Magic Spanner

by Carlton Kirby

  One example from 2017: ‘Today was a bit like Missouri back in 2008, when Chicchi was making a nuisance of himself, Michael and Bernie did an amazing job: punched through and I just feathered it past Farrar’s left; with about 60 to go and went for it.’ If he’s lost, he is likely not to tell you a thing, but it’s all in there in his head and you can bet that he’ll have a few choice words to say to his team at the dinner table.

  In terms of bike-handling, there have been a few blips – some requiring surgery. But it’s because he’s seeing a percentage opportunity in any gap; this has to be calculated in milliseconds. Most gaps he successfully masters. It’s a function of his track background in the tight and hectic world of madison racing.

  Now, it’s all very well having the physical and mental capacity to be a world-class sprinter, but the delivery platform for these attributes is self-belief. You need to have it. And Mark does. Totally. As clinical and focused as a surgeon, he expects everyone else around him to race with the same level of investment. These are high standards. He sets them for himself. And woe betide anyone who falls short out there. Sprinting is a war zone and Mark is the field marshal.

  It was when he was riding for HTC that he really developed into a world-class sprinter. Mark Renshaw, Bernie Eisel and André Greipel were the three generals who made a remarkable lead-out force that changed the way sprinting was approached. Their train was omnipotent, but the pressure to fall in behind Cav got too much for some and its phenomenal run eventually came to an end.

  Years later, and by now on different teams, Greipel went on to beat Mark in a bunch sprint at the Tour de France. It was a strange, cathartic celebration as he crossed the line. All the years of pressure that had built while working for Cav bubbled up with a primal and tearful scream as he crossed the line. It seemed to me that, for Greipel, the confirmation that he’d had the talent to win all along was devastating rather than liberating.

  High standards mean high pressure. Mark is generous with praise for his team if all goes well. They are the first to get a mention ahead of any analysis of his own effort. But he will also judge and castigate himself for any mistake or poor performance, and his team will be in the cross hairs of his mood – particularly any teammate he feels has fallen short.

  I recall him being interviewed after a ‘fail’ and really having a go at Bernie Eisel for a poor lead out that went awry on the first stage of the Tour of Abu Dhabi in 2016. At the sign-in for the following day, under the gaze of the world’s cycling press and spectators, Cav began walking off the stage. Without turning round even to look, he disdainfully proffered the pen over his shoulder to Eisel in what looked like a public display of contempt. This was Cav reminding his teammate that all was not forgiven for the previous day’s mistakes. More was expected of him. Of course, Cav and the team then went on to win the day.

  Cav can be notoriously difficult to interview if he’s uncomfortable with any question that happens to be: 1. too probing; 2. disrespectful; or 3. plain stupid. He has torn journalists apart in the past. This, of course, can be most amusing to those witnessing. If he’s getting stressed for any of the above reasons, he’ll either go completely silent or fire an aggressive question back. The giveaway is an anger twitch in his jaw muscles. When they start . . . take cover!

  At the 2016 London Six Day, he was clearly becoming more and more frustrated by the focus and questioning from reporters who seemed far more interested in his teammate, Bradley Wiggins. When Matt Rendell asked how he felt about watching Wiggo win the Derny race, in which Cav had ridden the first half earlier, he could barely contain his anger. The teeth became more firmly clenched and the jaw began to twitch. Then TV presenter OJ Borg asked him another question about his partner. Cav detonated a controlled explosion: ‘I don’t know. Why don’t you just ask Bradley!? Everyone’s just asking me questions about Brad. Haven’t you got any questions to ask about me?’ There was a second or two as some expletives hit the auditorium wall. Cue awkward laughter from OJ.

  To be honest, I got off to a bad start with Mark. In fact, he blamed me for wrecking three months of his racing career. It all started with a viewer comment read out by my Eurosport colleague, David Harmon. Cav’s teeth, it was said, looked like Bingo from the 1970s television programme The Banana Splits Show. This character is a bright orange gorilla with rather prominent teeth. It was a light-hearted jibe, a bit of a tease, affectionate even. Just a humorous aside from a fan, if a little insensitive, but Cav took it personally. He was furious. What’s worse is that he assumed the comment had come from me. Not surprising, as I’m given to a high degree of irreverence on occasion.

