Petrol Station Roulette

After a two-shot penalty in the greenside bunker on the 9^th, I knew we were up against it.

Florian was playing well and running up some steady pars but after a delicate splash out of the bunker caught the lip and rolled back in, he lashed out and slapped the sand with the club. Reluctantly, our playing partners called the penalty and that left us at +4 for the tournament.

The talented Austrian parred his way in through windy conditions but barring a complete collapse by the rest of the field it was an early bath for team Praegant.

On Friday afternoon, I left the club and embarked on the nine-hour journey back to my quaint french ski resort home town of Châtel. The trip out had been done in predominant darkness so I was keen to hit the road and see what the western shores of Italy looked like with the sun dipping down behind the Mediterranean horizon.

Predictably my fuel light beeped almost as soon as I turned the key. tutting and rolling my eyes, I began looking for a petrol station. The satellite navigation unit was directing me back south to Rome but looking at the compass in the bottom left corner of the screen, I took it upon myself to ignore the recommended route and followed my nose northward.

Intentionally avoiding the motorway, I was winding my way up the coast road quite nicely, passing through some delightful little Italian villages. Ancient fortresses and Medieval stone castles lined the bumpy road as sleepy folk closed their shops for the night. 

There are only so many neon signs saying PIZZA you can pass before your taste buds crave a slice of cheese on toast and being the obedient type, I pulled in and ordered a Quattro Formaggi with extra pepperoni. A cold Peroni was consumed in the stark and not quite open yet restaurant whilst Giovani threw my dough in the air far more times than it seemed necessary. Another beer was taken for the road and with PIZZA on the passenger seat I continued my long journey home.

The sun said goodnight and then introduced me to his pink and purple friends. They lit up the darkening sky for half an hour or so, laying on a light display the likes of which I hadn’t seen since watching Jean Michel Jarre in ’81. A couple of small beers and a pizza inside me I was as happy as could be. The disappointment of another week on the bag ending in an early bath had long since left my weary head and my trusty steed and I swallowed up a few miles of tarmac in an Italian haze. 

I need a constant stream of information when driving and am forever glancing at the GPS or the speedo or the rev counter, if not the iPod, phone(s) stereo, map or temp gauge. I was so preoccupied with all of these things that I forgot all about the rather sorry-looking fuel gauge that had alerted me to its thirst nearly an hour ago. Seeing the needle bending against the red zone had me gasping then going straight for the GPS to hunt down the nearest petrol station. 

Thankfully it was only a few miles away so on we chugged. Deep in the heart of a one-horse town with a total population of four, the garage was unsurprisingly unmanned and so it seemed I would have to pay for my fuel through the accompanying machine. I put in my one faithful card and tried to decipher the Italian instructions. Just as I figured out what to do next my Credit Mutuel Gold Card was spat back out hitting me square in the chest and landing in a puddle of dirty old diesel.

I tried it again. This time I caught the slippery card and tried another. Same result. It did accept cash though so I scrambled about for some euros but could only find a fiver in paper and €6.85 in coins. The latter wasn't accepted so I fed the machine the screwed-up five euro note and ‘filled up’ my poor van with three and a third litres of gasolio - barely enough to move the withered needle from its newfound position.

Off I drove into the darkness of the night in the faint hope of finding another station within a few miles. As luck would have it an AGIP garage appeared on the right and I pulled in. The shop looked like it had last been occupied before the war and the pumps hadn’t had an update much after. The automatic or ‘SELF’ machine was a dilapidated excuse for a modern-day teller and naturally didn’t work. On I went.

The next station had similar technology and definitely didn’t accept plastic. Ten miles further another AGIP garage loomed into view and a couple of those old-fashioned humans happened to be inside apparently working. They asked me to wait whilst they took readings from all eight pumps and then proceeded to gesticulate that the station was now ‘clos-ed’. I asked why it was that every station in Italy doesn’t accept my globally recognised cards with plenty of available funds. He replied with one word, ‘Bancomat’. I asked what that meant but I was clearly pushing his linguistic ability now and he walked away showing no further interest.

As I stomped back to the van in a huff his colleague said, “Cash only.”

“Do you have a cash machine?” I asked.

“No.”

“Cheers.”

So on I went. 

The needle and my confidence were wilting rapidly. There was nothing between these petrol stations other than a long dark dead-straight road. The moon was lighting up the coastline and the stars were glistening behind in the jet-black sky of the October night. Under any normal circumstances, it was a perfect night for a drive through the unknown.

The twelfth station I visited looked like it might have some form of life emanating from its dull din but as I rolled in, the drivers returned the nozzles after filling up their grateful vehicles and sped off into the night. I pointlessly tried to use my Mastercard in the machine but once again failed to generate any interest from the software within.

I was screwed.

I’d had the van for several months by now and had come dangerously close to running out of fuel before. Friends who know me will be familiar with the perpetual game of petrol station roulette I am prone to playing week in, week out and have often insinuated that I am a fool. This time I was about to prove them right.

Moving down the list of petrol stations on the TomTom I clicked on the next station and continued on to the next one five kilometres down the road. Sadly I never made it. I could see the next AGIP some kilometre away but my poor van just couldn’t go on. He spluttered to a halt and pulling it out of gear we rolled as far as we could before putting on the hazard lights and head-butting the steering wheel. Exasperation, disappointment, frustration, despair and a touch of self-loathing were just some of the emotions running through me.

I didn’t dwell on it too long though. If worst came to worst I could just pop in the back, pull out the bed and sleep under the warmth of my duvet until the sun came up and with any luck, one of those old-fashioned humans would unlock the doors of the nearby petrol station shop and allow me to use my credit card.

In hindsight, I wish I had.

I grabbed my phone, wallet and torch, locked up the van and wearing only a white hoodie, shorts and trainers headed out into the night. It was a lot colder than I thought. The gentle on-shore Mediterranean breeze had morphed into a fairly strong hurricane that was bringing with it every chilly autumn molecule of sea air it could find. I’ve never had a problem with hitching and have made it through circumstances like this before with consummate ease, so I stuck a thumb out and waited for a passing Italian with a big heart.

The first vehicle that passed was a 7.5tonne truck and it pulled over immediately. Result! I hopped in and without asking anything about me the driver put it in gear and pulled away. I asked if he spoke any English to which he replied that he knew a little. I then asked if he could take me to a petrol station. after a few minutes, we passed one on the left and I motioned towards it. As I watched it disappear behind us, I turned and asked where he was headed. He told me that the garage I was heading towards that we had just passed was closed. I told him that it wasn’t. He said it was. I reiterated that it wasn’t to which he seemed adamant that it was… this went on for a few minutes until I conceded. I was in his country and his wagon after all.

So I asked where we were going. It was warm in his truck and I wasn't in any particular hurry to get back out into the freezing tornado.

