This article is part of a series called ‘A love letter to…’, where Cycling Weekly writers pour praise on their favourite cycling items and phenomena. The below content is unfiltered, authentic and has not been paid for.
It wasn’t the welcome drink that broke me, welcome though it was. It wasn’t the silver platter of fresh tropical fruit that greeted us in the room, nor the groovy jazz issuing from the Roberts radio, nor even the hand-written welcome scrolls tied with dried flowers. And it certainly wasn’t the centrepiece bathtub standing proud at the foot of the vast bed (“shouldn’t that be in the bathroom?”). All pleasant touches, if you like that sort of thing, but lost on someone like me – or so I thought back then, when I still knew who I was.
