I spent the best years of my life at The Independent, whose Russian owners have announced that it is ceasing publication in March. Professionally it was a blast and personally too - I met my wife there and we were the first Independent wedding.
Many others have written about their sadness at its passing -  I am amazed that it kept going so long. This was due to hard work from its staff and the generosity of its various owners, notably Sir Tony O'Reilly. It was clear from the start that it was underfunded and remained so most of its life. Covering the losses was funding - by the million - but it meant there was never too much expansion.
As managing editor (twice) I saw the figures on a daily basis and they were never good. The failure to buy the Observer in the 90's, which would have led to a merger with the Independent on Sunday, was crucial. That would have transformed the finances (I had a list in my pocket of who would go and who would stay). Some forget that Rupert Murdoch's price war had some of its bullets paid for by The Independent, which put its price up. Those defecting readers never came back. And it is worth noting that without Murdoch winning the battle with the print unions at Wapping there would have been no Independent. The drop in the price of entry was crucial.
But all these tactical errors cannot get away from the fact that, since the double whammy of the recession hitting advertising and the rise of digital hitting circulations, all newspaper businesses have got to turn themselves into media businesses. No one has yet found a way to pay for journalism online which is why most continue with their print versions because they still bring in revenue, albeit at a fast declining rate. Everyone is waiting for something to work.
It seems a long way from the day I went up to the nearest Majestic wine shop from the Independent's City Road office and bought all the champagne they had. The editor announced to the journalists that the circulation had reached its high water mark of 430,000 and overtaken The Times. I have never seen a newsroom get so comprehensively legless so quickly as that night. 

Today was rest day on The Tour de France but in London the cycling continues…Charlie Burgess went on the Islington to Crouch End stage and passes on cycling tips as welling as telling an epic story (well, almost)

It’s raining so the first decision is whether to leave the bike and get the bus. I am shamed into unlocking the shed. If Tony Martin can get back on his bike with a broken collarbone to ensure his yellow jersey makes the finish line, as he did on the real Tour last week, then I can don my anorak and venture out onto Upper Street, Islington

It is a quick stage today - a 4.8 mile hike up to Muswell Hill and a 4.8 mile trudge back. The helicopter shots will show the difficulties, like negotiating the roadworks at the Coin de Highbury et Islington, as we now call it, and the cultural landmarks such as the Stade d”Emirates, The Curry Garden Indian take-away and its nearby rivals the Indigo and the Curry Island and, of course, the Hornsey Road Costcutter, which acts as a marker that the summit of the fabled Hornsey Rise is fast approaching. It is then all down hill through Crouch End to Priory Park and my destination, my friend Andy’s gym, Intelligent Exercise. 

The official départ is delayed because the cat has to be let in, stroked and fed. And then the front door keys are missing, declared lost, and then found, in my pocket. Faff central. I bet Tour leader Chris Froome doesn't face pressure like this.

The first obstacle is to cross the road. Our street is a cycle route into town so lots of lycras speed silently along, head down,  heading south, and I need to go north. Then we are off - not racing yet as I decide that the Skoda going down the road is that of the Tour director, Chris Prudhomme and that he has yet to wave his flag to declare us on our way.

It is only after being ushered onto Essex Road by a kindly bus waiting at the lights that Christian’s flag is fluttered figuratively  and the Depart Officiel is declared. And now the battle begins, but not against my fellow cyclists for there are few going my way and those that are I allow to speed on, knowing they are not going for a podium place and that they will be reeled in somewhere along the road, which may not necessarily be mine.

No, the battle is against the road surface, often in need of repair, and the traffic, and the pedestrians at crossings or not, and the light rain and the people deciding to open car doors without looking. If this was the Tour there would a motorcyclist from the Presidential Guard standing every 20 metres with  that familiar triangular flag held aloft between both hands, signalling Beware.

The first real problem is at the pedestrian crossing near Ottolenghi on Upper Street. The yummy mummies and their prams are damned if anything is going to get in the way of their getting to the front of the queue to wait for their builders tea with chips and brown sauce (only kidding). And so the endless dilemma for the cyclist - do you stop, and break your rhythm and watch the girls go by or do you push on while they and their offspring prambulate over the striped lines. I stop.