He said, “There is a petrol station up here somewhere…”

“Any idea where?” I pondered.

“No.”

“Monte Argentario is only a fifteen or twenty Ks up here isn’t it?” I informed the driver.

He looked at me like I was mad. “No, that’s the other way.” Motioning with his thumb behind him.

“Eh?”

“This is road to Roma.” He informed his passenger.

“Um… no. I think you’ll find that’s where I have just come from.” I patronisingly suggested back.

“Well I go Roma and it this way.” he said pointing straight ahead. 

I was so confused. I had driven straight out of Rome and along the coast north. I’d watched the sun go down in the west, which was on my left making north ahead of me - give or take a degree or two here and there. The Med was on my left all the way up and as far as I was aware I had pulled over on the right-hand side of the road with the van pointing in the direction of France - loosely speaking.

We battled on relentlessly arguing about our current direction of travel until a sign loomed up enlightening me that we were indeed going towards Rome again. How had that happened? I was mystified.

Ten kilometres rolled by and I asked once again where we were going. He said a petrol station had to be up here somewhere to which I couldn’t help but bring up that the last one would have done nicely. He said it was closed. I said it wasn't... I asked him to find one on his Garmin SatNav unit, to which he complied. There was one in 8km.

Not sure whether to trust this guy, I decided to interrogate him over the next 8km. I asked him where he had come from and where he was going; what he was doing and what he was carrying. He was from Romania and was delivering a piano to Rome. I didn’t buy it. I’d watched too many movies about dodgy eastern European guys trafficking young girls to capital cities and then the film ‘Hostel’ came into my head. I wish it hadn’t.

The ESSO garage came into view just in the nick of time and I hopped out whilst the truck was still moving. In the chilly howling wind I staggered up to the pump machine and saw the same familiar useless piece of shit I’d seen over a dozen times now. I turned in despair to the Romanian and told him how many times I’d seen this machine and how many times I’d spat and kicked the thing in frustration. He just shrugged and told me I needed to put cash in. Thanks.

“Do you have any?” I pleaded.

“Yes.” He said smugly.

“Can I borrow some?”

“No.”

“I have a tenner in my van which I can give you once you drop me back there.” I lied.

“I no go back to van.”

“Eh?”

“I give you fuel can then I go Roma.” He then went to the rear of his van and I’m sure a thin, pale young girl handed him a huge green Jerry can. He handed it to me and then returned to the warmth of the cabin. I stared in disbelief at the guy and then hopped back in.

“Can you take me back to my van, please?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I have only fuel for Roma.”

Looking at the pump next to me I said, “Well put some more in then!”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I go to Roma.”

“I know! But you can’t just abandon me here!” I was getting a little short with him.

“I no take you to van.”

“What?”

He pointed to his fuel gauge which looked decidedly healthier than mine and told me he had just enough for the remaining 123km to Rome. He wasn't prepared to put any more in and that was that.

“You take can and ask.” He pointed across the high concrete central reservation barrier to the other side of the road.

“There’s no one out there, mate! It’s dark, desolate, cold and everyone is in bed! No one is going to pick me up and now my van/home is 22km away!”

He looked thoroughly disinterested.

I tried the softly softly approach and asked him in my best calm and collected tone, “Please, my friend can you take me back to my van and I’ll give you every cent I can find.”

“No.”

You can only imagine the expletives I uttered after that.

I slammed the door and kicked and punched the side of his van until an Albanian girl asked me to keep the noise down as I was waking her nine sisters.

I walked away from the useless petrol station and clambered over the barrier to the other side. I wasn't even sure whether it was the right way to go but I looked both ways and saw nothing in either direction. Streetlights hadn’t made it to this part of the world yet and thus left the illumination responsibility to the full moon above.

I started to walk back from whence I came in the faint hope that it was the right way. I still hadn’t fathomed how I’d managed to get the van facing the wrong way and wasn't sure if going back was right or not.

Then the severity of my plight hit me: No one knew where I was; I didn’t know where I was; it was really cold; I was vastly underdressed for a midnight trek along the Italian coast; all I had on me was an iPhone with about an hour’s worth of battery life but no signal, a torch with fading batteries, a credit card that didn’t seem to work and about 60cents. I was 22km away from the comfort and security of my van and all I wanted to do was get back to him.

Then another horrible thought hit me. I thought about my new Romanian ‘friend’ and his Eastern European ‘Hostel’ gangster connections. I began wondering why he hadn’t stopped at the first garage and proceeded to take me 22km away from my van and then deposit me alone in the desert. Had he dropped me off and then called his mate who by now was hauling my van onto the back of a flatbed truck and taking him away for medical research? Were these despicable foreigners going to smash their way in and nick all I own? Not again surely. Everything of any value to me was in that van and I was nowhere near it.

Visions of arriving blistered and frozen at four in the morning to see a space where my van used to be had me breaking into a gentle and desperate canter.

Half an hour passed until I heard the dull drone of a vehicle some distance behind me. My trusty torch lit my way and I used it to flag down the approaching car. I even waved the beam in my face to show how pitiful and in desperate need of rescuing I was but the driver just blinded me with his full beam and sped past into the night. Bastardo.

Ten minutes later another car could be heard so I repeated the same pathetic routine of flashing the light on the road as if to suggest he ought to stop, followed by lighting up the huge Jerry can, then my sad, cold and lonely face. I repeated this pitiful charade to over 30 vehicles for over an hour and a half until I conceded that walking back to my poor van was the only option. The trouble was it was over 20km away. Going back to my Duke of Edinburgh Bronze Award (form an orderly queue, ladies) I recalled that a fit man walks at approximately 4km per hour. The mice in my head whirled around and deduced that I would get back to my van in five hours time – 3am. My hazard lights would have been flashing every other second for over six hours. Anyone who knows anything about running a diesel engine out of fuel knows that you aren’t likely to get it going again anyway but one thing that would help is a fully charged battery.

I let out a little whimper and stuck my thumb out again… an hour and a similar number of rejections later, a little red diesel Opel Corsa pulled over. Hallelujah!

I clambered in and only then did I realise how cold I was. I’d been walking and walking for nearly two hours. Having been a caddy for a few years now - which essentially involves walking for a living carrying something - I considered myself in decent shape but the guy looked at me as if I needed a paramedici - pronto. English was not a language he was familiar with but thankfully the international language of gesticulations afforded him enough info to deduce that I needed fuel. The Jerry can being a fairly obvious clue I guess.

There wasn't much I could say to the off-duty security guard after that so I directed the heating jets away from his fuller figure and towards my frozen parts to thaw out. We drove and drove and only then did I feel thankful that I hadn’t considered walking the rest. It was bloody miles! I tried to tell him my car was at a big yellow AGIP garage up here on the right somewhere. Or was it on the left?

