonialism). Even the novelty of discovering my favourite drink as a kid, cold Milo, is to be had seemingly everywhere in Kuala Lumpor, even in a can or McDonalds.

***

I have no idea what I will experience on my next journey. I haven’t even decided on destinations.

I’ve thought of a Trans-Siberian journey, exploring my families roots in the UK, indulging my passion for motorsport with a pilgrimage to the great races of Europe, perhaps jetting to American to buy an old Mustang and drive coast to coast. I could explore more of Asia – Indonesia, Singapore, Burma, Laos, Philippines, China, Japan… maybe something I haven’t even thought of yet, or all of the above.

Beyond this horizon, is another horizon to marvel at, explore and leave behind.

***

I came in well over budget for my thousand words today, which is fortunate as yesterday was a disaster. Since its 5am, the today I refer to is technically yesterday, yesterday is the day before and tomorrow is already here. The joys of being productive when the sun goes down.

Somewhere in the world it’s bed time. Until then, I’m going to rest my head and think of the horizon and those thousand words to pour out next time I’m conscious.

Quite simply it had been an idea on the back-burner for far to long. Something based in truth that is personal and with the potential to hurt those around me. But really that should only be an excuse not to try and publish it – even if it’s left in a drawer after its finished I want to write this as my first novel.

The fact is have been far to lazy. Leaving the book in the digital bottom draw of my computer, pulling it out occasionally to add a few hundred words when inspiration struck and promptly forgetting it. As of a few months ago that approach had netted a few thousand meager words, from about two years effort.

It was clearly time to try something else. When writing my ebook I had procrastinated and neglected in a similar manner until making a friendly wager with fellow blogger Arun. The prospect of waxing lyrical about his many virtues would not have been that painful or difficult but somehow it spurred me on to finish the bulk of the book in a month.

Setting my goals at the start of the year I decided to take a similar approach but to up the ante. I vowed if the book wasn’t complete by August I would donate one thousand dollars to charity – a not so insignificant sum to go missing from my bank account.

With 30 days left I find I have around 30,000 words approximately left to complete a reasonable sized first draft – 1000 words a day or else I give $1000 to a worthy cause.

I’ll get back to you at the end of the month to gloat or ask for your suggestions as to where the money shall go.

See you on the other side,

Bill

Lets examine some examples of doing and doing well…

—

I was a competitive swimmer in what seems another life time, complete with a former Olympic gold medallist as one of my coaches (I had as many as 4 at a time).

It was compulsory for kids to learn to swim when I was at school and as a result slmost all Australians can swim. After following a swan into a pond at the age of three and nearly drowning my parents made learning a priority before I even started school.

After the early rocky relationship with water it was soon a major passion. In summer I could be found swimming in any body of water I could find – pools, ocean, creeks, rivers and even irrigation channels.

Eventually my natural passion turned to competition and training 5-6 days a week and regularly covering 30km’s during the same period.

I was far better than most – able to swim all strokes, dive and tumble turn. Fastest my age at school and the local swimming club were I typically trained. But still I wasn’t the best. Sure I picked up medals, ribbons and trophies in regional competitions, but at state level I was a small fish in a big pond stocked full of bigger and more talented fish.

I trained harder, however my dedication eventually waned in response to my inability to rise to greater succsess.

A team of elite sports medical staff eventually revealed I had bad knees, unsuitable for elite competition and other undesirable flaws. Training was eventually put on hiatus and major illness shortly after killed my thoughts of a comeback.

Though I still feel at home in the water I really only returned to training for rehabilitation purposes a few years later.

—

The majority of the population can drive a car on the road, many are unable to drive a manual (stick) and only a fraction of those can drive well.

Of that group a small number race cars and a fraction of those again are good at what they do. Only a handful in the world are truly skilled drivers given the opportunity to drive the worlds best machines in elite competition.

I have been driving cars since I could see over the dashboard, first rode a motorbike aged 5 and I’ve been legally driving on the road for 9 years now. I’m a safer driver than many – 18 years experience with motorised vehicles and 10 years racing cars gives me an advantage over most drivers my age with far more limited experience, particularly when it comes to emergency situations.

However I’m limited by natural talent and instincts as well as the finances to pursue most forms of motorsport. Driving safely on the roads, embarrassing my friends at commercial go karting tracks and the occasional club race is about the limit for me.

