Alberto's long lost twin

I was reading Procycling's profile of Alberto Contador by my Spanish holiday poolside when I was struck by the remarkable similarities between myself and CSC's Puerto-dodging stage race superstar. 

Some of the similarities are obvious, of course -- the slim, athletic build;  dark good looks and natural ability on the bike -- but others are less so.

Both Alberto and I have recently made (hopefully) full recoveries from life-threatening cerebral haemorrhages.  In his case, he's gone on to win a couple of Grand Tours; in mine -- well, I've finished a a few sportives and I didn't actually come last in the Catford Hill Climb. 

Also, and here's where we really enter the Twilight Zone -- our choice of holiday venue.  

When Alberto got the fateful call from Johann Bruyneel to say that his services were required in the Giro after all, he was relaxing in his Speedos on the beach at Chiclana, the nondescript Andalucian Atlantic town selected by the Flandrian family for our annual two-weeks by the sea.

The sceptical Italian press -- convinced Bertie had secretly been climbing cols or undergoing some covert "training" of another kind -- wrote dismissively of the "Chiclana Preparation Method", leading his girlfriend Macarena to brandish restaurant bills from their holiday as proof.

The "Chiclana Preparation Method" sounded right up my street, and I lost no time getting stuck in to the local food and drink just like Alberto.  In fact, I have obtained copies of one of his restaurant bills and the comparison with mine makes compelling reading:

Alberto Contador

Finca San Juan, Chiclana De La Frontera

May 5

1 x Agua Minerale Sin Gas

1 x Dorada

1 x Ensalada Mixta

1x Cafe Solo

Flandrian:

Finca San Juan, Chiclana De La Frontera

Aug 3

2x Finos

3x Cervezas San Miguel

1x Gambas Aioli

1x Entrecot de ternera, patatas fritas

1x btlla Marques De Caceres Rioja 

1x Churros con chocolate "Jan Ulrich"

1x Cafe solo

Uncannily similar, I think you'll agree.  After a few meals like that and a couple of swift rides round my 35k seaside training loop, I felt ready to take on the Passo Di Gavia and no mistake.

I was so intrigued by the connection with Alberto that I even -- for only the second time in 17 years -- drew Mrs Flandrian's attention to an article in a cycling magazine.  She glanced up from her 700-page feminist novel for 15 seconds before remarking that she would be more interested if my paycheque, or my backside, were the same size as his.

This, of course, was simply another example of the famous dry Northern sense of humour, and not to be taken seriously.

The following day, for instance, as we drove to the beach we came up behind a lone young Spanish roadie and I made a mildly disparaging remark about his white bib-shorts.

Mrs Flandrian examined him at some length before commenting.

"I'm sure you're right dear, but I think he can get away with it where you can't"

How we laughed.