  Now Cav is a handsome chap, so unknown to us was the fact that Mark had been teased about his dentition as a youngster at school. This latest episode pushed him to seek out corrective surgery to sort them out at the end of the season. He was going out with Miss Paraguay at the time, who recommended a local dentist. Rather than wait until he came home, Cav went for treatment. Sadly, the surgery didn’t go well. He developed an infection, which resulted in further dental work and a huge dose of antibiotics that knocked out his early season prep. And I got the blame.

  Our relationship continued to decline when I criticised his team’s sprint leadout train at the Tour of Qatar in 2013. My job as a commentator is to give opinions. Opinions that can be right or wrong, but it is my job to comment and give my view – for what it’s worth. The trouble is that there are times when you are going to be at odds with the riders who have given their best but failed. And if you have an opinion on that failure, firstly, they don’t like it being highlighted if it’s true; and secondly, if they think you’re wrong, then obviously you’re an absolute idiot.

  During a sprint finale at the Tour of Qatar, I was calling it from inside of a truck with a low definition monochrome TV screen in front of me. The vision was terrible and I’d had to put a blanket over my head and TV monitor to be able to make anything out. Despite this, I could recognise the distinctive shape of Cav hunched over his handlebars in his classic sprint position, so I was focusing on him. I could see his lead out assemble, only for it to fall apart in the melée. It managed to get back together, only for it to be destroyed again and I said out loud as the bunch came to the approach: ‘Wow, this is a mess.’ The words I used were harsh but fair. I’m an emotive commentator and I say what I feel at the time. The truth is, I wanted him to win. Essentially I’m a fan and I was, I guess, voicing my own disappointment.

  With a poor lead out, the inevitable happened and Cav didn’t win the stage. Of course, he was livid, and as we know with Mark, he always reacts strongly when things don’t go the way he wanted. Back at the hotel he watched the finish on TV and heard me call his race ‘a mess’, which of course made him even more furious.

  The next sprint stage was a turnaround for him and the team. They won. When Mark saw our reporter Matt Rendell approaching, he said live on air, ‘Right. Before we start, get that bloody Carlton Kirby down here, I’m going to give him a good slap.’ Matt parried the suggestion with nervous laughter before carrying on with the interview.

  It wouldn’t be an understatement to say that, at this point in both our careers, Mark thought I was a bit of a git. It was an opinion that lingered. Indeed, we only began to build bridges a year later at the Tour of Turkey, when the organisers began harrying and bundling everyone into taxis for a long journey to the next stage start. I was in a car with fellow commentator Brian Smith when the door opened and, plop, Mark Cavendish sat down in the seat next to me. With a three- or four-hour drive ahead of us, I thought it best to clear the air.

  ‘Hello, Mark,’ I said. ‘Are you still going to give me a bloody good slapping?’

  Thankfully, there was to be no fat bleeding lip. Instead I had an enjoyable journey over three hours where we chatted affably about just about everything apart from the world of cycling. It was a key moment in our relationship and set a precedent for all our future encounters.

  Being a Manxman, Mark know
s a lot about motorbike racing. His home is famous for the Isle of Man TT races, which I’ve been commentating on for many years. Away from the pressures of our jobs, and stuck in a car for a few hours, we were able to shoot the breeze about motorbikes, Le Mans and fast cars. He was absolutely in his element. Mark is a petrolhead, with a collection of fast and powerful cars, including a McLaren with a unique Cavendish Green colour scheme and a Land Rover Desert Warrior with a 5.7-litre V10 Corvette engine. After the London Six Day, he was so hyped and driven by the adrenaline of racing that he spent the evening ferrying various people to the station, rumbling around in his 4 × 4, rattling all the windows of Stratford. Our children are of similar ages, which offers plenty of opportunity for non-cycling, no-pressure chats. It’s now become a golden rule between us that, when we find ourselves in each other’s company, however brief, we’ll steer clear of the shop talk. It’s nice, and a rare privilege, to get a window into the real Mark Cavendish.

  To be the best, Mark Cavendish has had to be brutal and hide his kinder nature with an emotional suit of armour. He dons this before going into battle each day. What we see then is a precocious, at times demanding, egotistical and hugely ambitious Mark Cavendish. When the time inevitably comes for all the battles to have been fought and, for the most part, won, it will be a pleasure to see this approachable, considerate, polite and kind man emerge from the tumult.