Then he pulled off the highway and onto a road that crossed over towards a blue and orange petrol station. I didn’t know where to start in telling him that it was the wrong garage but he just pointed at my Jerry can and said, “Gasolio?”

“Si.”

The same old rickety machine greeted me along with a strong sense of déjà vu. I explained that my card didn’t work and he said, “Cash.” I pulled out the liners of my pockets indicating I hadn't a bean. I looked like a tramp. He pointed towards the car and we drove off. A minute later we were outside a bank. Good lad! I whipped out €100 in twenties and we headed back to the garage. Courtesy of my new chaperone I popped €20 of diesel into the huge can and retreated to the warmth of the Opel.

He then drove off and after a labyrinth of twisty, turning roads, we found ourselves back on the highway once more. I settled back in the seat for a few minutes of respite. It then dawned on me to question which direction we were going. He had picked me up on the road coming from Rome, right? I honestly didn’t know. The Romanian had baffled me. I thought long and hard for a minute or two then just went with my instincts.

“Signore, Roma…?” I pointed through the rear windscreen.

“Si.”

“Then I think we need to go the other way.”

“Che cosa?" He said in Italian.

“This way – wrong.”

A light bulb flew out of his cranium and he hurled the little car sideways down a gravel track heading into the darkness. He navigated his trusty steed through the backstreets of some sleepy village and then back to the petrol station we had just filled up the can from. I tapped my forehead suggesting he was a clever boy. He looked at me as though I may have recently had sex with his grandmother. A few more turns and we were back on the road again this time going towards Rome where I believed my lonely van might be waiting for me.

How could I lose my car? I began reciting the 2000 American stoner film with Ashton Kucher about two guys who party so hard one night they lose the car, namely Dude, Where’s My Car?

Was it this way or the other? I genuinely had no idea. Could I take up this poor sod’s entire night whilst we drove up and down this godforsaken piece of road looking for a white van with the hazards on? I was in a state of mild panic. I had seen a Carabinieri station a few miles back so if worse came to worse I could go in there and ask them to help me find my van but how stupid would I look?

“Oh… hi... um… ciao, I…um ran out of diesel a couple of hours ago and got into some Romanian fella’s truck who took me out into the middle of nowhere and dropped me off. Then I walked for two hours until Guiseppe here picked me up and furnished me with fuel and now I can’t find my van. Can you help, Signore...?”

My patient chauffeur continued up the highway for a further ten or so kilometres until a big yellow AGIP came into view. I cheered and said, “That’s it! That’s it!”

He pulled into the garage but I had to explain that it was further up the road. I was taking the piss now and knew it. The guy was clearly wishing he had never picked up this English idiot and now he wanted another kilometre up the road? Cheek.

I pleaded with him to continue up the road a little further to my van. He reluctantly put it in first and pulled back out. Nothing looked familiar to me at all. It was an AGIP for sure – no mistaking - but everything around it looked new to me. We drove on for a few kilometres further than my van could possibly have been until I came to the conclusion that not only was it the wrong AGIP but we had gone the wrong way and that I was indeed an idiot.

I motioned to Guiseppe that we ought to get off the highway at this junction and try the other way. He looked at me as though the boys and I gang-raping his sister would have been better news. I gave the international symbol of sorry, put my warming hands between my knees to indicate some level of humbleness and kept schtum.

He let out a big sigh and pulled back out onto the highway again proceeding down the road he had gone down at least twice already that night. Some 25km later I saw the big red ESSO garage but it was on the other side of the road. That’s right! Isn’t it? I kept quiet and hoped to hell that somewhere up here was a big yellow AGIP with a withering white van patiently waiting for its master and food.

Ten anxious and tense minutes later I began to recognise a few buildings on my right. “Yeah, this looks right!” I exclaimed. He didn’t look convinced. He just wanted me out now.

All I could do was encourage my driver that all was well. I genuinely did recognise the sights around me but my mind was so scrambled now I didn’t know when I might have seen them. Was it on the way to running out of fuel or when the mad Romanian had driven past them? As we drove on I honestly felt as though my AGIP and my van were just around the corner. I just didn’t have a clue which side of the highway.

Two minutes later we banked around a long sweeping left-hander and I saw yellow. Then I could make out it was a garage. Then, definitely an AGIP. Then I recognised the trees across the road – the ones I’d cowered under when I realised how cold it was. I screamed, “We’re here! We’re here! We’ve found him!” Just up ahead the surprisingly strong blink of my van’s hazard lights was clear to see. I let out a little sigh of relief and patted my new chauffeur on the thigh. A look of, ‘Do that again, sunshine and we’ll fall out.’ was all I got in return.

He pulled off at the next junction and sweeping around the complicated overpass we stopped behind my van. I lagged the fifteen litres of fuel out of the footwell and ran up to the side. I unlocked the fuel cap and then I realised I didn’t have a funnel. I looked sheepishly at Guiseppe and he said, “Imbuto?”

All I could say was, “Si, grazie.”

Like an episode out of Bush Tucker Man, he poured out his freshly purchased two-litre bottle of agua minerale onto the street and whipping out his trusty penknife fabricated a perfect funnel for me. He held it without a word as I poured in the fifteen litres of diesel – some made it into the van, the rest all over his hand.

I kept suggesting to him that he could go and that I would be fine now but he motioned that he would wait until the van had fired up – if at all. I returned the fuel cap and ran around to the driver’s side. I waited patiently for the glow plug light to extinguish before turning the key. Normally he fires into life immediately but he wasn't having any of it. Guiseppe then banged on the passenger window and shouted through the glass, “Lentamente!” I took that to mean slowly. I tried it again and the old beast chugged into life spitting out various fumes and black clouds of diesel onto the bonnet of my poor suffering chauffeur’s Opel.

Needless to say the feeling of relief was immense. I hopped down from the cab and ran around to give Guiseppe a big hug but thought better of it. He was retreating back into his car now, shaking his head and muttering to himself. He looked pleased with his night’s work but refused the €20 note I was begging him to take. “Prego.” I said. After several refusals, I rolled up the note and tucked it in his top pocket. I motioned that he buy himself a drink. “Grazie.” He said and disappeared into the night.

===================

A few minutes ago, just before writing this, I popped down to my local supermarket to buy a few groceries for the evening’s dinner. I opened my passport wallet to retrieve a credit card and a €50 note fell out.

Porco Dio

CK

Mountain Biking in Chatel

Last week I pumped up the tyres on our bikes and we hit the road. 

Been trying to convince Debs since she bought her Cannondale that you have to expect a hill every now and then especially now that we live in the mountains. When we went to Provence a couple of years ago I was carrying literally everything on my bike whilst she struggled rather vociferously with nothing more than two foam roll mats strapped to her handlebars. Downhill wasn't much better for her - bless. The up side of a speed bump was murder and the downside treacherous. 

