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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scarlatti2004

Over the past few years I have slowly been building a keen interest in the Tour de France, the worlds most famous cycle race. It was started just over 100 years ago in order to increase the circulation of L’Auto, a sports newspaper (now L’Equipe). It worked, the inaugural 1903 race more than doubled circulation.

The race has continued, pausing only for the two world wars. L’Equipe still covers the tour passionately while its parent company, the Amaury Group (EPA), manages the event.

This time last year I was on a health kick and rode along on some stages, shedding weight as I went after spending the previous year’s amassing an impressive collection of body fat. Since Christmas last year I had largely fallen off the bike, pardon the pun, as my weight slowly crept up and my fitness slowly declined.

It was time for action, an Armstrong style comeback.

I figured if seven time champion Lance Armstrong could return after cancer and then another comeback, after 4 years away from the bike, then I could return after just 1 years absence. So I decided to join him.

The odometer on my stationary bike read 2,042km. Sadly, I’m sure only the final 42km had been completed in recent months. Most athletes spend all year, even their whole career, preparing for the tour. I decide to do it 4 hours prior to the 176 riders departing from Monaco for Stage 1.

I knew it was unrealistic to tackle the full 3,500km that the world’s best riders would cover on this year’s tour. I would ride along with my local television broadcast on my stationary bike to the best of my ability.

As follows is my account of the first four days of the tour and my attempts to keep up with the worlds best riders.

—

STAGE 1 – High Rolling with Lance

I flick on the TV at 11:30pm on the 4th of July. In track pants and a hoodie – I have the TV remote in my pocket and 2 litres of water sits at the ready on a chair next to my stationary bike.

With 8 hours required at my day job the following morning I was relieved to see it would be a short stage so my fellow riders and I could ease our way in somewhat. A 15.5km individual time trial was on the cards, so at least today I won’t feel completely stupid riding alone. What I will feel stupid about is eating a ridiculously large and unhealthy meal of fish and chips just a few hours before.

Passing the famous Monte Carlo Casino, the track winds its way around the world’s second smallest country after the Vatican City. The stage had to cross repeatedly into its neighbouring countries of France and Italy in order to create the 15.5km stage in a country only 2 kilometres square. It would feature a 7 km climb with a bit of level ground followed by a difficult descent.

Since I was brave enough to tackle the toughest race I decided to line up against its toughest competitor Armstrong. We both began cranking the peddles as he rolled down the start ramp, waved off by Prince Albert ruler of Monaco.

Armstrong is quickly out of the saddle as he rides around the casino. His bike had been hand crafted in the US specifically for this stage. My $120 stationary bike looked like a joke and the seat looks like it was designed by someone with no understanding of ergonomics or the idea of comfort.

My first 2 km’s is achived after 5 minutes of riding at a steady 24km/h. As Lance climbs upwards I increase resistance. After 10 minutes peddling my pace is still improving, having covered 4.3km’s.

denis adam de villiers

Armstrong leads the field at the first time check. Disappointed with my own performance, I pick up the pace as Armstrong levels out and descends. I cannot match his frightening 65km/h, topping out at 43km/h as my legs struggle to keep pace with the momentum of the peddles at times.

Shortly after I have ridden 6.5km’s from15 minutes in the saddle. Lance darts through the Grand Prix tunnel, I’m used to seeing Formula 1 cars driven by the likes of Michael Schumacher and Mark Webber blast through at speeds more than three times greater than Lance’s high cadence can produce.

My pace setter Armstrong stops the clock at 20minutes 12 seconds, I’m over half way there – 8.6km down.

After a necessary toilet break I put my head down and crank the peddles. At 25 minutes on the bike I have covered 10.7km’s. 30 minutes sees the distance push out to 12.85km’s.

I finally pass the fictional 15.5km finish line in 36 minutes and 46 seconds – celebrating my achievement of being over half as good as Armstrong by emptying the remainder of my drink bottle over my head.

I follow the commands of the exercise scientist in my head and complete a 1/2km cool down, barely peddling, to remove built up lactic acid in my legs just like the pros do. This is followed by a few more minutes massaging my poor legs, then crashing into bed after Fabian Cancellara topped the stage, followed by Alberto Contador. My countryman Cadel Evans was 5th and my pace setter Lance was 10^th, 40seconds off the time of Cancellara.

—

STAGE 2 – Le Tour is Infections (As Is My Throat)

After a long and stressful day of work, together with a very sore throat, I do not feel like climbing back on the stationary bike. For some reason I don my coveted yellow hoodie and instantly feel no better, but compelled to press on.

Even before climbing back on the bike I feel saddle sore for the 187km ride from the principality of Monaco to Brignoles in the South of France. Mark Cavendish of Colombia is favourite for the sprint to the finish. I was in no condition to match him and the pack – I’d be pushing to ride that distance over 4 or 5 days.