  Bradley Wiggins

  Tour de France compère: ‘And now ladies and gentlemen, a word from the 2012 Tour de France Champion.’

  Bradley Wiggins [tapping mike]: ‘Have you all got your raffle tickets ready?’

  Wiggins is a quick-change artist of the highest order. He’s regularly altered his body shape to accommodate the disciplines he has mastered. He’s an Olympic Champion track racer, an hour record holder, a Tour de France winner, a Monuments man, and a Time Trial World Champion.

  His assault on the hour record took place on 7 June 2015. Some 6,000 spectators are crammed into what was London’s Olympic Velodrome to experience a slice of cycling history as Bradley Wiggins limbers up in the track centre in preparation. Miguel Induráin, former record holder and Tour de France winner, is there as well as other sporting personalities you wouldn’t normally see at a cycling event, like Seb Coe and Martin Johnson, captain of England’s Rugby World Cup-winning team. I’m in the commentary box, working for Sky, who cheekily secured the broadcasting rights to the event. A series of build-up races have been keeping the public entertained and the clock ticks inexorably towards 6.30 p.m., the scheduled time for Bradley’s start. Dame Sarah Storey is track centre doing interviews and due to join me on comms. With four minutes to go, I’m cued in for an ad break before the start of this historic attempt. An official tells Brad, ‘Four minutes to go, Brad! OK?’ But this is Bradley Wiggins, remember? And he doesn’t always keep to the script. In the middle of the commercial break, which you can never cut away from, he decides that he’s ready right now, he’s reached the perfect place in his mind. He climbs on to his bike and, with no flowery build-up, nothing, bang! He’s off!

  The whole scenario was classic Bradley Wiggins: a highly driven, intensely focused maverick who does things the way he wants to do them and the rest of the world will just have to put up with that. The Sky on-site producer Doug Ferguson was in shock: ‘Carlton – bin the intro, we are cutting live straight to you!’ Off the break, the TV audience were met with a tumult in the velodrome: a Mexican wave of sound was following Brad around the track as I screamed: ‘Bradley Wiggins waits for no man! He’s already off!!!’ Minutes later, Dame Sarah crashed into her position breathless after her dash from the infield. Chaos, Wiggo style, like it or lump it.

  Bradley is an extraordinarily intense and quiet individual. He’s always seemed ill at ease with the press and often claims he has been misquoted. He also reacts strongly to any perceived criticism. While Cavendish often oozes confidence, Bradley sometimes shows fragility. Like many great riders he is full of contradictions: he has the ability to take immense pain and to mentally divorce himself from the punishing physical demands of professional cycling, yet he also seems vulnerable. To cope on a Grand Tour, Bradley set his horizon close. He took one day at a time, yet he’d harboured a dream of winning the Tour de France since he was a schoolboy. And he did it!

  Bradley can seem a bit rudderless and chaotic, but he responded brilliantly to the day-to-day plans of the Sky team strategists. And when he had this forensic guidance he was unstoppable.

  To fully understand Bradley and the apparent sadness you see in his eyes, I think we have from consider his upbringing and parentage. He was born in Ghent, Belgium, the heartland of European cycling where his father, an Australian named Gary Wiggins, was a star of the Six Day racing scene. Wiggins senior had fantastic physical abilities but became a heavy drinker and a drug user, often using amphetamines to get him through races. He was based in England for a while and paired up with pursuit World Champion Tony Doyle, with whom he had a fair bit of success. Tony has told me that Gary was regularly using amphetamines by this time, and these, unsurprisingly, had a terrible effect on his personality and character. One day he and Tony were in the centre of the track in their Six Day cabin when a soigneur brought them their breakfast: oatmeal for Tony and cornflakes for Gary. Gary put his spoon into the bowl of cornflakes, took a mouthful and immediately spat the whole lot out. He then kicked over the table, including Tony’s oatmeal, and screamed, ‘Kellogg’s! I said it had to be f--king Kellogg’s!’ He tore apart the booth, flinging bits of plywood all over the place and smashing anything he could find. All this because of the wrong brand of cornflakes.

