Things perked up after that. The birdage seemed to get even finer as we headed due south, me now accompanied at the wheel of the speedy Ducato battle bus by Wilderness Man, our outdoor-type friend. Sorry to disappoint you, but he doesn't have a long beard, neither does he have a bear as best mate. But he does live in the woods off of nuts and berries. We skirted the Tirreno coast on a

On me head, son Genova, May 31st, the big showdown. Forget the Giro, forget cycling, this is where the real action takes place. Against a backdrop of literally, er, some fans, myself, Beppe from Cantina Tollo, Gabriele of Mapei, the humungous stopper from Saeco, Guillame who got the old heave-ho from Lampre after the Diercksens scandal last year and a couple of ringers make up the Ufficio Stampa football team. Lined up against us, the fearsome talents of the favourites, the press team. They've got the old stager David Cassani, on telly now, and Gazzetta honcho Pier Bergonzi plus a load of really violent regulars, like the bloke who does the commentary from the back of the motorbike. Sorry mate, can't remember your name. As usual, Mapei have it sorted, and Gabriele somehow comes out with brand new shirts and shorts for everyone, still got the labels in and everything. The yellow and blue army again - got to be something in those colours. Thanks to Saeco bloke in goal, we're 2-1 up at half time, Guillame having put our chances away. With ten minutes left, Beppe puts your McCartney man clear through, and he lifts his shot deftly over the advancing keeper. Imagine the horror then, as the ball comes back off the inside of the far post. With no other option available, I lash at the rebound from a tight angle, and lo and behold, there's a ripple in the net. Oh yes! It turns out to be the winner, as Cassani doesn't like losing, gets a goal back and spends the rest of the game laying siege to our goal. No way through with all of us standing on the goal line though. Press Officers 3, Press 2. Back to you in the studio, Des.

fantastic roller coaster road, blue sea far below, purple mountains stretching above. And when we got to the end in Scalea, there was our very own Ronnie (Ciaran) Power taking on Super Mario in the sprint. 5th place was his best ever result, but he wasn't as pleased as he could have been.

"I came round the last bend and found myself on his wheel, so I thought I'd better have a go," explained Ciaran. "Just as I was figuring out how I was going to do it, I got muscled out of it a bit, probably because it was the first time I'd been there. Next time, I'll be ready." For a man that had a reputation as an all-rounder when we signed him, Ronnie is developing wonderfully as a full-on sprinter. I think he is going to be a massive star. I hope that doesn't go on to become one of the great quotes of 2000, like "Spencer Smith will be top-ten in the world within two years" - Julian Clark, or "Linda McCartney have no chance of getting a ride in the Giro" - Robert Millar.

The next day brought fresh craziness, as myself and Wilderness Man left to take Julian to Napoli at 4.30am and missed his flight due to not being on the same psychic plane as whoever designed Napoli's signposting system. Undeterred, we dumped him there anyway, and left the west coast for the east and the delights of Bari. There we met with the completely splendid Andrew Longmore from The Independent - but not until tomorrow, as I'd got the dates wrong. Whoops. 500kms for nothing. Never mind - while Mario was taking revenge for his previous day's disqualification, me and Wildy were swimming in the Adriatic. Just because we could. Ha. When we finally found that night's hotel, which was hidden in the middle of a jungle the likes of which are rarely found in Europe, we had to give a lift to the entire Banesto backroom staff. They were wandering around the place like forlorn street urchins, and I never expected Big Mig's former boss to look so pleased to see a pair of English bluffers like us. We skirted the dead snakes and the pairs of unidentified eyes that glared at us in the darkness to find our Daktari HQ. Sean was settling in to watch the Arse playing in the UEFA Cup final, so me and Chris snuggled up to him and laughed at their vain attempts to despatch the Turks. He had to go and watch the penalties in his room because we were giving him such a hard time. Never mind Sean, there's always next year.

On the road to victory, McKenzie enjoys the TV exposure - (39kb)

That Saturday was a day that I will never forget. It started when I got my normal morning call from Sean to say that Macca had attacked and was away on his own.

"He might well win the Intergiro," said Sean, "find out if he's got a chance of getting the jersey." The Intergiro is a peculiar competition where they draw a line across the road every day and run a race within the race to that point. "Are you going up behind him?" I asked. "Nah, not worth it, I've sent Lego up." Keith "Lego" Lambert had arrived that morning to replace Chris for a few days. You didn't expect Lillywhite to miss Chelsea at Wembley did you? My concession was to wear my Gus Poyet shirt for the day - so both Sean and me would have egg on our faces before the day was out.

When we got to Teramo, Dave was still out there, with a guy from Polti chasing him through the finish line to start a 40km loop. I lost my voice yelling for him, and that's when the nerves set in. Just through the finish line every day, you'll find a little area for team personnel like the soigneurs to hang out and watch the end on TV. Now, if you've ever seen a pro team soigneur at work, you'll have sensed a certain macho indifference about them. Seen it all before, done it all before, and probably bigger, better and longer too. So it was with the men we were sharing the pits with today, but two of the inhabitants weren't quite so cool. There was a fat bloke in a Chelsea shirt shaking uncontrollably with about 30kms to go. And there was a 6'4" blonde outdoor type chewing his nails to the knuckles.