—

Likewise a lot of people can write – banging out a quick email, firing off a text message. But far less can write well. A fraction of those write for passion, and the elite few of that groups are talented/best selling authors.

I always knew with a fair degree of certainty where I stood in the previous categories, a stop-watch can quickly measure how fast you are on track or in the pool.

There is no simple test for writers. I can’t see at a glance that I am 12 seconds slower than Chuck Palahniuk or less efficient than Haruki Murakami. It’s simply a gut feeling of mine and the varying opinions and biases of those who read my work.

The only way to get a better understanding is to stop questioning my abilities (or lack of) and instead focus on writing as well and as prolifically as possible – let my success be a measure and enjoy what I do regardless.

Some may call it the tipping point or the dip, but it feels more like I’m staring at up at Everest or preparing to drop from a plane unsure if I packed the parachute.

—

For those wannabe artists, writers or otherwise creative types looking for a kick in the pants then I highly recommend reading The War of Art by author and screen writer Steven Pressfield.

“If you can’t convince them, confuse them.” – Harry S. Truman

Or as my old teacher said – “If you cant dazzle them with brilliance, then baffle them with bullshit.”

In interviews politicians and the like dance around a question for hours with bullshit and bravado, like a bullfighter taunting and teasing the interviewer. Never standing directly in the way of the question, waving their red cape around in a flurry and simply stepping out of the way when necessary.

Their are no simple straight answers, they dart off on a tangent – “Well poisoned apples being sold to the public is a important issue, equally important is my mothers oranges. They are so delicious and make great juice.” Yes I’m sure they are, but we were talking about deadly apples, not delicious oranges.

When dealing with a salesman there is more bullshit. Doing a deal really means surrounding this deal with so much shit, you wont see the giant pile of it that your about to pay for then step in and trample all through your house.

In the increasingly likely event they really don’t know about the product the salesman will throw out some shit they think you want to hear… “It’s a bargain, I don’t know how long it will last at this price”. The answer is until some other sap buys it or the boss tells the salesman to change the price.

And when a blogger doesn’t post for the better part of a month he writes a quick little post like this hoping people wont notice the absence and everything will return to normal.

Take it easy on the bullshit, regular programming will resume later this week.

—

In my absence I have ticked off another goal, I have now read two of the most famouslly daunting novels Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand and Ulysses by James Joyce.

Perhaps more importantlly I am polishing my second short story, Dark Charity, which will be available for public consumption soon enough.

I’m discovering more and more that there is also a fog of writing, where you get in too deep, too immersed in your own writing and things begin to loose meaning, direction – even all sense.

Its almost like Stockholm Syndrome as well.

The words take you captive, you hate them at first, doing as they say regretfully. But after being stuck in a room together, for what seems an eternity, the lines become blurred. The more you co-operate, the worse they treat you. And somehow you like them more and more – you think they are great.

You begin to think they are the greatest bunch of words to ever hold a writer captive. In fact your now convinced they did not drag you kicking and screaming – you were asking for it. Pleading for some words to come along, take you by the hand for a walk to a better place.

You go along with the gag, pretend your chaining yourself to the computer, and resume each day to put more of those words into action, telling their story.

However, once the writing is done and the words are on the page the truth slowly returns. You have been brainwashed – the fog of writing was so thick you couldn’t see that all along it was a bad story. In fact it’s just awful.

You try to forget about it – hide the pages in a draw and pray the words don’t creep back into your head.

But they do. Take another look, surely its not as bad as you thought.

—

So what does all of that mean. Well I finally finished the first draft of my second short story (it’s called Dark Charity) and the fog is thick.

I’m not sure if I love it or hate it. The truth probably lies somewhere in-between. There is obviously a lot of work to do, like perhaps a complete re-write, yet I believe the basic storyline is quite good.

Stay tuned.

—

My family home, a few acres of what could be classed as a hobby farm set amongst bushland (native Australian forest) is really a pet cemetery. I would love to see archaeologists digging up the grounds in thousands of years and trying to explain so many remains.

Taking pride of place amongst most of the unmarked graves is Dennis. Dennis was the wise Buddha of our family’s many cats. He eventually taught most of what he knew to Spaz, his protege. They looked quite alike, both ginger, except Spaz was fat and had patches of white on his feet and chest.