  Tony said that Gary was continually getting into fights for the slightest thing, from a security guard pointing out he’d forgotten his track pass to punch-ups in the pub over an accidental bump of elbows. Tony was too useful to him on track, so he was never going to be a target. ‘And I was a big guy too,’ says Tony. ‘He didn’t dare touch me.’ Sadly for Gary, brawling was also the way he lost his life. He died of a head trauma after a fight at a party at Aberdeen in New South Wales. The investigation into his death never produced a conviction.

  So it was that Bradley had little contact with his father and was raised by his mum in a council flat in Kilburn. He clearly inherited some pretty good cycling genes from his dad and he says, even now, that he respects him hugely as a cyclist, if not as a parent.

  I’ve seen at first hand the warm, humble and shy side of Bradley. He will always do anything for the fans if not for the press. At the 2013 Giro, he was at the height of his fame, having won the Tour de France the year before. We were in Naples and I saw him get out of a taxi. He was walking over to say hello to me and Dan Lloyd when a huge bear of a man grabbed him and began hugging him, saying, ‘Photo, photo.’ There were minders all around trying to get the man to leave Brad alone, but the Tour de France star was compliant. Clearly it was the last thing he felt like doing, but he stood there while this guy started taking selfies with a queue of others forming behind him. Finally, the guy was happy, but before leaving the Tour de France winner in peace, he grabbed his shoulders and began planting huge, wet, sloppy kisses on each of his cheeks.

  Said the fan, ‘I respect you so much.’ Mwah, mwah, mwah. ‘So much respect!’

  ‘Save some for yourself,’ said Brad under his breath as he headed our way, wiping his cheeks.

  Me: ‘That fan seemed happy, Brad.’

  Brad: ‘It was like havin’ a randy dog on your leg, FFS.’

  Dan Lloyd [referring to Brad’s shape ahead of the race]: ‘You look good, Brad.’

  Brad: ‘You look like a f--king tourist.’

  Dan Lloyd later binned the pink Giro sunglasses of which he’d been, until that moment, so proud.

  With Dan wounded and me wary, we didn’t say much more as we walked over a footbridge to a press conference in a castle.

  I’ve walked alongside Bradley a few times like this, often in silence out of respect. But also because smal
l talk is useless. Brad doesn’t do small talk. And ‘asking the bleedin’ obvious’ is just not on. Not that there would be a strong reaction if you did; you’d more likely get one of his deadeye looks. Which can feel worse.

  Wiggins won the Tour in 2012, the first British man to do so, and he went on to win the gold medal in the Individual Time Trial at the London Olympics 12 days later. It was an amazing double and the very pinnacle of his career. His victory speech at the Tour was classic Brad. After opening with his jokey ‘raffle tickets’ line, he then spoke as a fan of the sport, talking about how much this meant to him and the unreality of it happening to a simple lad from a Kilburn housing estate. This humble man of the people went on to become a VIP, rubbing shoulders with celebrities and rock and roll greats. The contradictions were not lost on Bradley Wiggins himself. He said it was ‘an unreal time’.

  He was clearly struggling to come to terms with new goals and ambitions post-Tour. He’d made it clear that his triumph had been a one-off and that he had no intention of producing a series of similar victories, but it left him with a hole in his life. He certainly decided to give himself a pat on the back and embarked on a partying spree in the off season, including smoking the occasional cigarette, which made headlines. To me it seemed like a rebellion against all the rigours he had endured.

  Sure enough, after a few weeks of partying and not riding a bike, the weight began to pile on. Belatedly Brad went to the gym to get back into shape. Sadly, he emerged after the close season ‘gym fit’ and muscle-bound; not ‘cycling fit’ at all. He was well beyond even the Peter Sagan mould and simply too heavy to climb; a stark contrast to the previous season.

  He was lost without a goal and he needed guiding. The focus had altered at Sky, with Chris Froome now chosen to lead the team into the next Tour de France. Brad duly entered the Giro but was in poor shape. Then, on a horrible, wet, cold day, a fear appeared to descend over him. He looked scared by the horrendous conditions on one of the descents. Everyone was terrified, including me. There followed a series of aquaplane crashes. Bradley pulled over to the side of the road and got off his bike. Sky said that he’d had a respiratory infection, but my reading of it was that he was both off form and pissed off. His team had moved focus to Froome, he wasn’t race-winning fit and the weather was simply the last straw. I think he’d had enough.