I know the sun must set to rise

I was born in 1964, at Forest Gate Hospital, East London. My parents lived in a small flat above a baker's shop in High Street North, East Ham. When my Mum was about 5 months pregnant with me she remembers standing by the open window of the flat as the bus carrying the victorious West Ham FA cup-winning side made its way to the local town hall. She was struck, she tells me, by how good-looking the young captain, Bobby Moore, was.

So you see, my affair started before I was even born. I remember picking West Ham as my team, in the late sixties, probably at the urging of my Dad. I can't remember really, it's just always been there. My first proper match, as opposed to grainy images on very low-definition television was back in 1971. The year this picture was taken. I actually had it on my wall, my granddad took the Mirror, and saved it for me.

For the record, we beat Stoke 2-1, and Bobby Moore scored one of his few goals. I don't remember much about the match, other than where I sat was in the upper side of the old west stand, which is more or less where I sit now.

It has been a very long journey, far longer than today's 100 km (although it was even less than that) sportive, the Black Rat challenge. If I were to tell you it all, this post would be longer than the whole blog. Suffice to say that I did think it no longer affected me as emotionally as it used to. There was a phase back in the early nineties, when as a single man living in London, with few outgoings and fewer friends, I spent way too much time, money and energy going to as many games as I could.

But gradually my attendance has diminished, and the cost of travel, my disillusion with the finances of the undeserving connected with football, and the alternative lure of cycling has drawn me away. But, to quote EW it's like a twist upon a thread, it draws you back, something as connected and deep will always be joined to me. Earlier this year, someone very wise and perceptive said to me that I should stop trying to rationalise what was an emotional bond, it couldn't be wished away by logic.

It was this acceptance and two matches, or more pertinently, the events that surrounded them, that made me face up to the reality that I really am West Ham till I die. Bristol City away, mini MR the mascot. He met the players, he played on the pitch, and he led the  team out. All stirring stuff, he loved it and I was proud of him. But it was Kevin Nolan that clinched it. He took it upon himself to look after my son, treat him well, despite the pressure and focus on the match. He was doing what was right even though he didn't have to.

Kevin Nolan, top bloke

Then of course there is yesterday. My nerves shredded, my voice hoarse, this play-off final mattered desperately to me. In a way that surprised me. But apart from the elation, relief and fervour of victory, that finally came shortly after Ricardo Vaz Te dispatched the ball into the roof of the net for the winner, there was something else.

When I was at a party in my student days, football was not cool. It was seedy, rough and sometimes downright dangerous. At this party, one slightly bohemian type exclaimed, "death to all football supporters", to much hilarity from the assembled students. That is what the intelligentsia thought in those days. Nowadays every celebrity is a fan, and can't wait to jump on the back of any footballing bandwagon. You know it's bad when politicians tell you who they support. Well yesterday, I was just one of 48,000 Irons. And yes, it's not Hammers, it's Irons, and if you don't know why, go look at this history.

So I often think of that moment as something of a turning point, when I realised that my roots lay in the dockyards and factories of Bristol, or London, or even Yeovil, but they did not lie in swanky parties, or theatres. This is just how it is, football is in my identity. I've been threre since before I was born, and I'm sure there will be people I haven't seen in years who were thinking of me yesterday because of that match. As Nick Hornby said, no-one else gets that, just us.

If you want to read about the Black Rat cyclosportive,  have alook at  Skip's Blog later, or Cyclosport by about Wednesday, she took some great photos around motivation corner.

It turned into a great training ride, having done a long ride last weekend, and with another next Sunday, then the three day Tour of Wessex, Dragon ride and Dartmoor Classic all in the next month, I needed some time to get over the emotion of yesterday. We were quick though, as you can see from Charlie's route.

 There is a common sight during the Tour de France, and indeed many other professional tours, of a single rider leaping from the front of the peloton with no reaction from the rest of the group. At first glance it may appear to be just another lone rider attempting to gain the glory of a stage win. There is though an agreement amongst riders that if a stage of the Tour de France goes through, or near the hometown, of one of the riders that they will be able to go ahead and stop and chat with their family and friends. This though will not happen if that town is near to the finish.

Well the Black Rat went right past my house today, so as we approached, I put a bit of a shift on, having warned the family I was coming. It was marvellous to see them on the doorstep, with mini MR waving the claret and blue flag we had bought outside Wembley yesterday. Well, this weekend really has been Paradise.