Pressing on, careful not to be in too hard a gear so that if I have to stop quickly it is tough to get going again, the Coin de Highbury et Islington is next. Never an easy junction, the much needed and welcome revamp of the tube station and its environs means that it is reduced to single file with a large concrete barrier on the inside. This means that even the idea of going on the inside of a Tesco delivery lorry turning left is madness so I tuck in behind.

Now here’s a thing. Bike lanes, where they exist, are always on the inside yet one is always taught to overtake on the outside which is where people expect to see you coming. I take advantage of the bus lane up the Holloway Road which is always rendered useless at some stage by some sort of parked vehicle which always gives the added danger that someone is going to get out of it, on the driver’s side. Darkened glass in cars doesn't help but my advice is to always watch their mirrors and for a mere twitch of an opening door. This must be what its like for the peloton, forever on the alert for an elbow or a competitors wheel.

Then its file right, looking over your shoulder for traffic behind, before the turn right past the landmark Libeskind building of the London Metropolitan University which lifts the drabness of its surrounds.

The Emirates is now ahead, the jaws of its shop not yet open to snap up the hordes of Scandinavian fans who will be along later to take selfies of themselves in front of the cannons. And there is  Thierry Henry standing in a massive mural  Saw him on telly yesterday in the crowd at Centre Court. My wife and I both agreed that he was a wonderful footballer and an intelligent man but a shame that he had cheated in the France v Republic of Ireland World Cup match a few years back. It took the gloss off.

But no time to dawdle as the race leader (me) heads up the Hornsey Road. In fact there would have been time to dawdle because I was soon stuck behind another obstacle that seldom bothers my real Tour brethren ( I feel we are linked) - the street cleaner. You know the one - it goes at about 2mph with a little brush on the left front and does a great job and is very annoying.

Cars in front, especially the Chelsea, or in this case, Islington tractors are difficult to get past when faced with The Cleaner. Everybody inches to the right to see if they can see past and then swerves back again when a socking great 41 bus if coming the other way or, even more daunting,  a Travis Perkins delivery truck.

Best just to bide my time and eventually sweep majestically past The Cleaner at twice his speed with nary a glance.

Those of you who drive in cars north on Hornsey Road may not realise but from about the time you cross La Route des Sept Souers, the road starts to climb. Imperceptible to many I know, but to those of the fuller figure the wrong side of 60 any slight upward slope is immediately recognised. 

And rather like my heroes on the Tour when they approach the Col du Tourmalet or the Col d’Aubisque, those mighty mountain passes where some of the greatest moments in sport are played out, I approach Hornsey Rise with some trepidation.

Granted it does not rise over 8,000 feet above sea level but I decide to give it HC status - this is Tour de France language for a climb that is so difficult it is Hors de Categorie, or Out of Category. (Wonderful what you can learn on a blog). The climb must be all of a couple of hundred metres long and the rise must be, well, feet.

There was no time to stop at Dubois Chez Labs Hair and Beauty, the mission was to avoid being stopped at the next pedestrian crossing and then work out what to do with the 41 bus ahead. Try to get past it and perhaps get stuck if he then decides to pull out, or stay behind and use it as a sort of peloton to pull me up into the clouds,

There were crowds now, of buggies, beside the crossing but as none had actually set foot on it I pressed on and then, as ordered by my race director (Me) I attacked the 41 bus. Not literally of course but in the way that a Tour cyclist attacks his competitor and tries to get past him, to break him and leave  him shattered, unable to respond, The 41 had in fact stopped at the Hornsey Rise Stop M so I put my feet to the pedals, upped the wattage, and was past him in a flash. But the next hundred metres past the Margaret McMillan Nursery School and then the Shell Garage into the trees were tough as the 41 was now behind me and snapping at my heels. I held my nerve and my speed to cross over the top of the col in first place, thus winning the Polka Dot jersey as king of the mountains with the 41, if not broken, then certainly bowed.

Strangely, the children at Coleridge Primary School had not been given permission to bunk off class to watch me go by so I celebrated, quietly, on my own as I descended into Crouch End, veering left at the Clock Tower and then right into towards Priory Park and the solo sprint finish and Andy”s look of amazement.  Well it was more of a dawdle finish but in my mind I know had the green sprints jersey and my eye on the greatest prize in all sport, the maillot jeune.