An early group of 4 broke away from the peloton (the pack containing most riders and the general classification leaders) as my local TV coverage started. I begin cranking the peddles at 10:28pm with 116km to go for the breakaway group.

PoweriPics

Bareley 10 minutes is all it takes them to cover 5 km, with fresh legs I complete my first 3.25km’s in the same duration.

After just over 15 minutes riding my butt and taint is really saddle sore. I jump from my seat to find a pillow to ease my pain. Shortly after I’m relieved to see Frank Schleck of Team Saxo Bank replacing his bike after an early crash and taking on domestique duty, delivering water bottles to his teammates. I cut myself some slack, having a drink and swapping the pillow for a more padded cushion from the armchair I usually watch sport in – oh the irony.

As the lead group has 100km left I have spent 25 minutes on the bike and travelled almost 10 kilometres. I take a 2 minute break – incredibly sore. Most mechanical breaks last 40 seconds and the riders have little trouble getting back to the peloton. I return to the bike and say a quick prayer to the bike gods that my saddle soreness will ease over the following stages.

Unimpressed with my progress, I stage a sprint after 50 minutes in the saddle – pushing my speed past 30km/h for a few minutes after achieving 10% of the race distance. My speed soon fades, as my body temp slowly rises with my exhaustion, I ditch the mock yellow leader’s jersey – known to the French and tour tragic’s as the maillot jaune.

After 56min in the saddle, to cover 21.6km, I stop for toilet break as riders in the peloton hit the feeding zone and snatch grocery bags of snacks from the hands of team helpers standing on the side of the road, they have 76km remaining. My sore throat, I’m convinced is a persistent throat infection returning. I can’t afford to get rundown during the tour so I snatch a glass containing a berrocca to replace some much needed vitamins.

At 56km to go the breakaway grous is holding a 4:20 lead – I have travelled 30km in just under 80 minute of riding.

Team Colombia takes the initiative with 30km’s left and sends a rider forward to push toward the breakaway. Together with Team Saxo Bank they begin shaving back the gap.

With just over thirty minute to go, lead of 2 min 30 for the breakaways. Sufffereing great pain I take another break. Mylegs are fatiguing but not in too much pain, that is reserved for my sadlle soreness as well as pain in my hips and lower back.

With 10km to go for the field I am struggling and play some tunes to carry me through. The gap rapidly diminishes to 20 seconds before a final push sees Colombia toss aside the breakaways and assume the lead. I take another break and prepare for the sprint to the line.

5km’s to go, the sprinters bare their teeth as the teams pick up the pace. Milram jostles to get Bernard Cholic in place and Colombia keeps Mark Cavenidish in contention. I get my second or maybe 12th wind and push down on the peddles, picking up the pace from barely 20 to 26km/h.

Whole Grain Photography

Almost 1km to the finish a roundabout splits the field. Colombia keeps the pace as Garmin-Slipstream tries to muscle in with George Henkapie. Colombia peels away a succession of riders at the front; Australian Mark Renshaw is his final lead-out man, launching Cavendish with a few hundred meters to ride. He puts his head down and cranks to the line for the stage victory and the sprinters green jersey.

The riders had peddled for 4 and a half hours to the line, while I had ridden 127minuets covering 46 kilometres, almost 1/4 of race distance in less than half the race duration.

Fabian Cancellara kept hold of the maillot jaune. Behind him overall is Alberto Contador, Cadel Evans is 5^th with Armstrong still in 10th.

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If you have enjoyed the story so far be sure to read about my efforts on Stage’s 3 and 4 as well as my wrap up of the tour.

You can read the story below or download the PDF version. Feel free to share the link to this page or the PDF with your friends or print it out, however it is not to published online or elswhere without my written permision.

It is just under 1,900 words or about 5 pages and should take between 4 and 8 minutes for an average reader. I would greatlly appreciate your thoughts and comments, I hope you enjoy the story.

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The Renovator

A short story by Bill Riddell – 12/7/2009.

Life, strangely enough, begins at birth – typically in a hospital. Yet for Stuart his awakening occurred at the age of 7, when his parents dragged him along to a weekend market. A strange sensation took hold of his body as he heard a book case cry out, desperate to be released from its state of gloom. Years of neglect had taken their toll, however he could see the beauty it once possessed and the potential that remained. Its once gleaming varnish had been battered by decades of faithful service, only to be cast aside.

A coffee table was discovered next. It no longer matched the decor of the owner’s new home. “How could they just leave it outside?” he asked his parents. The table’s once lacquered timber was now scarred by rain and bird shit.

Upon restoring a piece to its former glory Stuart felt like a hero healing the wounds of time by sanding and polishing.

His parents encouraged him, glad to see their only child finding a hobby other than reading. Other kids his age learned life lessons from playing sport and having petty squabbles. Stuart got his lessons from his mother at the dinner table, his father in their little workshop under the house and the books he devoured.