Dennis was Zen like, at least it seemed that way to me as a child. The other cats would create quite a fuss when I pulled their tails or got a little zealous with my patting, running in fear of their life and causing me to chase them. Wise Dennis would just calmly back away.

However he wasn’t completely docile. He was also a Shaolin killer monk cat. While our other cats could all pick off their share of small wild birds Dennis’s party trick was killing rabbits. I never fully understood how. I would often seem him sitting for hours perched high up on the dam bank of our property, obviously observing the rabbit burrows a few hundred meters away along a small creek. He was stalking his prey from a distance and learning their habits.

He would often leave their remains, mostly fur and a view organs he had no taste for, ceremoniously on our doormat. Too many times a family member would unknowingly step out into a pile of what was once Bugs Bunny’s third cousin early in the morning.

Dennis was patient, teaching the idiot Spaz his Zen ways. His calming influence vastly improved Spaz’s demeanour, from tear about, destroyer of furniture and scratcher of arms – to a docile sook who would dribble endlessly after a good pat. Spaz eventually could catch rabbits, but he never quite had the same flair or killer instinct. His attempts to imitate Denis’s ceremonial laying of the remains was hit and miss as well. They were typically small baby bunnies rather than the full grow ones Denis was so proud of, or he would leave the whole rabbit, minus perhaps it’s head.

Not long after his protege’s first catch Denis disappeared. His health had been deteriorating over the past year, he had reached the ripe old age of 18 and had earnt his retirement. After 3 days without a sign of him our families friends, who lived about a kilometre away phoned to say they had found his body. Rather than bother us with his death he slipped away and by sheer coincidence (he had never been to their house before) he chose to die underneath a car that was sitting on their property.

During the years we have certainly gone through quite a few cats, I’ve honestly lost count. There was the originals, Denis and his female companion Mutzi. Mutzi was a feisty cat, probably because she didn’t take my tail pulling lying down. She passed away one night, old age had caught up with her.

Then there was Hypo, a female tortise shell. As the name would suggest she had an unfortunate mental illness that caused her to become incredibly hyperactive. After several years tormenting us she started an argument with a snake and lost. She passed away within a few hours of being bitten – it was a terrible thing to witness, her body fighting the toxins coursing through her body. Despite attempts to save her after consulting a vet, Hypo lost the fight.

Several kittens tried to take her place, one ran away and was never seen again. My father tragically killed another while building a brick chimney. It climbed up the staggered brick steps my dad was building from the ground to the sky, my dad steped down onto the same brick as the poor kitten and broke it, badlly.

Spaz, his name an homage of sorts to Hypo and a reflection of his earlly personality would come next…

—

Stay tuned for the next part of the saga – more cats, a few dogs, oh and penty of ducks and chickens, a pair of sheep, dozens of different birds plus more. Oh and in case your havent read it yet, we even had a pet kangaroo.

Until then I’d love to hear about your childhood pets.

Red Door by tuey

I’ve always looked for the more unconventional, less traveled path to get what I want. Very few people look beyond plan A; as a result, the conventional path often becomes overpopulated and hard to find your way through.

Today I’m going to share some interesting lessons from the music and book industries on the merits of finding your own way to success, rather than following the horde.

—

Rocking to the Top

Listening to the radio the other day I heard an upcoming Australian pop singer talking about how she got her ‘job’, a record deal with a major label, and how other aspiring singers and bands struggle to get noticed.

They face a lot of crowded channels to get a record deals. The official channels are clogged and so are the unofficial ones. For every muso you hear of who gets a deal based on their myspace page there are hundreds of thousands of others with no luck.

One time proven method to get yourself noticed by the right people in the music biz is to send in demo tapes. Someone in the industry hears your tape, signs you up, then rockets you and your band from obscurity to stardom. Sadly those demos rarely get listened to, or a drowned out by the sheer number of other average demos the listener has heard.

Many singer-songwriters have found a less crowded backdoor into the industry. Rather than pushing their demos first as a performer they do so as a songwriter, submitting songs that other artists may record. If you wanted to be the next Britney Spears or Miley Cyrus, write a song for them. As well as the lyrics, songwriters typically submit a demo with it. If you’re writing is good it will find its way to Britney or Miley’s people who are probably looking to sign someone like her. You’re far more likely to get noticed that way than you are hiding amongst the regular demo pile.