Anyway, I dragged her out of bed and told her we were going to cycle to Pre La Joux. From where we are now it’s only about 5km but uphill all the way. She wasn't looking forward to it but after about half an hour of us both huffing and puffing we pulled into the car park at the bottom of the piste and had a beer. Bloody tough but very satisfying!

So last week I called up a few guys and gals and asked if anyone was going up the hill for a ride. I was told to meet up at Henri and Graham’s campervan in the Pre La Joux car park once more and duly complied. I was a little nervous but hopped in the van nonetheless and sat around outside their cute little Fiat Hymer combo thing for an hour contemplating where to go. I hadn’t been up the hill at all so far and was dying to get on with it. I don’t know why I was nervous. I guess it’s the fear of looking an idiot. Should be used to that, I hear you mutter.

We finally get a lift pass and clamp the bike to the chair lift and up we go. I’d told the gang that I hadn’t ridden off road since my escapades in Australia two years previous and I hadn’t. So after going up the little two man lift towards Avoriaz, Gaston unclips my GIANT hardtail from the lift in front and off we go! 

We’re heading towards a green run called ‘Panoramic’ so I’m naturally expecting a half decent view to while away the descent. Within seconds of descending from the lift I see a little kicker and pop a little jump off it. Feels good. Still got it.

We belt it down this undulating little green run and it dawns on me that it’s actually quite tough. Very rocky and up and down and whist I know there’s a cracking view of the lake and hills of Avoriaz to my left, I daren't look or I’ll be heading down there to join the goats and vache qui rit a thousand feet below. We pull over at a hairpin and let the gang catch up. Then I get a barrage of abuse from the guys seemingly saying in unison, ”I thought you said you were crap and had hardly ridden?” Gulp. Sod it. Feel even better now. Confidence growing.

The Panoramic is a green run making it statistically the easiest run here. I don't know who grades these things and I know I’m trying to keep up with guys who are really into this mountain biking lark and subsequently have £3-4k bikes to play on and I’m on a sub £600 hard tail, but I wouldn’t want to have any less ability than I have to get down. Surprisingly difficile.

The run has amazingly well-crafted berms which if you get them right and commit to a high line you’ll just get thrown around the bends to perfection. They're a real buzz! The flatter parts are built up with table-top jumps and kickers and all sorts. Little streams cross the path and make you think about your line and commitment issues of auld. It’s really steep and technical in places, which I love. I reckon it might be an age thang but I’ve never really been into going that fast off road and nothing’s changed. I love the techy bits and handled them pretty well.

Before we went out I adjusted the back brake to get it a little nearer to the bars but in my haste to have uber responsive brakes I blew the thing altogether. A real bummer. I had to then cruise down to the car park once again with only a front brake and fluid peshing out all over my leg.

Graham had a spare and complete brake so a bit of jiggery-pokery another couple of lifts later and we were heading back down the Panaoramic again. The second time it’s better naturally as you know where to let go of the glowing brakes and belt it. I hit some good jumps too getting some pretty good air.

You’ll be pleased to hear I was wearing a crash helmet, elbow pads and knee/shin guards too – highly recommended - and did this run three times before descending back from the restaurant area of Plaine Dranse towards the car park. We faffed around a bit and then went back up hitting a run called People, which is a blue and therefore a little trickier. It winds its way through the trees and over streams with really steep drops and tight berms and trees that sit in the middle of the run that surprise the granny out of you. Awesome.

I nearly disappeared down a steep ravine coming around one corner too fast but the little bike stopped on a sixpence, bless him! The bike is great. Sure, it’s bumpy and after three or four runs your wrists are hurting and your shoulders crying out but we grew up on these things so I’m used to it.

The unwritten rule when riding with Gav, the landlord is for every run you do you have an accompanying beer. So we did. Lovely it was too!

We then played six holes at our neighbouring 'Loy' golf course. I’d showered unlike the others so when I turned up on the 1^st tee they’d all teed off and it was my go. I was nervous again as I have single-handedly introduced a higher level of golf chat into the valley since arriving last December. The expectation was high and I’d been dreading this opening tee shot for months.

You’ll be delighted to hear I knocked the 110yard wedge to about four feet. A look of annoyance was the best response I got from my peers.

================

I hadn’t been out for a week or so as the cost of it all is just a little steep. The day pass is €30 and the hire of the gear the same making it a dear old day out. I want to preserve my little GIANT for as long as I can too but having drank a lot this week I thought I’d set myself a little calorie burning challenge. I’d mapped the cycle Debs and I did on www.mapmycycle.com and it gave me a few other routes to try. I saw that you could cycle up to the Plaine Dranse area and thought I’d give it a go.

I parked the van in the car park and hit the steep road. I stopped immediately and pumped up the tyres to the max (and for a breather – I hadn’t left the car park yet) and carried on. It’s a first gear jobbie. Long and steep. As I left the car park I saw a sign saying Plaine Dranse 6km. Clucking bell! I’ve boarded down it so many times and don’t recall getting much speed so I hoped I’d be ok.

I battled up the hill at snail’s pace for what seemed like half an hour and then saw the next sign informing me I’d covered just one kilometre. This knocked the wind out of my already depleted sails. I gallantly carried on for another half a km I reckon and then, as I often find myself when I go running, at a halt. Don’t know how it happens but suddenly, without a conscious decision from me I am no longer moving.

All negged out and pissed off, I'm panting like a rabid Rottweiler and my legs are shaking like I’ve just done an hour long lunge. I contemplated giving up and riding back down to get on the lift.

Just couldn’t do it.

Gonna do it.

It’s four kilometres you wimp – get on the bike and carry on!

So I did. A minute later I was just beginning to struggle again when AC/DC’s ‘Nick of Time’ came on the iPhone… perfect. Spurred me on to perfection. I battled my way up and up and up the hill listening to it twice, then another time and then the view of the restaurants came into sight and I knew I’d done it.

My mouth was dry, legs a quiver, heart coming out of my chest like a horny cartoon dog but I naturally retained all face and cruised into the car park looking like I did that sort of thing every day. Inside I was exhausted.

I lay down for half an hour and designed a playlist to listen to on the way down. I was only wearing shorts and tee shirt so I knew I had to be careful. I also didn’t have a guide so…

Hopping straight up like an Iron Man I headed towards the run I’d done before called People but thought I’d see what else was on offer. The Serpentine is a blue run and absolutely brilliant. I was all over it and overtaking unfit kids on the miniscule ascents throughout the run. (These little spoilt brats with their five grand bikes can’t handle a fifty yard 5% hill. Pathetic) Anyway I carried on down at breakneck speed with Metallica et al blaring in my ears and pulled into the car park a short time later. Brilliant! Loved it. I was considering doing another run but then the queue put me off. So British.

