Clasica de Almeria

 

I have recently read Mary Webb’s The House in Dormer Forest. Many people dislike this book, I was fascinated by it. I am sure that last summer I cycled through the locations that inspired it, I know the deeply wooded valleys where families could be lost for generations - living by the own obscure rules and the country churches that have changed little since Norman times. This is what inspires my cycling, I couldn’t just pass time by watching the computer count the miles. That is what I love about watching cycling in Europe, even the most basic of club competitions take place on the open road and visit places along the route. I did attempt racing in the UK, both as a BC rider and in the Veterans league. Most UK racing takes place on uninspiring circuits – one hour plus 10 laps. Not for me, I like to go somewhere.  Hence why I tour and ride Audax. It’s the thrill of reaching a far-flung place and riding home again that I find exciting.

Bunch sprint in Roquetas De Mar

Reach for the finish. Italian Matteo Moschetti takes first place.

The English Disease

Time Trials are referred to as the English Disease in Europe, but really it is the circuit race. Events have been forced down this route due to lack of cooperation from the authorities and several loud internet-based critics. The Clasica de Almeria may have only been one of hundreds of races held across Europe each weekend, but local town halls see such races as a way of promoting their town with free TV coverage and therefore ensure that every facility is made available to organisers. Cafes, bars, and restaurants saw a welcome boost to Sunday trading. Local people enjoy a brief touch of glamour as team convoys and staff descend on small sleeping towns. In the UK, councils see street closures as a hindrance rather that a potential for trade, and as for the police – don’t even go there. The UK really has become a petty-minded country of shop keepers.

Not remission - but winning the battle!

 

The battle with Nursey may be finally over! In September I had yet another blood test to try and prove that I was no longer a diabetic. As is regular practice, I was required to have a follow up interrogation. I requested a GP in the hope of getting some common sense from Dr R. Instead, I got an ageing Asian lady who appeared to be returning to medicine in an effort to stave off early dementia or supplement a pension that would not fund her grandchildren through a gap year.

Her response to everything was, ‘I don’t know, you will have to ask the nurse.’

Seven years of medical training in order to refer all questions to the nurse. She knew nothing of glucose levels, types of monitors or accepted norms. She did insist on weighing me on a set of scales that looked like they belonged in a medical museum or on the set of a 1960s drama. As she was unable to bend down to read the dial, my weight somehow managed to increase from 93.2Kg to 94KG – as this was the next large number she could see. Or I had gained 800g over breakfast. Before anyone jumps to conclusions, yes there had been significant movement that morning in a downwards direction.

Then came the blood pressure check. I did mention that I had struggled through the school traffic, battled the Coop car park, and walked briskly up hill to get to the surgery for an 8.45am appointment - an appointment that she was late starting. Her qualified medical opinion was that such events would not affect it and my blood pressure was high. She suggested that I should do something about it.

‘Must be stress at work, can I have a month off?’

‘It’s not that high!’ She snapped.

‘What do you suggest?

‘More exercise and less food.’

I took to the opportunity to inform her that I am able to ride in excess of 200 miles in 24 hours. She was not best pleased and almost pushed me out of the room. I made an appointment to see Nursey.

 

The appointment with Nursey went better than expected. She was pleased with the blood test. The NHS limit for blood glucose is 48 - using whatever ridiculous unit they choose to follow; I was at 52. She could not say I was in remission but could record that I am a diabetic with the condition under control. When I enquired about the next test in three months, she told me she didn’t need to see me for another year. RESULT!

Now I just needed to get clearance for scuba diving. In the UK this is more problematic than elsewhere in the world. The NHS doctors I have seen, all refuse to sign anything to do with diving and the private hyperbaric specialists require verified results from the HbA1c test. Even to share the results the practice wanted £50 to write the letter, then with the private medicals costing over £100 I was beginning to feel exploited by the very people who had told me to do more exercise.

So that is why I found myself sat in the waiting room of Spanish medical centre on a wet Monday evening in February. I was about to pay 40 Euros to see a very qualified hyperbaric specialist who I hoped would declare me fit to dive.