Magic Spanner

by Carlton Kirby

  The definition of ‘Magic Spanner’

  MAGIC: The power to influence events via mysterious forces.

  SPANNER: A tool for gripping or turning.

  MAGIC SPANNER: The action of a mechanic to influence the recovery pace of a rider by way of mimicking a mechanical assist. Completed while hanging from a moving vehicle – thereby propelling the cyclist, at pace via automotive assistance, to regain time lost due to a racing incident.

  Contents

  Foreword by Sean Kelly

  1 Life on Tour

  2 The Breakfast of Kings

  3 Drive to the Finish

  4 Security, Good and Bad

  5 The Five Lions

  6 Kelly’s Smalls

  7 Cigarettes and Coffee

  8 Carjack

  9 Comfort Breaks

  10 Attention Seekers!

  11 Protesters

  12 Slow Day

  13 Feed Station

  14 Having Fun – The Secret to Cycling Commentary

  15 Relations Most Public

  16 The Dark Side of Cycling

  17 There is No Money!

  18 Back on the Road

  19 And So to Bed – Hotel Stories

  20 Party Time!

  21 The Greatest Ride

  22 The Other Bikers

  23 When the Plug Gets Pulled

  24 How Do You Feel?

  25 The Party’s Over

  26 And So It Comes to This

  About the Authors

  Acknowledgements

  Index

  Plates

  Foreword by Sean Kelly

  I reckon I’ve spent more July days in the company of Carlton than I have with anybody else these last few years. And I can tell you, he can be a challenge. As you all know he has a habit of going on a bit during commentary, and not just about the cycling. He can talk about anything . . . wherever he goes there are donkeys missing their hind legs. HE DOESN’T STOP! At the end of the day’s action we get in the car and his mouth keeps racing. Thank heavens for Radio Monte Carlo and my control of the volume button; it’s a useful tool.

  I have been through my fair share of lead commentators and all have been very different. First there was David Duffield who started me off on the microphone. There was also Mike Smith, followed by David Harmon, and then Carlton Kirby along with Rob Hatch. They all have a different approach to their commentary; none sound the same. They have all been, or are, my teammates and I have enjoyed the company of them all both on and off air. It’s fair to say we are privileged to have a job that generates so much fun around a sport we love.

  Of course we have our moments but I’ve never come to blows with any of them; although I have thought about jamming a bread roll into Carlton’s mouth a few times . . . he can go on . . . and on. He treats life as an adventure – a big one – and he certainly has a gift of bringing his anecdotes to life, as I’m sure you will find as you read on.

  1

  Life on Tour

  4 a.m. A hotel in Paris. Day 20 of the Tour de France.

  So there I am, dead of the night, a tubby middle-aged cycling nut locked out of his room . . . completely bollock naked. I’m waiting for the hotel security guy to let me back into my sanctuary. Considering my predicament, I’m remarkably at peace. Like a condemned man, I’m resigned to my situation. Bizarrely, I’m pondering what to do with my arms. There are no pockets to look nonchalant; folded arms would look a bit showy-offy. Inevitably, as there is little to be proud of, two hands are cupped over my man bits. I wait, breaking my serenity only occasionally to whisper ‘Aaaaw, shut up’ to the Japanese tourists trapped in the escape stairwell in front of me. For it is they who got me into this mess. They are getting restive. . . Well, they’ll have to wait.

  The best part of three weeks on the road have taken their toll: 6 a.m. starts, hours of driving, hours of staring at a small TV monitor while commentating on the greatest sporting event on earth. Le Hexagon as it’s called – or ‘France’, to you and me – is a remarkable arena. And a big place. It takes a lot of getting around, which has left me shattered; physically exhausted, mentally frazzled. Still, though, I have just enough brain space to ponder a diversion: it’s amazing how much temperature and surface definition you can sense via a buttock! Yep, my door felt cold and smooth to the touch . . . ‘but I’m not using my hands. Amazing.’

