It wasn't until I saw Matt Stephens sitting taking deep, deep breaths on the back of the start gate for the prologue, that it sank in. We're here. The Giro d'Italia.

John and Pascal Richard

I'm not taking any deep breaths of relief myself just yet, 'cause I know that this is the beginning of something, not the end. But I have to say that getting here in the first place is something that we should be proud of. Ok, that's the trumpet blowing done with, let me tell you what's been goin' down. Man.

I'm thinking of having the phone at the service course welded to my ear, then I wouldn't have arm ache from holding it up for the past month. When I do put it down, it rings instantly, and I hear another person saying, "Jesus Christ, I thought you were never going to get off the phone!" You and me both, pal.

Our new truck is done, and it's lovely, if a truck can be lovely. Le Patron took Eddie and Craig to a motocross meeting near Toulouse and he met up with some of the boys he used to ride with at Kawasaki and Suzuki. He noticed that the team motorhomes have the riders' names written on the inside of the door, so we pinched that and did it with the truck. It's got each of the guys' names followed by their national flags (yes, of course there's a Union Jack for Max). There's a room at the front with a washing machine and sink so the soigneurs can stand there in their aprons looking proud and maternal, and the main part has several hundred bikes shoehorned into it. Don't even think about taking anything out - you'll never get it back in.

Eddie and Craig drove the truck here from Toulouse, whilst the rest of us back in France flew here. My first experience of a propellor plane was relatively enjoyable, with some nice views of the Alps, until we hit some storms on the Italian side. I think they're probably still trying to clean up the mess at Regional Airlines (top quality air travel at bargain prices), and not just from my seat. The sturdily built stewardess was grinding her teeth and trying to serve drinks when all of a sudden things went completely Suzy Wong. The pilot flew into something that felt a whole lot more solid than a cloud, the pitch of the engine noise went up and down like Mariah Carey practising her scales, and there was suddenly an upside down drinks trolley in the aisle. The stewardess was screaming with a vat of boiling Rosie Lee all over her, the passengers were screaming like bereaved Tehran women and the pilot was wrestling with the controls like that crocodile bloke off the Discovery Channel. Me? Not wanting to make fuss or draw attention to myself, I defecated quietly and neatly in my trousers and prepared for death.

Which, thankfully, didn't arrive as quickly as seemed likely. Instead I boarded a lot more modern craft for the trip to Rome from Milan. It had jets, the lot, real cutting edge. I think it was about 40 years younger than the first one, as recent as 1965 I would guess. I struck up a conversation with an American genetic engineer next to me, and looked across at the blokes on the other side of the isle. There was Figueras, Noe and McRae from Mapei chatting away, plus another more aloof type keeping himself to himself. Pavel mate, if you want to look cool, by all means wear your groovy Mapei suit, don't speak to anyone and don't ever take your shades off. But for God's sake, don't dye your hair pale blue, you fool! You look like Mrs Slocombe!