—

Writing the Book of Success

As I slowly improve my writing I’m also beginning to study the publishing industry in order to plan my own rise to the top. The book biz has its own version of demo tapes; it’s called the slush pile. Every unsolicited novel sent to the publishing company gets added to the pile. It quickly becomes a mountain, only to be toppled each year into the trash. In the off chance your book gets read, it will most likely receive a passing glance from an underpaid intern who has already been at work for 9 hours and is in no frame of mind to assess your writing.

Another option is to send your book to an agent who will represent you and send your book to relevant people at the publishing companies, skipping the slush piles, but again agents have their own slush piles.

Over the last few years some people have turned to self publishing their work in order to get noticed. A few authors, after self-publishing (with help from a growing number of print-on-demand companies), have been picked up by a traditional publisher. Over the past 2 years there have been only 29 occurrences of this phenomenon (according to the US Bookscan that discloses book deals), approximately one in every thousand book deals (see here and here for more). Far more authors have been plucked from the slush pile I’m sure, I’d figure the number conservatively at one in a hundred. However is it better to be the small fish in the big slush pond or the potentially big fish in the self publishing pond.

Writer Seth Harwood stepped aside from the emerging self publishing route and forged his own path. He turned his novel, Jack Wakes Up, into a podcast and let people listen to his book for free. Word got out and eventually he landed a deal.

Advertising Yourself

Also in the book publishing world, last week I came across this very cool example of someone using the advertising section of Facebook to network in the hope of getting her dream job.

I’m sure people who work in prominent positions at publishing companies are regularly contacted via sites like Facebook by people looking for a job or a book deal. What was not very long ago a backdoor in its own right will increasingly become another crowded option.

As Marian Schembari demonstrated there is always a different way to get peoples attention. She wanted a job working for a large book publishing house, such as HarperCollins. Rather than adding people who worked there as her friend, she instead advertised directly to people who list in their profile that they work at Harper. Those people would login to their account and as their eyes flick over to the right hand column, “I Want To Work For Harper” a nice smiley picture of Marian and a brief 23 words about who she is and what she wants with a link to her personal website/resume.

—

I have written an ebook that focuses on finding the backdoor to a work experience opportunity or an internship. In addition to discussing in detail the two incredible and unique opportunities I worked for I also discuss a bunch of methods to suit anyone and any job.

I’d really like to know, what backdoors have you taken in life?

At first Tropic of Cancer failed to live up to the hype. Expectations about a book far too frequently lead to disappointment, and I nearly tossed the thing aside 90 pages in.

Foul language and debauchery aside, the book can be dull. Miller’s writing, to me, is not conversational; its stream of conscious and I could feel my interest waxing and waning like the moon. At times it is frantic and erratic, Miller is scanning the world and options before him. But then he finds a focus, the mind quietens and becomes more lucid. Life unfolds and so to does some semblance of a story.

There is no plot, a luxury most people cannot afford. Instead we read about a struggling American writers life in 1920’s Paris. We survive with Miller, scraping by, living at times off the hospitality of friends. Sharing his stories and escapades, as well as those of his fellow expats, as they drink and sleep, mostly with ladies of the night. We follow their reading, writing, and other exploits in the art world.

Slowly I got lost in the story; tearing through the final 150pages in a single sitting, only to find myself disappointed once again. This time however it was because, though there were no pages left to read, I knew Miller’s life journey would continued and I wanted to hear about it from him.

The book is not for everyone. Some will take offense at the language; or the talk of prostitutes and their bodies will offend the sensibilities of many more. Others will succumb, as I almost did, to the rising tedium at times. However, those who persevere will be rewarded.

I loved the opening paragraphs, they really struck a chord with me:

“I have no money, no resources, no hopes. I am the happiest man alive. A year ago, six months ago, I thought I was an artist. I no longer think about it. I am. Everything that was literature has fallen from me. There are no more books to be written, thank God.

This then? This is not a book. This is libel, slander, defamation of character. This is not a book, in the ordinary sense of the word. No, this is a prolonged insult, a gob of spit in the face of Art, a kick in the pants to God, Man, Destiny, Time, Love, Beauty … what you will. I am going to sing for you, a little off key perhaps, but I will sing. I will sing while you croak, I will dance over your dirty corpse….