Rai's coverage went for a commercial break at a crucial time, leaving us sweating, then came back to show us Macca still had about a minute with only 10kms to go. "COME ON DAVE!!!" yelled Wilderness Man at the screen, sending the cool dudes apoplectic with fright, and I had goose bumps despite the heat. The mobile rang; it was Sean. "He's going to do it, he's going to win it!" he was shouting,

"Oh no, who's that nutter in the Chelsea top! Don't make eye contact, don't make eye contact!" - (36kb)

but as a lifelong Chelsea fan, I know what it is like to have defeat snatched from the jaws of victory, and I hung on nervously until we saw him, drawing an immense roar from a crowd that had found a brand new hero. Yes, ok, I lost control, I did my pieces, my head fell off - but he won. 164kms alone. What a ride. What a man. The tears flowed, first Dave, then me, then Lego, and even big tough Seanie. Just to complete the greatest day of my life, I phoned my Dad to tell him and he told me that Robbie Di Matteo had just stuck the winner away. Joy unconfined.

We got through the Dolomites without too many scares, despite some horrible weather on the Gavia. It's so narrow that I wasn't sure our Ducato would get up it, and I was deeply concerned about sending a poor spectator over the edge to his doom, but we made it. However, we were coming to terms with the possibility of losing Matt, as his knee had made no improvement, and now he was fighting a crippling bronchial infection.

"It was like breathing through a straw today," he croaked after the last Dolomite day finished in Brescia. At a lovely hotel next to Lake Garda that evening, it was agreed that more resistance was futile: there was no way Matt could conquer the Alps, and to carry on would be folly. In two weeks, we would be back together in Toulouse, arguing whether Marmite was "nectar" (Matt) or "clinically proven to contain Lucifer's vomit" (me). Losing my housemate three quarters of the way through our adventure was a bitter pill to swallow, but it turned out to be the wise choice. In Chester, his specialist told him that using the knee whilst injured had already pulled the joint out of alignment, and severe mountain passes like the Agnello and Izoard could have finished his season.

Now I'm no tour veteran like Sean, but I bet even he hasn't encountered many more horrible climbs than the Colle dell Agnello. When me and my cargo of Sigma Sport boys, Extran men and the Power family pulled up behind the pre-race cavalcade an hour before the race came up, we'd been scaling hairpins for miles and miles. We wandered along the line, chatting to the friends we'd made since Rome, knowing that there would be few more opportunities, with Milan fast approaching. Besides, I wanted to show off the Fasso Bortolo girls to my guests, as our grubby but lovable ickle Kiwi mechanic Craig had actually landed one of them at the previous night's hotel. I was talking to Bernard, who had spent the whole race driving a giant Kinder Surprise around, when a flash of colour caught my eye high up in the snowy peaks above us. "What's that, the top of the ski lift?" I naively asked. "No!" laughed the confectionery transportation maestro, "it's the top of the pass!" I felt sick when I realised that we hadn't even got halfway to the top. I knew that Ciaran was tired - he had struggled to make the time limit the day before, and I couldn't bear to think of him getting to within two days of finishing only to be eliminated. I put a brave face for his Dad, but I could tell he was thinking exactly the same.

We drove on across the amazing Casse Desert to the top of the Izoard and walked down through the crowd, pleased to see a Union Jack up there and here some supportive shouts. But the Linda McCartney team paled into insignificance when the pre-race announcer's car came up and told the masses that Pantani was in the break. Imagine your local on Saturday night, packed to the rafters, and the landlord coming over the PA to shout, "Free beer for everyone tonight!" They went berserk.

Before too long they were there, Pantani first, then Simoni, Casagrande and Garzelli, riding at the pace most of us descend at. Max wasn't too far down, cruising along well within himself, looking every inch the strongest man in the race, cool enough to flash us all a little smile. The rest of the boys were safely in a grupetto at about twenty minutes - but no Ciaran. That horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach came back, and we looked way back down the mountain, seeing little shapes still appearing out of the trees hundreds of feet below. "Don't let that be him," I thought, struggling to pick out the colour of their jerseys. Then suddenly, from along the human tunnel of fans, we heard the by now familiar "Hey Leenda!" shout, and there he was! Jersey ripped open to the waist, a look on his face that would make his mother cry, there was Ronnie Power, only a few seconds behind the grupetto. What a moment. We roared him on over the summit and he flew down the descent to Briancon, now safely back in the arms of the bunch.

So we knew that was it, that our seven-man team would finish six in Milan, we would have eight top-ten finishes, and that glorious, famous win. We would never again be dismissed as the funny vegetarianos. We would have Max Sciandri at the very peak of his form with the Olympics to look forward to, and we would have some stories to tell. We would also throw Sean Yates into the pool at the Milan Holiday Inn, fully clothed and completely against his wishes. If you plan to do this with one of your friends, I suggest that you ensure there is enough of you to grab a limb each, as they tend to kick and punch like a baby.

And as a footnote, I would like to ask a favour of Robert Millar: please tell us we have no chance of riding the 2001 Tour de France, as we would love to make you eat your words again, you transsexual freak of nature.

Courtesy of www.procycling.com