  My predicament started with a gently strumming sound that entered my dreams. Darrrum, darrrum, darrrum . . . What the hell is that? I asked myself. Darrrum, darrrum, darrrum . . . Like a kid drumming four fingers on a table, impersonating a horse. Or a classic Hollywood scene of someone losing patience. Darrrum, darrrum, darrrum, darrrum. It went on. At my bloody door! ‘SHAAAADAAAAP!’ I shouted. And it stopped. Then, just as I’m nodding back off, there it was again. This time I hurled a fine Crockett and Jones bootie at the door and screamed: ‘F-------k offf!’ for good measure. The effect was the same. A brief halt before the strumming was back again.

  For me, there is a Rule of Three when it comes to being woken up. My wife is familiar with this. Once is okay. Twice may be forgivable. Third time? All done. I’m up and out of bed. Grumpy as they come, usually flamboyantly knotting a dressing gown as I head for the kitchen and a cuppa. This was far more serious. I was deeply fatigued and in no mood to reason. I was going to tell these bastards just what I thought of them, my dark mood accentuated by the entirety of my blue-white nakedness. Furious, I yanked the door open with a backed-up series of expletives about to let rip.

  There was absolutely nobody there!

  The corridor was completely empty save for the rolled-up fire hose next to my room at the end of a long blank corridor with mood lighting and an awful Aztec-print carpet. Silence.

  Then just as I’m convincing myself I am clearly going mad . . . it started again. The sound was coming from behind the fire doors directly opposite mine. ‘Bastards!’ I thought. Kids just pissing about. Well here we go then, have some of this!

  It was about now that my world went into slow motion. Holding my door handle, I pivoted Sumo style and launched a kick directly at the Push Bars To Open sign, the idea being that the miscreants would be sent flying as the doors flew open into the stairwell.

  Wham! The doors smashed open against the concrete walls.

  Now, screaming is an auto-reaction, usually in response to the perception of exaggerated threat. On this occasion the threat levels were considered high on both sides of the fire doors’ threshold.

  The screams from both directions went on for a few elongated seconds. The Japanese tourists rocked back en masse at the sight of a Sumo/Bjarne Riis lookalike. Meanwhile, I simply lost control of the situation. Still screaming, I grabbed both bars and slammed the fire doors back shut.

  Clunk! went the fire doors. Then, Clunk went the door of my room.

  Bent over and still holding the bars of the fire doors, I looked over my shoulder, knowing I was in trouble. ‘Aaaaaaaw, for God’s sake!’

  Next to the hose was a red telephone. I picked it up. There was no need to dial. It began ringing at the front desk. Security answered.

  ‘Oui!’

  ‘Bonsoir, Monsieur. C’est Monsieur Kirby. J’ai un petit predicament! Um . . . I’m locked out of my room.’

  ‘OK, I’ll come up and let you in.’

  ‘Um, I must warn you that I’m actually, um, en nue . . . naked. Completely. And. . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘There are some Japanese tourists locked in the stairwell.’

  Just as he puts the phone down, I hear him start to laugh.

  Darrrum, darrrum, darrrum . . .

  ‘All right, I know you’re there . . . give it a bleedin’ rest.’

  What seems like a
n age goes by before: POING! Finally the lift announces its arrival.

  I prepare to greet the security guard. But it’s not the security guard.

  It was an elderly American couple who must have enjoyed the same night out at the Moulin Rouge as my Japanese friends. Unlike my pals in the stairwell, they had seen the sign for the Night Porter’s bell. The Japanese guests had thought they were locked out and duly made their way up the fire escape in the hope of waking some kindly soul who would let them in. Well, it didn’t go too well for them, did it? Likewise my American friends.

  ‘Good evening,’ I ventured.

  ‘Oh. My. God!’ said the lady.

  Terror begets clumsiness. The air was now filled with the sound of the frantic swiping of the door key as the theatregoers desperately tried to gain entry. It opened and they crashed through their door, slamming it behind them. I could hear her crying.

  POING! At last the security guard comes strolling down the corridor. He’s smiling and biting a lip while politely half-covering his eyes. ‘Good evening, Monsieur Kirby,’ he ventures as his linked phone goes off. It’s the Americans.

  ‘Yes, Security?’ he answers. ‘A naked man in the corridor. Yes sir, I’m dealing with that now.’

  I slip, albeit slightly camply, into my room.