To sing you must first open your mouth. You must have a pair of lungs, and a little knowledge of music. It is not necessary to have an accordion, or a guitar. The essential thing is to want to sing. This then is a song. I am singing.”

And sing he does. It’s not a pop tune that will get stuck in your head, nor is it a foot tapping piece of rock history. Instead it’s a haunting ballad. You don’t really like it at first, but it grows on you. You learn to appreciate the slower pace, nodding your head, not to the beat, but the lyrics that ring true to your life and your appreciation for the story that unfolds.

—

If your a little intrigued, pickup a copy at your local bookstore, online from Amazon, or my favorite online bookstore – The Book Depository. It offers free shipping almost anywhere in the world and competitive prices (its 52 cents cheaper than Amazon for Tropic of Cancer). Book Depository delivers each book individually so it’s just as affordable to order a single book when the mood strikes unlike Amazon, where you bulk order to be eligible for free or cheaper shipping.

Happy reading,

Bill

Here is the final part of my Tour de Armchair Cushion diary, where I try to keep up with Lance Armstrong during the Tour de France.

Instead of just spectating I am using the cushion from my usual sports going armchair to pad my butt from the rigours of pursuing Lance on my stationary exercise bike; watching him and the 170 riders hurtle through the French countryside.

If you missed the first half of this epic sporting saga be sure to read it first, otherwise let’s move on.

—

STAGE 3 – Sweating it Out

Today the riders will cover a 196km stage from Marseille to La Grande-Motte – sweeping their way around the South of France after starting in Monaco. It is a fairly flat stage with three sprints and 2 smallish climbs.

There are four types of riders on the tour, general classification is the most prestigious – those competitors fight for overall honours and the yellow jersey based on the time it takes them to cover the entire 3,500km tour. Then there are the sprinters and the climbers, they chase for the green and polka dot jersey respectively. They both compete for points based on their position at certain places on each stage. Finally there are the domestiques, the workhorses who compete not for any awards but to support their teammates and make a name for themselves in order to be selected for the more prestigious positions in one of the 20 or so teams selected each year.

The field had an uneventful start, with an early breakaway. As Lance had a mechanical problem the 4 man breakaway skipped ahead by 12 minutes before my local coverage got underway at 10:40pm with 140km remaining.

After just a few minutes on the bike I was already suffering extreme saddle soreness, a terrible cold and a sore throat. After a quick adjustment to my ride height and the addition of my armchair cushion I am able to find some relief and pick up the pace closer to 25km/h. I am armchair racer.

Sadly neither lasts long. After 10 minutes of riding I have covered 3.7km – almost as far as the breakaway pack who are slowly losing time to Saxo Bank who have again assumed control of the peloton.

In the time it takes the leaders to ride a further 10km, with 130km remaining, I have ridden 6.75km in just under 20 minutes.

After a quick break I discover riders had covered the first 100km’s in almost 2 and a half hours of riding, I had achieved 18km’s in less than 50 minutes. That’s an average of about 3 and a half kilometres every ten minutes – if I could keep that pace over the same time as the professionals I would have ridden over half of the distance as them. Once again I’m half as good as Lance, provided I have my armchair cushion.

Sadly though my body cannot cope with the prolonged pace and I collapse on my bed for a few minutes. The saddle soreness gets too much.

I rejoin with just under 90km remaining for the leaders. My nose is running like a tap, my temperature seems to rise and fall every few minutes and my throat is under attack. Saddle soreness aside, I brainwash myself into believing I’m doing the right thing – sweat it out. Perhaps Lance sweated the cancer cells out of his body?

Shortly after I collapse on the bed, for real this time. Perhaps I sweated out too much, or maybe my body is just run down. I had ridden 23.7km’s in 67 minutes.

There is 60km to go for the leaders as I rise from my bed and replace the cushion in my armchair. We both assume the position in front of the TV as my nose keeps running. Perhaps this is where I’m meant to be, on the chair which is reunited with its cushion.

I doze off in the armchair, exhausted, and awake to the sound of commentators in hysterics as Colombia’s riders stage a breakaway and are followed by Armstrong and some of his Astana teammates as well as Cancellara in the yellow jersey. They skip ahead of the peloton and quickly take down the earlier breakaway group.

Cavendish again cruises across to keep the sprinters jersey while Armstrong goes from 8th overall to third, my countryman Evans slips from 5th, barelly keeping himself in the top 10.

