So yeah, I hit the Krone already feeling decent but there's a guy there comes up behind me swooping around while I am checking out the guy in the full world champion kit (I kid you not) that I am flying by. Anyway, of course I grab the wheel of swoopy guy and we ride two-up all the way down, and he means business and piles it on and I try to match until he turns.

Which I am almost relieved about as I press on down towards Glienecke Bridge (where U2 pilot Gary Powers crossed back into the West) because I want a break as I am intent on doing the hills. I get around the whole circuit including the nasty 10% and 8% mounds, and my average is still looking great and I'm feeling good when…….,

…there's this soggy feeling behind, as I try and fly up the last drag, and yes, I have a flat, a slow leakage of air that has finally resulted in a saggy slowdown, and not in a very good place. Everybody I passed on the way a few seconds before is now coming by, the old ladies asking if I need help and so forth, some of the bikies flying past with a sort of schadenfreude atmosphere about them. At this point I refuse all offers. Wheel comes off smoothly, and I even manage to locate the culprit in the cover - a small sharp triangle of white glass. A couple more bikies come by and ask if everything is ok, I smile and thank them politely, and reassemble the bike. I'm feeling good, but shit, my pump isn't working well. Lever down, no good, lever up, not much better. Eventually work out which way it is supposed to be, after hammering away both options, but it's hard work getting even some minimal pressure going, and I'm fed up, I want to be moving. Then I see, coming up the drag, an almost angelic rider in all white waving hello, so I call him over and ask for a pump. Which he has (of course) and it's a pocket rocket, and it's great. By this time I've managed to mangle the valve, but the rocket glides smoothly into position and with a few thrusts I'm at maybe 85 or 100 psi (say 6bar)…. the valve has jammed open and I'm worried about riding off with it so, but the guy on the white Pinarello with the matching Sidi white shoes is eager to resume training, and assuring me 'everything will be fine,' in his Berlin accent, sprints off with purpose up the hill. I look at my contrastingly dirty - black in fact - hands and knees, pick up my bits and follow suit, turning the big gear to get going and feel the adrenalin stimulate a good pace. The bike is weird and spongy but oddly comfortable as I descend over chopped up tarmac before picking the main road towards the Krone and home. I'm still feeling fast, although I'm aware of lost impetus. The tube makes it. I've yet to ever complete that particular course as planned, something always happens. Maybe today.