  ‘Merci, Alphonse! Don’t forget the Japanese.’

  Welcome to Magic Spanner: The World of Cycling according to Carlton Kirby. Join me on a journey into both the heart and the margins of the world’s greatest sport, where we ponder a Universal Truth: every time something goes right, something must also go wrong. So, let’s get on and expose the rather odd bits that have accompanied me and this crazy sport! Enjoy.

  ‘He’s screaming . . . albeit silently.’

  2

  The Breakfast of Kings

  The Cast

  Sean Kelly: aka The King, seven times consecutive winner of Paris–Nice, among other marvels. Now a commentator for Eurosport.

  Greg LeMond: Three-time winner of the Tour de France and former World Champion. Consultant to Eurosport.

  Kathy LeMond: Greg’s wife, informal manager and bodyguard.

  Pascal: Greg’s fixer – and litter bin kicker, given to theatrical displays of displeasure – who makes sure everything’s in order for his boss.

  Dan Lloyd: former British professional cyclist. Now a lead presenter for GCN and co-commentator for Eurosport.

  And me, Carlton Kirby: TV commentator for Eurosport.

  6 a.m. A hotel somewhere hot in Italy. The Giro is in full swing. I stumble down for breakfast after a night spent vibrating windows with my snoring, to find Sean Kelly sitting behind a pile of mush. This is not unusual. You might think that King Kelly would be given to enjoying a choice bowl of muesli, a yogurt perhaps or maybe some fresh fruit. This would certainly have a better look about it – and such fare is being enjoyed by other cycling royals sitting not five paces to my left. Greg LeMond, the Duke of Des Moines, is in the building, which instantly proves two things: 1. There is air conditioning in this building (no air con, no Greggie boy); and 2. This is as upmarket as it gets in this particular location. This is LeMond Central and Greg is up in every sense. In fact, if Greg is awake, he’s up! Up for anything. This human being has an on switch like no other. Full on. I love him. Greg is partying – at breakfast. Loud and lovely with his amazing wife, Kathy, and his pocket enforcer, Pascal, who is exceptional in many ways: he’s everywhere, he knows everybody, is super-friendly and speaks numerous languages, all with a heavy French accent. He’s a tiny guy who makes up for his diminutive height by sticking his arms out to make himself look bigger, hands on hips. You could actually put him in your pocket, though.

  So cycling royalty are tucking in. As loud and welcoming as the LeMond corner is, I head for the pile of mush. ‘Morning, Sean.’ To which the long-drawn-out response is always: ‘Alright’, in his southern Irish lilt.

  So we have got the conversation ball rolling. To be fair, there is not much further for it to go before we get on air. ‘Sleep well, Sean?’ . . . pause . . . ‘Not bad. Me back’s a bit—’ (grimaces). And that’s it.

  So what is Kelly eating? Baguette husks with hard cheese and regular jam as well. The food of champions. Or it was for many years. This is Belgian bikers’ brekkie. ‘Too many bloody carbs in the middle bit,’ Sean once explained. So, like many old-school riders have done for decades, he pulls out the soft centre of every baguette, then fills the empty shell with cheese and jam. Yum.

  The mantra goes on. Not content with pulling out the fluffy bit, Sean moulds it into what I am sure were once the missiles of his youth. Not that he’s throwing them any more – he simply plays with them until they turn grey and have the texture of Blu-Tack.

  ‘Righty-oh. Eight thirty OK?’

  ‘Yep, see you then.’ And with that he’s gone.

  ‘Carol Tone! Come and join us!’ It takes me a second to realise Kathy, as warm as ever, is talking to me and has kept me a place.

  As I slide in, Greg launches:

  ‘Eggs! There’s gotta be a better way! Eggs are different sizes, right? Water boils at different temperatures depending on altitude, right? So there is no genuine rule that says an egg is guaranteed soft boiled in three minutes, right? You know I’m right. So here’s the thing, we develop an egg sensor. I dunno, x-rays, ultrasound, there’s gotta be a way. A better way. Whaddya think, Crayol Tun?’

  ‘Greg, I don’t really mind how my eggs turn out.’

  ‘Well, I care!’ says Greg. ‘Look at all these, for cryin’ out loud. None of ’em right.’

