Congratulations to the CTC, the national cyclists' organisation, which set a new membership record of 60,776 this week. It's further proof of the current boom in road cycling and comes in the same week that specialist bike shops are boasting sales are up at least 20 per cent.

While our politicians busy themselves fiddling their expenses, amidst the economic gloom, the nation turns to two wheels for salvation. In fact, bike demand is so high that there are shortages of key models from the top brands. Fortunately for us, the first supplies of 2010 bikes should be with us before the end of summer.

The CTC says that its membership has always been a barometer of cycling in the UK. "Last year we predicted that the credit crunch and the high costs of fuel would get more people out of their cars and onto cycles," it says. "Now our membership is up to a new high and, according to figures from Transport for London, cycling levels in the capital have increased by 16 per cent in a year.

"Cycling is a solution to obesity, to climate change and to congestion. The changes we need to make in our society must include cycling in order to succeed."

Monday, June 8, Nancy-Dijon 228km

Got back from the Giro last Tuesday morning and had five days at home. On Sunday morning the alarm was set for 6am for the 300 mile ride to Nancy and stage one (14km TT) of the Dauphine Libere.

A short week, but a good one, with garden visit to Great Dickster (fell asleep on bench), strimmer bought, friends visited, the Twenty20 opener at Lords (beaten by Rabobank, grr), and  Triumph Tiger titivated for this trip (Dauphine then Tour of Switzerland).

What a contrast the Dauphine is compared to the Giro. When I think of the Italian race it's full of colour, mostly the pink balloons and clothes worn by the endless corridor of fans. This year's race was also blessed with fab weather, with only one day when it rained.

In eastern France today it was cloudy, it was pretty fresh, and it rained towards the end of the stage when David Millar must have taken every risk on the rounbabouts into Dijon as he made a heroic attempt to outwit the sprinters.

The reception is more reserved here, partly because the race has started further north where the new owners of the Duphine Libere newspaper are located. But you also get the sense, especially on the streets of Nancy, that cycleracing is not relevant anymore, does not raise the passion, has become a curiosity.

Today we rolled through farming villages in deep countryside. Knots of spectators wore wellies and woolly jumpers but still to be enjoying a short break from the fields and workshops.

The dry stone walls and houses built with sandy coloured stone reminded me of Wiltshire as we headed south towards the great wine region of Begundy.

We are travelling with L'Equipe here. That is the photographer Fred, his driver Marco and the bagagiste Bernard, an amazing bloke of 76.

Marc was the one who repaired his shoes at the start of the Giro with a needle and thread stashed away on his motorbike. I also just heard that he got through the whole Giro with one shirt, one pair of trousers and one pair of socks. He washed them most nights. He doesnt wear pants.

Luke Evans is a cycling journalist, author and former editor of
Cycle Sport magazine. In his spare time, he pilots top cycling
photographer Graham Watson at the races. Currently, he's taking Graham
around the Dauphine Libere in France. You can see Graham's photos in
our gallery section

Luke Evans is a cycling journalist, author and former editor of Cycle Sport magazine. In his spare time, he pilots top cycling photographer Graham Watson at the races. Currently, he's taking Graham around the Giro d'Italia. You can see Graham's photos in our gallery section.

Naples, Saturday

This is the southernmost point of the Centennio Giro. Last night we did the craziest thing of the whole race, we drove into the centre of Italy's fourth biggest city.

In Napoli the driving is in the classic Italian style, with a hint of anarchy thrown in. Scooters come at you from all directions, girls on the back, hair streaming in the wind, talking on mobile phones.

A car without a dent is not a local and if they are not right on your back wheel, they are overtaking in the maddest places.

The streets are paved in dark, polished cobbles, with constant undulations, potholes and manhole covers. You don't ride them, you surf them. Thank god it wasn't wet.

It took half and hour to get into the centre of this Dickensian place where the crumbling facades of once fine Italian buildings are covered in graffity and strewn with litter.