I’d had the rear brake repaired the week before at the local shop and popped in there for some meticulous adjustment on the way home. I was buzzing. Not tired in any way and felt a huge sense of accomplishment. Not only had I descended the hill with style, grace, skill and pretty damn quick but I’d cycled up to the start of it too unlike every one else. I’d cycled 10km with a 600m ascent thrown in. All of this without an accident or a scrape.

Ten minutes later I grabbed the bike out the back of the van and tripped over with it landing on my head, scraping my knee really badly and my left fingers squeezed in between the bars and the frame.

What a twat.

-------------------------------------------------------

On Sunday morning I was out bumping my way down a steep and narrow trail when I felt my ability to hold on for dear life and pull the brake levers rather tricky and gradually felt my hands disappear over the bars. The next minute I was smashing onto the ground hard and fast and sliding towards a ditch. The ditches are traversed on trail by the use of wooden planked bridges spanning their breadth. The ditch I visited was four or five feet underneath said bridge and I found myself a short time later upside down lying on my back with a gentle trickle of long since melted snow cleansing my bleeding forehead.

Keeping up appearances in a Hyacinth Bouquet style I immediately stood up and brushed myself off. I was panting like a paedophile in a playground and struggling for breath. I had landed at the feet of another keen French mountain biker who had witnessed the no doubt spectacular event. In that typically nonchalant French manner his eyebrows raised beyond his scalp and corners of his mouth bounced off his shrugging shoulders, he said, “Ca va?”

I've had a real problem with this expression all my life, as it doesn’t translate well to me. I have been told by Debs to reply with the same so I did although I didn't feel particularly ça va.

The boys came running back up the hill at this point. They hadn’t seen me disappear into home of the trolls and had zipped by having the time of their lives whilst I staggered about wondering whether mine was about to come to an end.

I pulled the completely undamaged bike out of the stream and walked about until I felt ready to move. Something was awry - I just didn't know what.

I’ve had a few crashes in my time – Whilst sat motionless on the veranda for four days I recalled a few extreme sport mishaps:

1. Aged 10. I was attempting to jump over seven packing crates ‘borrowed’ from Waitrose with my old friend Matthew Davies in ‘the rec’ when I… well, I don’t know what happened really. I guess I didn’t quite make it and ended up in bed with mum nursing various horrendous bumps and scrapes about my person.

2. Aged 11. I flew over the handlebars when returning from buying a pair of jeans from Traxx. We were living nearby and the plastic bag containing my Pepe jeans had entered the vicinity of the front spokes sending me 'Supermanning' down our road. Waking in my bed to my sister’s gorgeous friends asking if I was ok seemed to aid the healing process considerably.

3. Aged 19. Returning home from a day’s couriering around London on my Honda 400/4 I looked behind to check the intermittent rear light was working and hit the kerb. I was only traveling at about three miles per hour but managed to do some considerable personal damage. I got home from Richmond without using the clutch and walking into the lounge semi-naked I said, “Does my shoulder look ok, dad?” Reluctantly putting down his whiskey he just said, “I’ll get the car keys.” Left shoulder out.

4. Aged 23. After ‘finding’ a case of Pinot Grigio whilst erecting a marquee for an impending wedding, Marquee John and I duly ploughed through the majority of it before he asked if I had any ‘gear’. Bladdered, I pedaled back home down a tight alleyway but got my bar ends caught in the wire fence and crashed rather dramatically into the tarmac. I think. I smashed my head on the ground knocking myself and my right shoulder out.

5. Aged 30. Stuck in traffic for an eternity in the middle of Winchester during a particularly hot August afternoon, my impatience got the better of me and on green I hurtled up the road on my Honda Hornet at full pelt. Not knowing the road well, a chicane over a humpback bridge approached unexpectedly and I slammed into the opposite wall at over 50mph. I never even hit the ground. Bike was knackered and I peshed blood for a few days.

6. Aged 37. Whilst looking behind me to see where the gang had got to, I carelessly caught a back edge on the snowboard and flew backwards landing on my head and right shoulder again. Clavicle a long way out.

7. Aged 37. Not a good year. See above.

So staggering around in the woods last week I kind of knew what was happening. My mouth had gone bone dry and I was struggling to breathe. I supped as much water from my pack as I could but without any breath inside me it was proving difficult. After ten minutes of gasping the guys assumed I’d done some real damage and ordered me to go to the hospital. When you live in a mountain resort, a visit to the nearest hospital needs a visit to the easyJet website, so I hopped back on the bike again. I managed to ride down the hill with one arm and had a beer. Au naturellement.

I was fuming. Sore but more angry than anything else. I’d really buggered things up when I did this back in January on the snowboard and here I was four weeks into life in Chatel and I’d done it again. I knew it wasn’t just a bruise and knew a week off work (at least) was on the cards.

I was more upset for Debs who I knew would go nuts when she saw me staggering out of the van hardly able to put one foot in front of t’other. Thankfully she was great and just shook her head telling me I was an idiot. She’d seen me like this before and knew I’d be fine.

The morning after, however I couldn’t move at all. It took me half an hour to get out of bed. I was like an upside down turtle.

Debs wasn't too concerned but I knew I ought to go and get an x-ray. Visions of jagged ribs puncturing my lungs had me slightly concerned and I didn't sleep very well that night. It was now 36hours after the tumble and I was in agony. Nurofen just doesn’t cut it when the shit really hits the fan. So le docteur was seen and the x-ray showed no cracks or breaks so that was good. He suspected some twisted vertebrae and forwarded me to the osteopath for a second opinion.

I have never experienced pain like it nor have I seen parts of my body in such a fashion before. I also never realised how hairy my arse was. I was screaming in agony as le physio tried to ‘free up’ a couple of twisted vertebrae he’d allegedly discovered. Le docteur even came in to see what the commotion was. I’ve never screamed in pain nor will anyone have seen me flailing around hollering STOOOOOOOOP!!!! before. He did achieve a couple of decent clicks in the right spot but the exertion he stamped on the joint that didn’t click had me blubbering in pain.

The Merchant of Death then asked me to lie on my front for further pleasure. I lay down on the bed and then started to panic. I couldn’t move or breathe now and also couldn’t push myself back up. I couldn’t even ask for help – I was totally stuck. Debs eventually finished talking to The Reaper and asked me to hurry up. She bent down to see me going purple and stamped on the elevating bed to get me stood up again. It took me a while to recover before attempting it again. With an elbow in my back and head wrenched sideways, the executioner nearly broke my neck before achieving the requisite clicks and stepped back rather proud of himself. I was a shadow of my former self.

I struggled to utter the word merci and wished him a slow painful existence before staggering into the car for an unannounced but well-earned boohoo.

I've since spent the last four days scribbling garbage like this down whilst enjoying the temperate climes of summer in the mountains. Cold beers, good food, lovely weather and my own private nurse from heaven. Could be worse I guess. Should be back to work on Monday I hope. A minor glitch in the plan.