  In front of him Greg has probably eight eggs, all open and uneaten. None have passed the newly coined Greg’s Eggs Test. It’s about now I’m reminded of the teacher in Charlie Brown whose voice is a background muffle. ‘Mumble mumble eggs mumble mumble. Technology mumble mumble.’

  ‘You OK, Kathy?’ She goes from dazed to electrified in a second.

  ‘Sure am! Never better. How’s it going? How’s Sean’s driving holding up?’

  Kathy is a marvel. I love chatting to her. I’m just about to go into Sean’s latest mountain rally session when bam! I’m slapped on the shoulder by Greg:

  ‘Ultraviolet! Doesn’t the wavelength alter depending on surface resistance? Does this change with the solidifying of the egg’s core?’

  ‘I don’t know, Greg.’

  Dan Lloyd, anchor for Global Cycling Network (GCN) and an ex-pro, walks in. He’s wearing sunglasses he bought for too much money in a junk shop on the Adriatic coast. Green plastic Gucci, with graded brown lenses from the 1980s. On me they’d look dreadful. On Dan they’re just right. Certainly right for his hangover.

  Two things get Dan animated: beer and money. He hates spilling either: ‘You owe me €60.’

  ‘What?’

  Dan takes a weary sigh. Like a teenager faced with a parent he has lost all respect for, he takes a long breath and then fires off a staccato series of thoughts, all nailed together as a sentence, designed to fend off any interruption or any form of argument.

  ‘We got towed last night, you told me to park over by the garage, it’s the finish line, they lifted us last night, it’s €120, so you owe me €60.’

  Without waiting for any reply he stands up, downs a cappuccino in one and leaves the breakfast room without another word.

  It’s time to go.

  ‘It’s a bit of a dog’s breakfast. Other breakfasts are available.’

  3

  Drive to the Finish

  7 a.m. The morning drive to the TV enclosure isn’t usually too bad, as we’ll have arrived in the middle of the night close to where we’re supposed to be. It gives us a chance to take a good look at what the finish will be like for the riders, and we’ll make various notes about what the pinch points are likely to be, where a rider can attack and what they’ll need to watch out for. Normally, Sean will be driving at this point, so I’ll be there, pen and paper in hand, as he makes lots of technical comments and/or expletives like
: ‘Feck. That’s going to be shit!’

  Sean is a master at finding a parking spot. This is absolutely vital to ensure a speedy getaway at the end of the day. Naturally, it helps being a former Grand Tour winner, and police and security guards seem to be queuing up to help him out. In France, he’s a huge name: everyone still remembers his seven consecutive victories in Paris–Nice and his string of stage wins on the Tour, Giro and his Vuelta title, not to mention his victories in the Monuments (classics) including Paris–Roubaix and Milan–San Remo. This means he’s given a bit more leeway than others who might get flagged to one side. Even so, finding the right spot to leave the car still remains something of an art. Occasionally even Sean gets this wrong, like when he parked in the pitch of an ice cream seller, who decided to block us in for revenge. Or the time we were given the thumbs up by a local cop who had his parking ticket book signed by Sean. All was good until we got the call from Captain Black – or the Tour de France Head of Facilities, to give him his official title. Upset him, and you’re off the race. And I mean off. Sean had to leave the commentary position while we were on air to move his car – or else. Seemed he’d parked in the Team Cannondale coach bay and had precisely two minutes to move it. Well, our position was about two miles away. Sean got there – and again found out how lucky he is to be him. The car was lifted back off the low loader, probably in acknowledgement of his Paris–Nice record. He also kept his all-important press badges.

  One commentator – Italian, I believe – suffered the ultimate sanction in such a situation: The Badge Rip! It’s a bit like the flamboyant stripping of all medals and stripes from a tunic before your execution by firing squad: your passes are yanked from your neck. At least there’s a breaker clip just above the badges to prevent you suffering a neck injury. Our Italian friend suffered this fate and was relegated to describing the Tour from the TV in his hotel room despite the inevitable delay between the action and his voice. His commentary was about 10 seconds late throughout. Not good in a sprint finish. He was replaced two days later.