My name’s Steve Shrubsall and while I’m not quite an alcoholic I’ve spent the last 30 years having a damn good crack at it. The last time I subjected myself to more than 24 hours of boozelessness, Lance Armstrong had barely been heard of, neither had power meters, and the thought of riding a WorldTour race on 30mm tyres would’ve been met with abject terror.
A month ago, however, as I swirled around the remnants of a cold glass of Chablis, I had a moment of clarity. Much as I adore a Chablis, or a Chardonnay, or indeed a five quid bottle of supermarket plonk, beyond making me fat, skint and sleepy it wasn’t actually serving any purpose in my life.
