Yes, yes, I know it’s a big week for golf with the Ryder Cup picks and all.  Mind you, it was an easy task for Jim Furyk to choose Bryson DeChambeau, Tiger and Phil (and undoubtedly Tony Finau on Monday next).  I imagine, however, that Thomas Bjorn’s job was a little more testing – but who on earth could have predicted he’d put his faith in Sergio who hasn’t shown any real form since his Masters victory last year?  In fact, Garcia has missed the cut in the last five majors but let’s not dwell on that.  Henrik Stenson and Paul Casey showed decent form at the start of the year but both have been quiet of late.  Oh well, at least the European Tour won’t have to worry about a knock on the door from Casey demanding a refund of his membership subs!

If you detect a momentary lack of interest on my part it’s because in this normally golf-mad household it’s been all about cycling, cycling, cycling.  Today is the big day – eight intrepid riders start their five-day 320-mile odyssey visiting 22 First World War graves in Belgium and France…….and hubby Brian has made it!  Less than eight weeks ago he was under the knife having elbow surgery, simultaneously nursing a broken collar bone, a broken rib (he just shared that little nugget with me two days ago) and a twisted pelvis. He had lost an argument with a pot hole while out on a training ride and from that moment on his entire raison d’etre was to disappoint the reserve rider.  Move over Bryson DeChambeau in the focused stakes!

We are two villages straddling the Welsh/English border, conveniently linked by the wonderful Queen’s Head pub and there are a total of 22 names on the two village war memorials.  The group of riders and their support staff will visit all 22 graves, sprinkling soil from the respective villages at each site as a sign of respect and planting a small wooden cross bearing the relevant name.  The other evening our rector, Ian Davenport, conducted a blessing of the soil as we all gathered in the pub car park to oversee the loading of the vans with bikes and bags ahead of a 5 a.m. start yesterday morning.  The fundraising is north of £7500 so far and everything raised is going to support SSAFA, the Armed Forces charity – it’s a real community effort.

 

Obviously, I’m used to packing for golf sporting events so it was interesting for me to see Brian’s packing laid out on the bed.  Now, I thought that there wasn’t really an awful lot to cycling gear – skimpy lycra shorts and tops, a helmet, gloves, shoes and away you go!  Erm, not quite.  An array of energy bars and electrolytes were reverentially laid out alongside Dr Beckmann’s non-bio travel wash (other brands are available) and a mysterious-looking something or other claiming to be chamois butter.  Don’t ask.

Next were a couple of pairs of what Brian pleases to call his armoured pants – an absolute must for someone who a few years ago managed to smash his femur to smithereens in the first of what he calls his “unlucky accidents”.  These are not the slim, skimpy cycling shorts of his mates.  These beasts have migrated from the world of mountain biking and are bulky, industrial-sized passion killers.  Next to them were two armoured elbow protectors and oodles of layers to help cope with temperatures ranging from early morning chills to the heat of the afternoon.  It’s all a far cry from the packing that will be required by Messrs McIlroy and co on THEIR little jaunt to France.

And here I am this morning with fingers crossed that they all cycle safely, achieve their goals and come back in one piece. The immense sacrifice of our 22 local lads merits the efforts of these 8 mamils (middle-aged men in lycra) and their support crew.  It puts just about everything in perspective, certainly all sporting events.  And yes, even the Ryder Cup.

In due course you’ll find that there’s a bit of a cycling theme to this week’s blog, even though the Ryder Cup captains have been making their picks – and some uncomfortable phone calls.

I texted a friend who’s recovering from a double hip operation – never a woman to do anything by halves – and said I didn’t think I’d have picked Phil but she was quite happy because she thinks he’ll be useless.  Never a woman to be short of an opinion.  My fear is that the sainted Sergio and Henrik will be just as useless but I’m not going to criticise Thomas Bjorn or Jim Furyk yet.   The clue is in the name:  captain’s picks.  Not mine, not yours, his.  And next year, when the Solheim Cup at Gleneagles rolls round, it’ll be hers.