Stuart’s father was a handyman and gladly passed on the little he knew about sanding back and polishing or painting timber, re-upholstering seats, filling dents and scratches.

From his mother he inherited the ever present need for perfection. She was an avid interior decorator, changing their house’s furnishings every year or two and ensuring it was meticulously clean when not undergoing the latest revolution.

While his mother sought to create and maintain perfection, Stuart’s passion was to start with a broken canvas. It gave him greater satisfaction and he liked that the used furniture had a story and soul.

While toiling in his workshop he would often consider what horrors the furniture had endured at the hands of its previous owners. Anger would simmer inside him at times – nothing brutal, but it was there. Each tear in the upholstery revealed some sordid affair and those dents and scratches in a table top revealed a man both angry and neglecting. He talked to the furniture as he tended to its wounds, reassuring it that all would be well again.

People are the problem he often told the furniture. He was right.

Stuart’s school years were spent in isolation, quarantined from the world. He was polite but withdrawn. While his classmates roamed the school grounds between classes, he was ensconced in the library, locked away. However he was sure the key to his escape was hidden amongst the books it also held prisoner.

His reading began with adventure, fantasy and sci-fi. Slowly it matured, crossing to non-fiction – the biographies of heroes and adventurers, and then growing again to absorb the knowledge of self improvement. Despite reading them all, from conquering your fears to public speaking, he was still unable to make friends, let alone influence people. The material was all inside his head, he understood the social missteps he was taking each day, yet he failed to put it to use. He was unable to transform himself in the same way he could transform those forlorn pieces of furniture. Unwilling to peel back the layers, repair the damage and correct the inherent flaws in his makeup.

With his parent’s encouragement, Stuart sold his mended goods at the same market where he had discovered his infatuation with furniture just a year earlier. The market fostered in him a passion for business and it wasn’t long until he was devouring books on the subject and paying close attention to furniture stores and other successful stalls at the market.

School took a back seat. He was smart, but grew bored, preferring to toil in the workshop than do his homework. His growing business was of greater interest than history and trigonometry. Expansion continued, selling his pieces to furniture stores and even creating an all natural furniture polish with wax from a local bee keeper.

As his peers progressed from high school to college Stuart became a full time business man. He passed on his methods of renovating furniture to staff, bought out a business he previously supplied and then set about renovating it.

Love and romance eluded him – friends too. Stuart figured if he could build his great company, the rest would take care of itself. His only relationships were professional. Each interaction became a chess-like process to get the most out of his staff, customers and suppliers.

Success continued, however he grew tired of the day to day. Stuart took a break and eventually sold the company. The process was then repeated with another furniture store and then a garden centre.

He was alive once again, yet it was eerily similar to the forlorn furniture he started with. Other failing businesses came along, were purchased, polished and sold once more. His wealth grew while his social life remained absent. The people he dealt with were just employees and business opponents. Along with a lawyer, bank manager and accountant they were all just obstacles and tools to craft his vision.

It wasn’t until his early-thirties that he saw the human in someone other than his parents. Sophie was like the pretty girls in high school who coasted along. For some reason they never asked Stuart to help with their homework, but Sophie did. Her small shoe store was haemorrhaging with just a few months left until it bled her dry. She shared the same passion as Stuart to turn the company around and in him she found the knowledge to achieve it.

To Stuart’s immense frustration it was purely platonic and even worse, strictly business. He found himself longing for some small talk, perhaps for the first time in his life, but was rejected at every attempt. Sophie had a busy social life to juggle along with her business.

He had become a consultant where he had hoped to become a lover. Eventually accepting the role, but on his terms. Stuart didn’t just want to turn around Sophie’s store, but also her life. The personal changes he insisted were for the good of her business. A culling of her social life he hoped would make her open up to him. When that failed he began asking personal questions that would ‘unlock the hidden reasons why her business was failing’, when his only interest was for them to show the way into her heart.

Their relationship continued unchanged for several months. Sophie’s business gradually improved as Stuart became resigned to his fate. To celebrate her business finally breaking even she invited Stuart to her house for a thankyou dinner. When they sat down to eat the chicken tangine Sophie had prepared, Stuart looked at her with shock.

“You have one of my tables,” he said. “I can’t believe you have this table that I fixed probably 12 years ago.”

“I know. My mother gave it to me when I finished university, it made this house a home,” Sophie said. “She recommended I get you to help with my store, she had a stall at the market close to yours.”

“I’m glad she brought us together and got you to take care of this table,” said Stuart.

“You’re welcome,” she said sincerely. “I can appreciate how much you love furniture, I feel the same way about shoes.”

“My grandfather was a cobbler. When I was little I would sit on a stool in his workshop as he repaired the shoes that others had destroyed and neglected. I wish I had the chance to learn from him before he died, I’d rather his job than peddling those new shoes.”

