Friends, you may very well be labouring under a misapprehension. You may consider that sexy women at bike races means black-and-white images of Beryl Burton in a plastic rain cape. I'm here to tell you that this is wrong. In Italy they've got this race called the Giro d'Italia. I can't speak for previous years, but I can resolutely assure you that the birdage on display at the 83rd edition put Steps concerts, Eddie Irvine's boudoir and every single issue of FHM in the shade.

I challenge any supposedly well-adjusted male who hasn't been somewhere like this before (I include myself) to drive round this race

Mechanic 'Topper' hard at work!

for three weeks without saying "Just look at that!" every two minutes. Lovely ladies lining the roads, fluttering their eyelashes and saying "Ciao" to you as if it were a direct translation for "I find you extremely attractive, would you like to be my boyfriend?"

I don't suppose I need to tell you that a pink-faced English press officer described in the Gazzetta as "il corpulento" doesn't figure anywhere near the top of these beauty queens' wish lists, but a man can dream. Either that, or he can become Mario Cipollini. One man who is very keen to become Mario Cipollini is Ivan Quaranta. Mario wins a stage, Ivan has to win a stage. Mario decides that the Dolomites aren't much fun, Ivan abandons. Mario spends the next ten days doing the Giro d'Nightspots en route, Ivan pulls on his special going-out-suit and hits the town every night. It's surely only a matter of time before Ivan finds himself a nice stretch of bumpy road, takes his hands off the bars and gracefully swallow dives to a flesh-tearing face plant. You read it here first.

So what on earth is a full-on "nyron" like myself doing at the Tour of Italy? Some explanation is necessary I suppose. When Julian Clark found me propping up a Kingston bar in 1998, he must have seen something behind the smooth, tanned body and chiselled features that had somehow passed the cycling world by up until then. I started off writing some press releases, and quickly found myself a small cog in the wheel that is the Linda McCartney Pro Cycling Team. When I'm doing my "Our man in the field" thing, like at the Giro, I am a pal to the riders, I am a chauffeur for the procession of journalists and sponsors that I entice to the race with tales of nubile women (see above) and skinny-legged men, I'm a kind of part-time journo myself, and I do any other jobs left over. It's PR I suppose, but I could do with a bit more of this corporate schmoozing that I hear so much about.

My heart was pounding as the boys got ready for the prologue in Rome. I had spent an enjoyable and stimulating morning with David Sharp of this esteemed publication, doing the tourist thing. After David had completed having his photo taken with the third fool

Cheers, mate. The Vatican is a bit special, whichever way you look at it. We looked at it for a long time, or at least the exquisite painted ceiling of Clement XIII's heavenly progress, as we waited in tiny wooden seats for an hour to be received by God's foreman. A murmur went round the collected masses of riders, management and general hangers-on (like me) as the wait extended - maybe he hadn't made it? After all, he's not at his peak is he, let's be honest. But then a hush descended, the huge doors opened, and there he was. Well, I think he was, we couldn't see a thing. Then we heard him talking for a while in Italian. Oh no, sorry, not him, some bloke standing over there with a mike, actually. Look! He's standing up! No, he's sat down again, but I definitely saw the top of his white hat. Unmistakeable. Poor Chris Lillywhite, he was trying to stand on his chair to get a glimpse, such is his vertical handicap, but the Swiss Guards threatened to chuck him out, so he sat down. They looked disappointed, probably the first action they've had in years. Give JPII his due mind, come the end of the speeches, he got right in there, mixing it with Marco, Mario and all the others. "Look at the size of Merckx!" I remarked as the big feller himself moved into the line-up. "Shut up!" hissed Sean, elbowing me in the ribs, and I realised that Axel was close enough behind me for us to smell his breath. If it had smelt, which of course it didn't. Doh.