As a captain, all I’d be wanting is for all 12 of my players to be playing well and putting the lights out on the days of the competition.  That would do me.  If we weren’t hoisting the trophy at the end, I’d be playing the gracious loser and coming to terms with the dubious but enduring honour of being part of one of the greatest matches of all time, to be replayed for ever and a day during rain delays; a lifetime of wondering if something had got lost in translation: putting the lights out means holing every putt, it is not a Sun-like reference to the possibility of Neil Kinnock becoming prime minister.  Older readers (is there any other sort!) may remember the pre-election headline:  Last Out Switch Off The Lights – or some such brilliantly effective scaremongering crack.

Anyway, as an old friend is fond of saying, golf is played on grass and not on paper, so I’m not panicking yet at our (that’s Europe) relative inexperience and maybe Sergio will come to Paris revived, refreshed and winning points.  I’m not too worried about the in-form DeChambeau because he’ll probably take so long over his pre-shot calculations and his post-shot post mortems that he’ll be lapped and be lucky to complete a match.  I admit I think he’s terrific but he’d drive you batty.  The other day he hit a shot that didn’t work out as planned (meticulously) and the look of astonishment and incomprehension on his face was comical.  Then, still standing stock still with shock, he whipped out his charts and went through the old “recalculating, recalculating” schtick.  In your own time, Bryson.

Actually, that brought to mind my time last Sunday, when I completed the St Giles Bike Ride in a very undistinguished 3 hours 18 minutes 15 seconds.  That equated to 7 minutes 20 seconds a mile.  Blimey, I thought, I could nearly have walked it that fast.  You could choose to do the 75-mile route, the 40-miler or, as I did, the 26-mile  stroll.  Apparently, one intrepid soul (or show-off who should have been in the Tour of Britain or Espana) did all three.  I didn’t dare ask for his (or her) time.  Anyway, we had two official pit stops and one unofficial – at the Green Man in Clifton Campville, which was just opening up as we puffed by.  Being the team from the world-renowned Horse and Jockey in Sandford Street in Lichfield (it’s my local, so they took pity on me and roped me in), we had to stop and exchange fraternal greetings and aid the survival of a village hostelry that dates from the 18th century.

It’s the taking part that counts, not the time.  Isn’t that right, Bryson?

St Giles Hospice in Whittington was where Dai was cared for in the days before he died, so it’s a cause dear to my heart and it costs about £9 million a year to keep it up and running.  Actually, I did about 32 miles because I cycled to the start and then, much more painfully, even thought most of it is downhill, back home.  Cyclists wear those padded shorts for a very good reason and after my marathon I read about a woman who’d worn three pairs (at once) so that she could cope with London to Paris.  Good luck to Brian and his SSAFA boys (see Maureen’s post).  My admiration knows no bounds – literally.

Now, I’m not one to boast – not least because as my friends and family point out I have very little to boast about – but the morning after my cycling exertions I went to the gym, then played golf with my brother-in-law at Handsworth.  Paul, Dai’s brother, plays off 26 (or he did but I’m hoping the match and handicap chair will hear of this), so I graciously gave him some shots and, apart from the 1st, not knowing how they are with such things at Handsworth, I played from the same tees.  At the 1st, playing from the reds, I hit two remarkably decent shots and holed a curly old putt of about 35 feet for a birdie three.  My opponent had a triple bogey seven, as befits a 26-handicapper.

I then moved back to join Paul on the yellow tees and, apart from three-putting too often, played quite nicely, pretty close to my handicap of 13.  I lost 5 and 4.  My opponent, after his encouragingly rocky start, barely put a shot wrong and played to 18.  “That’s my best score round here,” he said.  “Wonderful,” I grimaced.  “Well done, well played.”

Culrath, the house I was in at school, had the motto:  “Modest in victory, cheerful in defeat” and we mostly had to be cheerful.  Let’s hope that after the Ryder Cup in Paris later this month, Thomas Bjorn, Europe’s captain, can be a grumpy, grouchy, gold-trophy-wielding Dane.

 

This time a week ago I was standing 150 yards from the first tee at Hazeltine National Golf Club in Chaska, Minnesota.  It’s normally an oasis of greenery and relative tranquillity but this was clearly a special day.  We were fifteen minutes away from the opening tee shot in the 41st Ryder Cup and I felt I’d strayed into a circus Big Top.  Sensory overload was the order of the day.  Kaleidiscopic colours were everywhere and there was the all-around-deafening-sound of thousands of people chanting and roaring like something possessed.