—

STAGE 4 – Silence in the Saddle

Today the riders tackled a 39km team time trial, circumnavigating the small city of Montepllier, just inland from the Mediterranean coast.

I am seriously under the weather now, doped up on cold and flu tablets with my nose running like a tap. There is no way I can make the race distance. My aim instead is to start peddling as a team leaves the line and hopefully still be on the bike in the 50 or so minutes it should take the team to ride the 39km’s to the finish. There are 9 riders sharing the duty so I’d be happy to ride 1/9th of the race distance in that time which is 4.3km – although since it is 5th places time that counts i think i should cover 7.8km or a fifth of race distance.

As riders from Bbox Bouygues Telecom team (as they will not claim a jersey surely they should get an award for that name) ran wide into a turn, several crashing into a metal barricade. I hope my body will not crash out mid race. Before climbing on the bike my head is a concern, I feel dizzy and almost lost.

I climb on the bike as Team Silence Lotto of Cadel Evans rolls down the start at 11:37pm. The pain in my butt and legs quickly takes priority over my head, but it’s not long until I reach for a handkerchief.

Russian team Katusha set the early pace of 47 minutes 52 seconds – not surprising since there name is more suited to a rocket. Shortly after I settle into the groove, churning out a steady 25 km/h average speed as Silence Lotto’s Jurgen Van Den Broeck falls after touching wheels with a team mate.

After 10 minutes I have already ridden 3.5km and celebrate being ahead of schedule by resting my butt and stoking the fire to simulate the Mediterranean heat while it is -1 degree celsius outside my bedroom. Silence Lotto is 4th fastest at the first time check. However as I pop a berocca into my water bottle to get some much needed vitamins and get back on the bike, they are dropping riders. I count just 5 others in the train with Cadel.

As Silence Lotto hits the second checkpoint in 7th place I go to the toilet and become concerned at the alarming colour of my urine. It appears as if it would be better suited to highlighting text books or as a glow in the dark additive.

After 26 minutes of riding I pass my 7.8km goal. I push on as Evans and the Silence Lotto team finish the stage in a dismal 59 minutes. In the same duration I completed 9.32km’s despite being in the saddle for barely 30 minutes.

My body is truly spent, I watch on as the all star Team Astana squad, lead by Alberto Contador and Lance Armstrong, claims the stage. With a time of 46 minutes, 29 seconds they defeat Garmin-Slipstream and Team Saxo Bank.

—

TOUR RECAP – Alberto Wins & Cushion Returns To Its Rightful Place

As I edit my diary from the first four days of competition the final day of the tour, Stage 21, is underway with the riders forming a procession to the Champs-Elysees where Alberto Contador will claim the top spot of the podium.

Although Armstrong did not win you cannot underestimate his achievement, how many athletes after 4 years away from completion could come back and achieve the same results as him. Also were it not for his team mate and eventual tour winner, Alberto Contador, its possible Armstrong may have challenged for the lead with second placed Andy Schleck from Saxo Bank instead of playing the team role.

Armstrong will return next year with his own team sponsored by Radio Shack and without the internal competition from Contador, he may well claim the tour once again. He proved in the ride up Mont Ventoux on the penultimate stage that he still has the legs to win.

My fellow Australian Cadel Evans, after finishing runner-up twice in a row Evans floundered this year. After losing some time to the leading trio on Stage 3 and then the awful team result the following day he was unable to crack back inside the top 10 general classification riders, who compete for the coveted yellow jersey claimed by Contador. I’m sure he will return next year, hopefully with a stronger team that can support him in the same way Contador and Armstong were supported at Astana and Schleck with Saxo Bank.

My result overall was quite good, despite being diagnosed with a throat infection after day 4. My doctor advised me to take it easy. I told him not to worry “…it’s not like I’m attempting the Tour de France from my bedroom.” He laughed and handed me a hefty bill to pay off his BMW.

I did take a few days off. As my body recovered from the infection I got back on the bike and averaged around 25 kilometres over remaining stages. I have added just over 400km to the odometer on my stationary bike, only 3,100km less than the professionals. Just as importantly I have shed almost 4kg’s of weight.

Though I have gained a greater appreciation for the achievements of elite athletes and a healthier body, I will most likely ease up on my riding regime, for the sake of my butt if nothing else. Besides my armchair misses me and the cushion.

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