They talked about polishing the table and how Sophie would sometimes sit on her grandfather’s lap and polish shoes, before they were returned to their neglectful owners. She often lectured her customers about caring for their purchases and it hurt her to know the spiel fell on deaf ears.

Stuart sat smiling, watching her face, more animated than he had ever seen it. He realised slowly that the table at which he sat and had previously repaired, was the key to unlocking the heart of the women he was falling in love with.

It could have been the white wine or the recognition of their similarities, but they began to gaze into each other’s eyes across the table. As Stuart lent across to refill her glass Sophie seized his face in her hands and pulled it to her lips, rising from her seat to meet him.

They fell in love, eventually sharing Stuart’s house, with their table taking pride of place. As they slowly peeled back each other’s glossy veneers they saw the flaws and damage in one another. Sophie observed that Stuart was a one dimensional person with an unhealthy obsession and in her he recognised an ugly addiction to drugs and alcohol. Fierce arguments were a regular occurrence. She hit him often, slapping him about the face and pounding his chest with loosely closed fists. He retaliated once, returning her slap. It shocked him, seeing the damage that he had caused, tears streaming down her face and the shocked expression she wore.

He grew tired of her antics, the disappearances, hangovers and deteriorating health. Her business was struggling again and Stuart was convinced she was taking money from it to score drugs. Rather than push her away it only made him want her more.

His relentless pursuit to fix her drove Sophie mad. She resented his father-like lectures and routinely tearing the house apart searching for her stashes of vodka and scotch. In return she would push his buttons whenever possible, by being rough with furniture – not using coasters, putting her feet up with shoes on.

Sophie had cooked dinner, putting a pot of soup on the table straight from the hot plate.

“Put a god damn placemat down,” Stuart said. “I can’t believe it.”

“You’d better believe it,” she said, gripping the pots handles and grinding it into the surface. She then picked up an ornate wooden placemat and broke it over her thigh in triumph.

“That’s what I think of you and your precious furniture,” said Sophie, seething with rage.

“Get out,” yelled Stuart. “Get out NOW!”

Sophie spun on her heels, grinning as she lifted a slender chair above her head and swung it down on the polished floor boards, shattering the chair. As the splinters settled she made strides towards the hallway. Stuart chased after her. He grabbed her shoulder from behind and flung her body backwards, crashing into the table.

Sophie turned back to see Stuart thrust the steak knife he was clutching into her chest – puncturing her heart. His obsession with furniture had unlocked her heart to him again, this time would prove fatal.

After thoroughly cleaning the floor where Sophie had bled to death and the steak knife, Stuart felt the urge to continue renovating. He repaired the chair and then, as his thoughts turned to what to renovate next, he broke down and wept. He had never seen a coffin in need of some repair. His greatest passion had killed the woman he loved.

THE END

I had well over 50 drafts in various stages of completion (from a few lines of notes, to dot pointed outlines and a few 600+ word drafts).

Basically it could have been as much as a years worth of blog posts. However something went horribly wrong!

No my hard drive did not crash losing all of it.

Instead I woke up and realised that the vast majority of them were mediocre. The topics were boring or just incredibly generic and could already be found on thousands of other blogs.

That is not pushing myself as a writer. Worst of all its cheating you as a reader.

Only great writers and musicians can get by rehashing old favourites, presenting their early stories and doing covers. Even that gets old.

So I’m getting a little drastic. I deleted a whole bunch of drafts, about 15 or 20. Another 10 to 15 have joined forces to create a few super posts that you will see over the next few weeks.

I cant promise A+ material all of the time, I will do my best, some of the remaining drafts will be slipped in here and there. Beside sometimes the filler posts make you appreciate the ones that are truly killer. Ssometimes the good ideas just seem to vanish from my head and I need something on stand by.

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In other news I have recently ticked off one of my ultimate goals and made progress on a few others.

I got to meet Neil Strauss my favourite author who inspired me, more than any other writer, that maybe I can share my stories with the world. It was his last book signing for Emergency before he returns to a hectic writing schedule. He has about three books in the works, plus others with the company he runs. Neil shared some great stories with the crowd, gave me some solid advice and

I also just finished reading Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand which was part 1 of a 2 part goal to read two of the greatest and most lengthy books in the English language. The other half is to read Ulysses by James Joyce. If I can tackle them both then I can read anything. I really enjoyed reading Atlas Shrugged, its an intimidating book, with a lot of characters and covers a lot of sensitive issues, but I would recommend it to everyone. There are a lot of haters of the underlying philosophy and message of Rand’s novel (I don’t agree with all of it) however I’m sure that those who rant about it failed to reach the end of the novel.

You can see the other progress in the updated Ultimate Goals page.

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Many thanks for reading and sharing my journey so far.

Bill