I knew the players were approaching long before I saw them, as a deep thundery rumble of approval and support began to roll across the green ribbons of fairways from the direction of the practice ground.  When Phil Mickelson and Rickie Fowler appeared on the first tee the sound escalated to such a scale it was like a physical blow to the solar plexus and the skies filled with waving Stars and Stripes.  And then it stopped.  Utterly.  Completely.  Totally.  Silent.

This was my world inside the ropes at the Ryder Cup for three, long, exhilarating, deafening, exhausting, confrontational, inspiring days.

I am part of the Sirius/XM on-course broadcast team and cover the majors and significant tournaments for them.  Sirius/XM is a satellite/digital radio network with millions of subscribers worldwide and they cover every single tournament on the PGATOUR throughout the year.  The nearest equivalent in this country would be Radio 5 Live with whom I started my broadcasting career twenty years ago.  The superb 5 Live commentators were some of the global media sharing the inside-the-ropes experience with me, along with television camera crews, print media and, of course, friends and families of the players.

Add in a plethora of assistant captains, their personalised buggies plus drivers and it’s a pretty busy place inside the ropes.  So, as well as clocking up an average of 25,000 steps per day on the old fitness tracker, I did hundreds of daily knees-bends to ensure the paying public could actually see the action.  And you have to be pretty swift to manoeuvre yourself into a spot where you can call the shot either live or on tape if the producer requires.  Who needs a gym subscription if this is what you do for a living?

And don’t forget the voices in your head!  Lots of them!  At any given moment I am listening to 1) the programme that’s going out on air; 2) the direction from the producer;  3) significant shots being recorded by on-course colleagues to be played out later if required.  Throughout, I add to this never-ending cacophony of sound by telling the producer how long it is till the next shot in my match and that I am ready to commentate if needed.  The most surreal moment was when I was recording a call that started to play out on air before I had finished.  In other words, as I’m speaking I can hear myself in my headphones starting my commentary and in real time I’m actually just finishing my sentence.  “A nightmare scenario,” my husband said – and I suspect he wasn’t alluding to the difficulties I was facing trying to maintain my focus!  If you jump into a tumble dryer you may understand what I mean!

I covered four of Rory’s matches, so I got a huge amount of airtime, particularly as there were a few unsavoury incidents when the abuse was OTT and unacceptable.  All this was going on against a background of frenzied screaming outside the ropes and breathtaking skills from the players inside.  It made me marvel and wonder at the work that the players must put in away from tournaments to be able to come and perform to such a level in such an arena.  Mind-blowing!

During Rory’s singles match against Patrick Reed I found myself in amongst Reed’s exuberant friends and family on several occasions.  I mentioned this in commentary during one of Patrick’s celebrations and said that I was beginning to think Patrick was the quiet one in the family!  Two holes later I got a tap on my shoulder and turned round to see a guy dressed in the uniform of the American family supporters.  “Hello”, he said.  “Are you Maureen?  We’re Patrick Reed’s friends and family.”

“Oh no,” I said.  “Are you cross with me?”  Silence.  Then, a broad smile.  “Not at all.  We LOVE it.”  Phew!  It was a timely reminder that thanks to the on-course radios your listeners are frequently all around you, not just thousands of miles away.

It’s true to say that at times you simply can’t hear yourself think, which accounts for stumbles and slip-ups during broadcasting.  I was chastised on Twitter by a listener for describing a putt as a “nail-bitener” and crossly told to “speak English”.  I thought listeners in Kentucky had heard that phrase before.  Doesn’t everyone know it’s a cross between a knuckle-whitener and a nail-biter?  Still, that’s a first:  being told to speak English by an American!

Having spent the entire week displaying commendable impartiality during the broadcast, allow me to mention how much I really did revel in the deliciously quiet moments that the European play squeezed out of the partisan galleries.  But, alas, in the end the USA’s Ryder Cup Task Force juggernaut accomplished its task and swept Europe aside.

Still, as I said to my colleagues, “The trophy’s only on loan, lads.  Keep it clean.”