The GFNY strapline is ‘Be a pro for a day’, which to a degree is where the matching jerseys come in
If Cannes wasn’t French the world wouldn’t give it a second thought. I mean, have you seen the Palais? It’s the building equivalent of a Blair-years leisure centre with a casino stuck to its side, and yet thousands upon thousands of the great and the good flock there every year for the Cannes Film Festival and its advertising equivalent, Cannes Lions. But like ratty mullets and smoking cigarettes while you eat, somehow the French manage to make Cannes look chic.
The art deco hotels might be crumbling but such things lend the streets a golden era air. The shops are outlandishly shiny and expensive, right down to the pharmacies serving up cough syrup and Botox. Sunloungers face out to sea in neat, customer-only rows; palm trees that shouldn’t really be here wave, and waiters’ trays sparkle under perspiring drinks. Cannes is a living cruise ship, the personification of chintz. Perfect place for a sportive, then.
Up with the lark
No start at a sportive is complete without getting up when it’s dark and arriving way too early at the start. Or maybe that’s just me. Because while the inaugural GFNY Cannes officially kicks off at 8am, I have diligently arrived at 7am due to overcompensation for getting lost en route and needing to pick up my race pack. But I shouldn’t have worried. A lame pigeon could have found its