But I would not presume to think of wearing that jersey. It is reserved for the true greats of sport. Actually, hold on a minute, after 45 minutes with Andy I faced doing the whole thing again in reverse. Now that’s something they don't have to do on Le Tour.

Charlie Burgess covered the Tour de France in the 80s and loved it.

Do people still not realise that if you Tweet you are publishing. I tell my clients to count to ten then count again - and then do nothing, most of the time

When you first put on the uniform — the purple and red zip top with a gold button on each shoulder — you feel like a refugee from Billy Smart’s circus. But when you wear it for real as a volunteer, or a Games Maker as we are called, it is a licence to smile and say hello to the world.

On buses, in Tubes, at bars and restaurants, I’ve worn my uniform with pride. I’m surely challenging for the Olympic record in group photography for the number of snaps I’ve taken of families in front of the sign welcoming people to the Olympic Park.

My official role was “flash quote reporter” at the athletics for the Olympic News Service. Our job was to get quotes from each medallist, heat winner and important failure on behalf of reporters who could not get there.

The first question anyone asks is: “Did you get to meet Usain Bolt?” The answer is, of course I did, but more of that later.

We were a mixed crew including a student from John O’Groats, two former PE teachers from Lancashire, a Brazilian whose cousin won silver in the pool and a journalist taking a holiday from his real job who was camping at Eton Manor Rugby Club for a tenner a night. And me, a journalist who had covered the Los Angeles Games in 1984. This time I was doing it for nothing. Well, no money but a whole lot of fun.

The training took a few days and we practised at the British University Athletics Championship on a wet weekend in May. With just a drizzle of spectators, the stadium looked pretty glum.

Who could imagine the transformation when it opened for that first day of Olympic track and field. We were buzzing as tens of thousands of spectators filled it to the brim for the first heats.

Four of us spent the first 90 minutes stapling start sheets together because the copying machines didn’t have a staple option. Incredibly, even in the bowels of the stadium the no-visible-company-name-unless-you-are-a-sponsor rule is in force. The copying machines had their logos taped over. I had a peek. Xerox.

Most of our time was spent in the Mixed Zone, the tunnel beyond the finish line down which every athlete has to go. Athletes on one side of the barrier, reporters on the other.

Nobody has to talk to the press but most were happy to. The job was to pick up a quick quote, or get a translation if needed, and leg it back to the office and dictate it to a staffer, who would relay it to the press centre.

Some of the time we were out in the stadium pinching ourselves with delight and pinching (with permission) quotes from the broadcasters’ podium.

When Phil Jones, the delightful BBC trackside commentator, bagged an athlete one of us would kneel just out of camera and take down the quotes.

Phil has been criticised by some for his touchy-feely way with athletes. As he pointed out to me, he gets hold of them to make sure they are in shot and because they are often a little wobbly.

I thought I had timed my run to perfection to be on the broadcast podium with a perfect view for Bolt’s 100 metres final. With a few minutes to go I saw him come on the track and start his vaudeville routine.

And then Ezekiel Kemboi, gold medal winner in the 3,000 metres steeplechase, chose that moment to walk past and Phil, ever the pro, stopped him for a quote, which I then had to run back to file. As a result I had to watch the 100 metres final on the TV in the Mixed Zone.

Now to the Bolt interview. I lied, I almost met him. He was there and somewhere in the mêlée of hundreds of the world’s reporters was me. To be precise I, and many others, interviewed a loud speaker that relayed the great man’s words. It was a bizarre sight — people holding up their recorders to the speaker with their backs to Bolt. My most unlikely contribution was one night when the Dominican Republic’s Minister for Sport used my charger to fire up his BlackBerry so that Felix Sanchez could receive the thanks of his President for his victory in the 400 metres hurdles. I left them huddled in the zone waiting for the connection.

Now it is over and our band are going their separate ways, all proud to have been part of the best show on Earth. On the Tube, I met two fellow Game Makers — one a Norwich nurse who had been on the medical team at the hockey, and a shift manager from Bury who helped at the table tennis and managed to see 20 minutes of it one day. Many of my 70,000 colleagues stood outside or minded a door and never saw anything, but all felt it worthwhile.

The Big Purple and Red Society really did work. Let’s keep it that way.

Charlie Burgess is a former sports editor of the Independent and an Olympic volunteer

This article was originally published in The Times