CK

The day I took my eye off the ball...

So there I was, having a routine summer trim – as you do - when…

It was a glorious summer’s day when the thought of a full day dressed in all black nylon whilst serving the masses of Brighton American Hots prompted me to take a few inches off the winter coat. This involved nothing more than a rusty pair of scissors and an overly snug shower cubicle.

All was going well; the shower was temperately refreshing, the iPod was playing an old favourite and the thatch was falling effortlessly from my nether regions. I then felt a touch of resistance within the jaws of the blades and thought it worth a look below. To my horror a fine jet of crimson jus was spraying against the brilliant white tiles of the cubicle. 

I’d taken my eye off the ball and nipped a vein.

It looked horrendous. Scenes in Scream have had less blood splattered across the set. I immediately grabbed a handful of nutsack and held on for dear life but the blood kept pouring out of my fingers as if wringing out a towel full of red paint.

As with any other form of relatively minor injury, I didn’t initially panic, as I knew that it would clot eventually and I could continue my routine and get to work on time. Sadly there’s not a great deal of fat or muscle on a ball sac to assist in the clotting process and so for twenty minutes I watched in relative horror as my life fled through a hole in my bollocks.

At this time I thought it best to consult a professional but wasn’t sure who to go to. Was it serious enough to warrant a 999 call? I didn’t have a doctor in the area yet so that was out. Mum…? No. I was pacing around the flat leaving a red snail’s trail and making a mess and the thought of being found in a puddle of my own ball blood was too much to bear. So I picked up the mobile and headed back to the crime scene in the shower once more.

I relayed my predicament to the emergency assistant on the phone who struggled to hide her amusement. I wasn't in a state of panic at all and certainly not in any pain, it was more the concern of inconveniencing anyone unnecessarily and the possibility of a tombstone saying Chris – couldn’t keep his eye on the ball that worried me more than anything.

It was 10:45am by the time the lady informed me the paramedics were on their way. I was due at work at 11am, it was a ten-minute walk away and I had blood pissing out of my balls. Time to make the call. Grant is a good friend of mine but I still wasn’t sure how he’d handle the idea that one of the only two members of his staff working on that hot summer’s day in the middle of the busiest week of the year wasn't going to make it.

Running out of inspiration – amongst other things - for an alternative excuse I told him I simply wasn’t going to make it in today. He naturally asked why. Beating around the bush – a lot – I said I’d… um…‘had an accident’ and that was it. He’d been a restaurant manager for many years and had heard every excuse known to man, except this one. I ran my tale past him and he started to snigger and then giggle and then laugh and then roar. He enjoyed the mental image of my awkward predicament so much he immediately dismissed my having to work and congratulated me on the original nature of the gory yarn I had just spun.

Then my phone rang. I didn’t recognise the number. I answered it and it was the paramedics. My flat was on the 5^th floor of a Victorian townhouse in central Brighton without a lift but more importantly without an intercom or a door I could open from within the penthouse. I told them I’d be right down.

Donning some camouflaged army shorts I grabbed a handful of bleeding scrotum and ran down the ten flights of stairs to the awaiting aide. The moment I opened the front door the two of them sized me up and once again struggled to contain their amusement.

Their enjoyment of the sight afore them rubbed off on me and I began to see the funny side and with a bashful laugh I asked them to follow me up the stairs. I was leaving a trail - at least that what’s the rather lovely paramedic girl told me as she grabbed a piece of gauze from her jacket pocket and started swabbing the stairs behind me. I insisted she not bother as the ancient carpet would only benefit from the added splash of colour.

She was gorgeous. Long flowing auburn hair tied up into that American Cheerleader ponytail every man loves and with an ample cleavage peering through her green tunic setting my mind racing, I was hoping that she might have been the one inspecting the damage. In hindsight the sight of a naked man’s testicles splashing blood all over the white kitchen floor was never going to induce the schoolboy dream of an afternoon of nurse-patient frivolity, so into the kitchen came Dave to have a closer look.

I removed my bloodied hand cautiously only to spray him with a fine jet not his green pants.. Thankfully he laughed and looking up at me said, “Nope, there’s nothing we can do with that, Chris. You’re just going to have to hold your testicles until it clots up.” I mentioned the idea of smearing a load of SuperGlu over the wound and continuing with my life once again but he didn’t look too convinced and talked me out of it. This clearly wasn't in the paramedic quick-fix handbook. He handed me a large handful of gauze and disappeared into the afternoon with his lovely assistant whilst I contemplated an afternoon holding my ‘nads.

An hour passed without further incident. I didn’t dare look at my gash until I was sure it had healed up. So to kill some time I cranked up the computer and went on Facebook to see whether anyone else I knew had suffered the same grooming fate as I.

I was finding the whole situation rather humurous now and thought I‘d share my amusement with those who might be online, as you do. Within seconds the masses started asking me for photos - the sick bastards. Obedient as ever I grabbed my camera phone and snapped a few pics of the CSI scene in the bathroom. It was pretty gross. I wasn't going to get a decent shot of the cut for fear of damaging the hopefully clotting blood around it so they’d have to use their imagination.

My sister was the first to call, as she loves a good laugh. I talked her through the incident, as much as I could through the fits of laughter on the other end. Once she calmed down she asked whether in fact it might be more serious than my tale first provoked. I told her that I had been instructed by Dave to hold my balls for two hours but if that didn’t work to go to the hospital.

By the time I put the phone down to my giggling sibling, two hours had passed. Shit. How am I going to get to the hospital? Brighton is a great place and no mistake but it is also a nightmare for parking. I’d been living there for 18months now and still hadn’t been granted a parking permit. That often meant walking outside to hop in the car and drive away only to remember you’d parked the car a week before some three or four miles away in a different county altogether. This was one of those instances. Thinking quickly, considering the lack of blood still left within me I grabbed the bloodied phone again and called a cab. Standing outside my house, in army shorts, a t-shirt on inside out (I later learned) and flip-flops I waited patiently for my chariot to escort me to the hospital.

We screeched up to the A&E doors and I ran up to the reception as quick as I could. I jumped the queue of minor grazes and broken nails and asked Janice to pop me through to the doctor sharpish. She quite rightly told me to join the queue. I then showed her my red snail trail to which she looked quite aghast. She asked where it was coming from and I don’t recall saying anything other than looking at her sympathetically for some form of connection. A light bulb flew out of her head and she picked up the phone. Rather than telling me to take a seat she ushered me into the nearest doctor. I noticed a janitor reluctantly mopping me up behind.