Apparently they are collecting the rubbish at the moment. You would not know it. Stray dogs are all over, one was sleeping in the lobby of our hotel when we got from supper last night.
Yesterday's stage took us along the Amalfi coast and finished above the great Bay of naples on the upper slopes of Mount Vesuvius.

If you get a chance to drive this 40km route which twists and turns along the Italian equivalent of south Cornwall then take it, because it is spectacular.

The biggest crowds of the race came out as we neared Vesuvius and here the contrast between north and south was most evident. It's poorer down here and you can tell by the clothes the people wear and by the run down buildings.

It has more of a south American feel down here, and as I have never been there, what I mean is that it's like the film set for a spaghetti western by Sergio Leone.

Vesuvius is a nice climb and the observatory, where the press room was located, is halfway up and has an interesting little museum.

The last volcanic activity was a load of hot ash which surprised American bombers in 1944, the next one, explained my helpful guide (I was loitering as usual, waiting for GW to finish work), was predicted to be really big, and as I hurried towards the motorbike he did not assure me by saying he had no idea when.

Luke

At the moment, I am leading a strange double life. You know me best as the jovial, freewheeling Dr Hutch, the man who fills the last spread of the magazine on those all-too-frequent occasions when the CW ad-sales department doesn’t manage to sell it to someone.

But to others, I am the sun-tanned, windswept author of a book called Hello Sailor. It’s published today, but I mention that only in passing, not because having worked on it for months I’m desperate for someone to buy it (that’s Hello Sailor, by me, Michael Hutchinson, published by Yellow Jersey. Again, just in passing).

The book is about competitive sailing, because that was my first sport. As a teenager, when hindsight suggests I might have been better off riding a bike, I raced little plywood sailing dinghies in a manner that might best be described as appallingly incompetent.

Young & useless
I gave up in disgust at my own uselessness when I was about 18. But then, recently I found myself thinking that it might be good to go back to it and have another go. Having spent years as a cyclist, I wanted to try something else.

There are, of course, some differences. If you think you had a bad day the time you rode down a lane full of hedge clippings and ran out of puncture patches, rest assured, that’s peanuts compared to crashing a boat into the pointy bits of the Isle of Wight.

And while I agree that it’s alarming having a driver bearing down on you on a single-track road, personally I think it’s topped by trying to get out of the way of 100,000 tons of tanker ship by using your baseball cap as a paddle.

There are some more serious differences. The most striking is that, in sailing, someone blessed with minimal levels of talent, but a big bank balance, can buy their way to the top. You get a good
boat and a bunch of professionals to help you sail it. They win stuff, you collect trophies. Not all
sailing is like that, but some is, especially in the bigger-boat classes where money really talks.

I’d just love to see someone shop to the top in cycling. Let’s see — you’d buy a decent bike. And get a coach. And, um, that’s about it, legally at any rate. You could hire Mark Cavendish’s lead-out men, but you’d look a real turkey bringing them to your club run so you could win the sprint at the end, and you probably wouldn’t be able to keep up with them anyway.

That’s something about cycling that I didn’t appreciate until I went to do something else. It’s such an honest sport. We’re all doing exactly the same thing, and it feels just the same for all of us.

Smug self satisfaction
It’s rather pleasant to glory in the merits of our sport while bashing someone else’s — it’s what reading this magazine is all about, smug self-satisfaction. But let me introduce a discordant note.

Sailing has at least as many different disciplines as our sport. In cycling, there is a constant niggling tension between them. Road racers are scornful of time triallists. They’re unimpressed by the trackies, even if the trackies can point to the Beijing medal-table. And they all look down on sportives, because they don’t always appreciate the worth of the personal challenge involved.

Sailors, though, seem to have a respect for the other facets of their sport, from solo round-the-world marathon sluggers, to the athletic Olympic classes. They appreciate what’s required; it’s something that makes the supposed snobby sport of sailing seem friendlier than cycling. It’s not something I expected — I assumed all sports were like us.Turns out we’re not perfect after all.

And by the way, that’s Hello Sailor. Just in passing. Just casually. No pressure. Greeny-blue jacket — you can’t miss it.