Here are some of their stories.

A somewhat guilty Johnny-come-lately, or so I felt at the time, as if I were gatecrasher.

Santa Maria Di Castellabate, 1994, saw me sally forth with the Amoeba, immediately and unconditionally seduced by the romance of its mission.

The intervening years have done nothing to diminish the initial sense of adventure and camaraderie.

Indeed, every tour simply adds lustre to the ever-deepening patina; more beautiful and empty landscapes, more intriguing towns and villages, more tales of the unexpected, more characters, meals, bars, caffs, cheap lodgings... who remembers the toil and sweat?

Yet, the sense of anticipation is more keenly felt with each year, each new tour in prospect.

The seduction intact.

Love and thanks to one and all, who have, and continue to make it so.

Always.

Looking into the eyes of this man one cannot discern if one is being embraced by humanity in its entirety or gazing into the pool of infinity itself, never to imagine a reflection nor echo of one’s own trivial existence within its vastness.

I for one have learned, that to countenance an attempt at comprehension of what lies within must surely lead to a lifetime of bitter disappointment and before long, insanity.

A fool’s errand.

But let us not despair, for like the universe itself he is unknowable but equally tangible, here in the present is he not flesh and blood, as are you and I?

So set aside visions of imperceivable quanta and grasp the greasy spanner of reality and in so doing make peace with your soul and live safe in the knowledge that no mal-adjusted gearset, no misaligned brake block nor broken spoke may shatter the vitreous filament upon which your existence hangs.

Live.

And well may he utter these words, a man once, maybe, but now known to all as a god.

One that has transcended this orb of common alloy and blood and who now inhabits the very ether of the unattainable itself, a domain of lycra and carbon fibre, of which his wings have been woven – an Icarus made invicible.

Whilst I labour, he soars.

And yet, though only in the depths of my wildest dreams, I have cycled beside him.

Elysian fields.

PrH, the only one among us ever to be mistaken for Bono, he has a slight planning addiction, charting futures before others know they exist, sometimes booking accommodation 18 months ahead. His thoughts, a ceaseless river, may occasionally spill a pearl of rare brilliance but amid torrents of obscurity, leaving each of us wary of being swept away and famously giving birth to the phrase “I thought it was your turn to listen,”

In youth, his bike body rivaled the wind’s speed, now tempered by a muscle mutation for which the full story requires an hour's attention. PrH requires the night chill of air conditioning to cool his failing fibres, with the danger of bedroom partners being found frozen in the morning.

Foreign languages for him are an adventure of misplaced certainty, like the day he, with encouragement, boldly bellowed an Afrikaans “blik” for black coffee in a Latvian café. Such moments, like the man himself, elude definition, leaving only echoes of bewildered laughter.

One who can hold his hands up – one never to shirk, his British steel forged upon the very anvil that wrought no less than the sword of King Arthur himself.

Through the ages he has endured, drawing his bowstring at Agincourt, feeling the warmth of his own blood, run-through by a French bayonet yet still bracing himself to close the gate, to hold the line at Hougomont, Waterloo.

It has been said that without an order issued, he stepped out of his trench at the Somme, over the top walking calmly into no man’s land, undaunted he crossed the hellscape, stopping only to rest when he had passed through the Brandenburg Gate.

I may boast that I have ridden with him, crossing the scorched landscape of the Alentejo, scaling the peaks of the Pyrenees, enduring the lard-laden cuisine of Slavic lands, but tomorrow I shall be nothing more than an unknown figure in a faded photograph, dust.

He however shall prevail, uncomplaining, telling his comrades “I’m easy”.

Not un-immortal.

Two score years ago our fathers brought forth, upon this continent, a new passion, conceived in Leeds, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are cyclist tourists.

But who were these founding fathers, whose vision laid the foundation of this great nation, recorded here in the annals of bobspace?

One we know well, almost as well as the meals he has eaten and the bathrooms he has flooded.

The other, this man of vision, no longer graces the great enterprise in form corporeal but reigns in his new domain, another of his own unique conception and construction.

But as does any doting parent, he watches from afar drawing satisfaction from that which he decreed and joined together flourishes still, knowing assuredly that no man may put asunder.

Indeed, so sure was his vision, the nation’s vitality grows to this very day, now to be populated by those who know him only by name.

We now must ask ourselves, is he man or legend?

As the years pass I, for one, cannot say.

A recent addition to our crew, has seamlessly integrated into the group’s psyche while bringing an unmatched level of precision, akin to someone who organises their sock drawer by colour and occasion.

In the saddle, MrH' is a fit and determined cyclist with a knack for leading us up rough and questionable routes. He’s the type to charge ahead onto steep gravel paths that test both our nerve and suspension, occasionally leading to hands being raised in apology to those less keen on the thrill.

What truly sets MrH' apart is his uncanny ability to recover from a tumble. He brushes off scrapes and spills with a casualness that suggests an unspoken motto: “A fall’s just another chance to bounce back.” His bike, like his spirits and body, is swiftly patched up and ready for the next challenge.

Beneath the polished exterior and can-do attitude lies a flair for boyish humour; his subtle wit embraces the absurd, effortlessly contributing to our ever-growing collection of shared and often ridiculous stories.

Bob & PrH Oct. 2024