The doctor also found the whole situation hilarious and asked me how I did it. Filling in his forms without allowing me to see as if in a GCSE exam, he then decided to take a look. To his and my relief, I left his white coat as white as snow but continued to drip like a broken tap on the tiled floor of his cubicle. Looking slightly less amused by this, he handed me another pile of gauze and ushered me away saying there was nothing he could do about it either. What did we pay the NHS to do for Christ’s sake! I tried to tell him how long I had sat there holding my bollocks but my yeah buts and no buts fell on deaf ears.

Another twelve quid later and I was home once more sat on my blood splattered dining room chair still concerned how long it would take before I was going to resemble E.T. when they find him by the river; reduced to a shrivelled pink prune on the floor of my studio flat.

News travels quick in these circumstances and within a couple of hours the boys came round to see how I was. They were quite clearly there to see how the carnage was and to ‘bagsie’ any of my possessions they’d had their eye on should the worst come to worst.

I had other things on my mind than the fastidiousness of my flat and hadn't clocked it but it was a disgusting, bloodied mess. My balls had spread themselves far and wide and covered almost every corner of my little flat. One of my ‘friends’ had brought his dog along who seemed to enjoy lapping up the red paint splashed in a Jackson Pollock style all over the kitchen lino. That would save me running the mop around.

The boys told me to 'man up' and come to the pub across the road. Not daring to move my hand, I put my t-shirt on the right way around and slipped on the flip-flops and went for a pint. A pint or two in I risked a check and to my delight nothing seeped out. I bought a celebratory round and enjoyed quaffing several more. Five or six pints later it was time to go wee-wee. Forgetting all about my injury I got up without a hint of caution and ripped open my bollocks once again.

This time it was really quite bad. The Lion and Lobster has a typically pub-like red carpet but a dark crimson path was deposited as I ran out the side door up to the humiliation-free comfort of my flat. I lay down a couple of Waitrose bags underneath my embarrassing injury and lay on the bed. I must have lay there until three in the morning holding my nuts until I fell asleep.

I awoke at 9:30am convinced I’d be dead and ran to the bathroom mirror to see if I was opaque or not. Thankfully I hadn't become a translucent image of my former self and the healing had come on leaps and bounds throughout the night.

The weather was lovely once more and so I took a wander down to the restaurant to explain my story to Grant who I’m sure would still be laughing. As soon as I walked in the door the entire staff asked how my bollocks were. Cheers mate.

On the way home I bumped in to the boys once more and as it was a glorious 30 degrees we took in a swim in the surprisingly tempting English Channel. I figured that the cold and salty nature of the sea would help in the healing process and we swam around like little kids until hypothermia gave us a nod. I was last to get out of the channel and thought I’d got away with a refreshing swim without dying and had helped in speeding up the healing. I staggered up the pebbly beach like a wounded soldier as only Brighton beach can make you, only to be told to look down. The wound had opened right up again and my inner thighs and calves looked like a scene out of Reservoir Dogs.

Bollocks.

CK

An Interesting Summer

I have just finished an unprecedented nine-week run on the tour starting at the Evian Masters on the 19^th July finishing in Spain on the 19^th September and thought it time to reflect on an interesting period in my professional life.

After a player I was particularly fond of decided she was unable to afford a caddy anymore I was o'ut of work and ‘on the spit’ as it’s known. Don’t ask.

A week or two prior to this news I was enjoying a third or fourth caffe con leche in Portugal when I was asked by one of the LET’s – hell, Ladies Golf’s - most colourful characters, Smriti (Simi) Mehra to work for her, should she be granted her anticipated invite to the year’s premier event, the Evian Masters.

The following week in Tenerife the invite duly appeared on the home page of the LET website and a few days later I was on the plane to Geneva for a week of slander, libel, abuse and a whole lot of fun with Simi.

It was during this great week – via text message during the practice round in fact - that I received the news that I wasn’t going to be working with my favourite player anymore. 

Breanne was struggling with a few issues off the course, which sadly affected her performance on the course. One of the consequences of all this was me. I was gutted. I had never enjoyed working with anyone as much as I did with Breanne and now I was not only out of a job, but with eight weeks straight coming up that I had committed to mentally, vocationally and financially, I was screwed.

One event at a time...

Simi and I had a great opening day overlooking Lac Leman shooting an unexpected two under par 70 leaving us comfortably in the top 20. Unfortunately she followed it up with an equally unexpected 80, which left us on the next flight home. 

I enjoyed my time with Simi and to be working at the Evian Masters with the best players in the world at one of the best events on the Ladies’ calendar was a real honour.

The British Open at Royal Birkdale followed and through a good friend of mine known as the Scouse Mouse, I had managed to arrange couple of days work with an American girl called Beth Bader. Final Qualifying was held at the sensational Hillside Golf Club. one of Jack Niklaus's favourite courses no less. It was Beth’s only chance to qualify for the prestigious event and I did all I could to help her through. 

I had two agendas that week: a, she’s a really nice girl and had flown all the way from California to try out for the event and secondly, thanks to my recent ‘redundancy’ I didn’t have job for the Open and figured, if I got her through, I’d have a week’s work at a major tournament. 

My Grandmother and her brother, Harold were members at Royal Birkdale for many years and since becoming a caddy on the LET, I knew it was an event I wanted to work at. Beth played ok but missed a few crucial putts and sadly missed out playing in The Open that time around. Hopefully she’ll return next year when we’re at Carnoustie.

Desperate to work within the ropes at Birkdale, I was lingering around the course trying hard to ask every player that walked by if my skills might be of interest. I'd committed to accommodation which wasn't an easy thing to get during this week in a small town like Southport. 

I was running out of time, patience and was considering driving home considerably out of pocket for the week, when I saw some of the French girls coming out of the bedroom next door in the B&B I was staying at. Quelle surprise.  

One player I knew had a caddy – the giveaway being her canoodling with him the corridor - but the other I wasn't sure. I’ve always had a soft spot for the delightful Melodie Bourdy and couldn’t quite muster up the courage to approach her for the first time and it be asking for work. So like a complete coward, I didn’t.

The following day I was loitering with intent around the putting green when she approached me! Shaking like a pathetic pubescent boy, I tried to look cool and indifferent - as is my annoying defence mechanism - but rather than approaching me for my good looks and irresistible charm, she wanted me to carry her bag for the week.

She was obviously feeling less than confident about her ability in this field of elite players and only offered me a day rate until the cut on Friday. With a practice round included I was going to be marginally better off and assuming she made it through to the weekend, the percentages and two more days work, right…? Nope. She wasn't prepared to offer me a percentage. I was keen to work but not be taken advantage of. I have some standards. 

With a hint of reluctance, I agreed and walked away pleased to have the work but bitterly disappointed with not only my poor negotiating skills but the pitiable, quivering state she saw me in. It was as if I had been offered a date but on no accounts was there to be any suggestion of a kiss…

After a fair bit of thought the night before, I approached her on the putting green and before I lagged her weighty bag on my shoulder, I said I wanted percentages included - as any decent caddy worth his salt should - to which she looked at me pitifully and said, “Bien sür.”