dressed as a centurion at the Coliseum, I suggested we go and watch a bike race. It was blazing hot, there were people everywhere, and we were all as nervous as dogs in a Thai take-away. Bjornar Vestol, our first man off, pulled on his new aero hat in anticipation, then a look of consternation crossed his face: the strap wasn't long enough to go under the Norwegian's not inconsiderable chin. Nearest to him at this point was your trusty press officer, fulfilling the rider's mate part of his job description. Springing into action like a cat on a hot tin roof, I had my watch off inside a second and was slicing through the Velcro strap with a pair of rusty scissors. The type that the divvy kids always get given in art lessons, lest they cause some sort of horrendous injury to themselves or their classmates, you know the ones. Bjornar thus snugly inside his customised lid, he rolled up to the pink (naturally) start gate to begin Linda McCartney's participation in the Giro. Don't ask me what time he did though, I didn't have a watch on.

Matt Stephens perched his bum on the back of the start gate and took some long deep breaths. "It's really happening, isn't it John?" he asked. I knew exactly what he meant.

That was Saturday afternoon. By Sunday morning, we had somehow become a seven-man team. I knew that Ben Brooks had been ill the day before - last in the prologue was not the result he would have otherwise expected. But I was struck dumb when our doctor, Roger Palfreeman walked in with a long face to inform us that he was sending Pascal Richard and Ben home immediately to isolate them from the other riders. Both had spent much of Saturday night crouched over their respective lavatory bowls and both were running temperatures capable of melting polar ice caps.

A ridiculous story ran in the following morning's Gazzetta suggesting that we had stopped Pascal from riding because he was intending to wear his controversial new Olympic jersey. Not quite sure how Ben was involved in this, they didn't even bother making up a story to explain his departure.

With the threat of the virus floating around the ether, we decided to keep Julian Clark away from the Magnificent Seven. We told Le Patron that it was because he was getting ill too and we didn't want him passing it on, but it was really because he was stressed enough to flip by now. We called in Roger again to have Julian's mobile surgically removed from his right ear, but it was back in place before you could say "Pronto, ciao, ci-ci-ci-ciao." According to Mrs Le Patron, their youngest, Matthew, just walking, is now forever staggering around their lounge with the TV remote control pressed to his ear to emulate his Dad.

We knew that it could get worse, and it did, but not how we thought it would. On Monday afternoon it rained like the Lake District in

After his crash, Stephens gallantly battles through the Mountains - (39kb)

August. There was so much surface water on the slippery roads that each rider ploughed a lonely furrow of disturbed water as he rode, a comfortable breathing space around him as he gingerly picked his way towards Maddaloni and the warmth of the motorhome. Matt Stephens was one of dozens to crash, and as he chased to get back on through the following cars, two Kelme riders came a cropper in his path. The brakes went on and Matt instantly locked up, the Principia sliding sideways for a few yards before suddenly flicking straight and depositing the sorry jockey in a heap for the second time in a few minutes.

"That time, he didn't get up," recalled Chris Lillywhite, following in our second team car. The ambulance men sprang gleefully into action, delighted to demonstrate the skills honed by many years of patient and scrupulous medical training. They scooped him up unceremoniously on to their eager stretcher and tried to shovel him into the back of the wagon. Matt had realised by now what was happening, and didn't feel too enamoured of leaving this race so ignominiously after waiting so long to get there, and was keen to get back on the yellow peril and head off. There followed a farcical tug-of-war between Chris, giving it his full Uncle Albert "during-the-war" routine and the devastated ambulance men, distraught at this attempt to put them out of work. Matt was remounted with the sorest knee since Gazza last went clubbing and set off in luke-warm pursuit of the peloton, long disappeared over the sodden horizon. At least, I think that's what he said.

That day is the day we can trace the "Hey, Leenda!" calls back to. The fans were absolutely delighted when Matt opted to carry on. I think that refusing to surrender is something that Italians are fascinated by, probably because they have so little experience of it. Whatever the reason, we were now winning their recognition and respect, if not their race. Continue...