Royal Birkdale is tough, really tough for a big hitter and Melodie isn't a big hitter. She narrowly missed the cut at her first Open and left understandably disappointed. I, however could now go to my cousin’s wedding the following day. It was a quandary that had been bugging me all year but even though Melodie missed the cut and I perhaps missed out working the weekend at a Major tournament, I’d worked at Royal Birkdale and went home with some cash in my pocket. My grandmother would have been proud. 

A great time was had by all at the wedding too. They call that a win, win situation.

Word travels fast in this game and it was common knowledge that I was without a bag for the foreseeable future and the head of our Caddies' Association, Shane had been in touch with me regarding a job the following week in Ireland. Being his home event he had his ear pretty close to the ground and had been asked to find someone to work with Irish teenage sensations, the Maguire twins. I called up their coach and after a very brief conversation had a week’s work lined up at The AIB Irish Open with Lisa Maguire.

We had a great week together playing alongside Laura Davies for two days and enjoyed, by far the biggest crowds I have ever experienced. Lisa even beat Laura shot for shot over the two days and finished 22^nd as the highest placed amateur. I was thrilled for her but she’s so good with such high expectations that only winning the event would have sufficed. She’s an immense talent and I believe I’ve sown the seed for a promising future.

Knocking back a few well-earned ‘points a da black stooff’ on the Sunday afternoon I was still unsure as to what I was doing the following week in Wales. There was to be no doubt that I would be attending the event as I had left my car in the car park the week before to avoid the ridiculous ferry charges for two cars. Having asked about during the week at Killeen Castle I hadn’t pinned down anyone for the following week.

Just as I about to consider driving home the next day from Conwy, I was approached by Anne-Lise Caudal and asked if I could do the next couple of events with her. I was delighted. I know of all the players out there she is one of the better ones who hasn’t ever had a full time caddy for any length of time. Flattered would be an understatement. I still I had prove my worth though.

The following Sunday, on a very tough, very windy course in north Wales we finished 4^th earning Ms Caudal a tidy sum and me a little bonus - something that had been missing for a while this summer.

Anna Lise never quite got it going in Scotland on a course that I thought might suit her long, low, straight hitting style but with dire conditions on the final day she battled it around for a respectable top 20 result. Not knowing or having even discussed our working relationship after the final putt on Friday in Scotland, I had to ask her whether she would like me on the bag the following week in Finland. She wasn't going.

The LET had had a few tournaments cancelled and therefore the season was finishing early this year. I was keen to blitz the last nine events and really wanted to go to Helsinki and Finland, a country I had yet to visit. I had to find yet another bag first though. It wasn't just a holiday!

An American girl had caught my eye in New Zealand earlier in the year and had seen her floating around, especially at the higher end of the leader-boards all year. I’d also shared a room with a friend of hers at Evian a few weeks before and we'd been introduced. We got on well straight away and I had since heard through the very thin LET grapevine that she quite fancied me on the bag. How this happens I don’t know. Anyway I spoke to her on Facebook – as we do – and within about 30seconds, the following week in Helsinki was lined up.

Alison Walshe has a great all round game and barring one mistake we could have finished top five. She was a bit disappointed to have finished 12^th but it was still a good week for both of us.
It was only when I was on the way to the airport that she texted me saying she couldn’t afford the money I was asking for. This puzzled me no end and whilst we were ‘chatting’ on FaceBook we were on the verge of falling out when Anne-Lise texted me asking if I was available for Austria the following day. I hadn’t heard from her all week and her timing was impeccable. 

I signed off from Alison with a, "No worries. good luck with everything x" just in the nick of time and bought myself a beer to celebrate another bag lined up for another week.

Anne-Lise wasn't quite on form in Austria and we missed the cut together. That never looks good on your CV but you have to forget about it and move on. She’s about as cool as they come in the world of women’s golf and if she wasn’t too bothered then why should I be?

Austria was only a three day event this year through lower than usual prize money and so I decided to work the Sunday for anyone I could get hold of. You never get much money for the day’s work but it’s a day spent on the course and, if you're lucky, in contention.

I had lined up - through everyone’s favourite medium; FaceBook, a day’s work with a great girl called Holly Aitchison and was looking forward to it immensely. We’ve always got on well and knew she’d been playing well of late as we’d played with her on the final day in Wales a few weeks before. I was all set to work with her when I bumped into Alison in the lobby a couple of hours before tee time.

She’d played well so far and was lying in 15^th place. She asked if I was available for the day and I agreed instantly. Apologies were profusely passed to Holly who thankfully lined up a great caddy in Pete. 

Sadly Holly struggled that day and posted a +5 score to slip her down the leader-board. Alison however played her socks off shooting the low round of the day 67 leaving her 2^nd for the tournament. In one round of golf on the LET Alison managed to secure her playing privileges for the 2011 season and I was proud to be a part of it. Second place was my best ever finish and I was on a day rate. Typical. Alison gave me a ‘drink’ for a good day and promised me more but hey… I'm still waiting. All good PR I guess.

So Anne-Lise and I regrouped in Paris and, playing once again with Laura Davies, we battled through three rounds with nothing really happening. Ironically, just as her coach was leaving on the Sunday she stepped up a gear and shot another final round 67 ascending the leader-board to finish 11^th. A decent cheque banked and on we went to Spain.

Get around don't we?

The members of the LET were exhausted by now. I was one of the select few who had worked eight consecutive events prior to this by working Evian and the British Open as well as the limited field in Scotland but most of the girls had chosen to play all the remaining events too so there was a little fatigue evident within everyone.

Yet another lightning delay reduced the four days to three, which helped the weary players and caddies no end and after a fairly uneventful three rounds we finished a disappointing 30^th. 

Laura Davies won her fourth event of the year, which took her into top spot on the Henderson Money list. For any player that’s an achievement but for a 46 year old, that’s just awesome. She’s a special talent and no mistake.

So, nine events in eight countries caddying for six different girls made for a summer I’ll never forget and some learning experiences some will never have. I could quite easily have given up after Breanne let me go but I had been looking forward to the tail end of the season and decided to persevere with the tour until the end. The thought of being a ‘bag-hopper’ and having fellow caddies calling me Tesco’s or Sainsbury’s thanks to the number of bags I’d had, was always a prospect I despised. I’d done my best to spend the previous two years with just the three players and desperately wanted to find another good player, form a solid relationship and normality would resume.

In hindsight, however I worked for some of the most interesting and talented players in the women’s game and learned a lot about people, girls, caddying, perseverance, pressure and most of all about myself. I can get down in the dumps, negged out, depressed and generally hate everything and everyone sometimes but somehow I always manage to dust myself off and come back stronger. This is what I did this summer and I think I am a better person and a better caddy for it.

CK