Magic Spanner

by Carlton Kirby

  Henry Ford once said: ‘Whether you think you can, or whether you think you can’t . . . you’re right.’

  So, believe.

  ‘Just dream big,’ G said after his Tour de France win. ‘Go for it. There’s nothing holding you back. You can have ups and downs, but if you believe in something, keep the faith, keep fighting. And don’t let people put you down.’

  I’ll drink to that!

  Simon Yates

  Interviewer: ‘Tell me about your plans today.’

  Simon Yates: ‘I’ll get on the bike and try and win. What do you want me to say?’

  Ever had the feeling you’ve seen somebody before? Simon is half of the Yates phenomenon. Like his near-identical twin brother, Adam, he speaks as fast as his legs go round. And that … is about all we know. ‘I’m not one of your cycling mega stars, OK? I just ride my bike.’ Reluctant he may be, but he is a cycling mega star, having won La Vuelta in 2018.

  When the Yates twins opted to sign with Orica–GreenEDGE (now Mitchelton–Scott) rather than Sky back in 2014, manager Dave Brailsford knew at the time that he’d missed a trick. Simon was already a World Champion gold medal winner on the track, who’d roomed with Chris Froome at the Commonwealth Games at the tender age of 18, while his brother, Adam, was making a name for himself both at home and on the continent as a road racer. Four years later, Sir Dave, the architect of Britain’s cycling success on the track and road, was probably really annoyed he’d failed to add yet another winning rider to his roster. He made the mistake of making an offer just for Simon. Fed up with being separated, Adam and Simon decided to sign up for the Australian team instead, because its offer was for both riders and not just one.

  Adam and Simon’s decision to move to the smaller, less well-paid team from the southern hemisphere has been a good one for the boys from Bury. Team boss Matt White has nurtured and groomed them for great things. If they’d gone to Sky, they could have ended up as another pair of super-domestiques in the mould of Peter Kennaugh, Luke Rowe or Ben Swift. Geraint Thomas spent 10 years riding alongside Froome – two seasons at Barloworld and eight at Sky – before he was truly let off the leash in a Grand Tour race that involved them both. Even then, it came down to circumstance at the 2018 Tour rather than design on the part of his team. It was only when Froome’s amazing run of consecutive Grand Tour wins finally crept up on him and his form suffered that Thomas was allowed to fly. Two unclipped pairs of wings were handed to the Yates brothers at Mitchelton–Scott. They flew.

  Simon and Adam began their bike racing careers as kids when their father introduced them to the track at Manchester velodrome. They trained on the moors outside their home in Bury, each brother pushing the other on with a similar sibling rivalry to that displayed by the Brownlee brothers in triathlon – sibling rivalry is a powerful thing. Being one and two in the pecking order is nice for the family. But nicest of all is being Number One at the dinner table.

  The Yates brothers’ talent was spotted early, but it was only Simon who secured an Olympic Academy draft. Adam went off to France to work his way through the junior team system on the continent while Simon had a more structured beginning in the academy. Both developed well, emerging from their differing approaches to the pro ranks with parallel success at the Tour de France in the white jersey competition. In 2016 Adam was first to win the Young Rider Classification, finishing a remarkable fourth in the full overall ranking. The following year Simon also took the white jersey and finished seventh in the general classification. So the race was on for them to take a full Grand Tour title. Nobody could figure out who would cross that line first. It was a tight call, but in 2018 attention focused on Simon. He went very close at the Giro d’Italia, leading the race before he went too deep and faltered. He finally made it home with victory at the Vuelta a España where, appropriately, brother Adam was his main domestique.

  For Simon, success began on the track, but it wasn’t long before he was making a name for himself on the road as well. With his diminutive build, he was a born climber, but that heritage of track cycling reveals an inner strength and power that means he can sprint and time trial too, as proven in the 2019 Paris–Nice. Placing himself in the teens on stage races, he was getting Top 10 finishes very soon, including a seventh place overall at the 2017 Tour de France, cementing his place as team leader and GC contender. And then came 2018.

  Given his achievements, it’s remarkable that he wasn’t a massive superstar with his face plastered all over billboards up and down the country. You know: ‘Simon Yates likes Tunnock’s Caramel, the biscuit of Champions’ – that sort of thing.

  2018 was an astonishing year for Simon Yates. First up was the Giro, where he displayed the full range of aggressive fighting chutzpah that had the cycling cognoscenti, if not the British public, dropping their jaws at the sheer impudence of this kid. Smashing heavyweights up the Dolomites and the Alps, he was in pink, and winning stages with verve, strength and racing acumen, steadily building up a healthy lead with bonus seconds whenever he could get them. And then he blew up. While Chris Froome was putting in the ride of his life on the Finestre, the ride of a century even, Simon lost almost 39 minutes and the lead that fateful afternoon. Exhausted, spent and used up, he could barely finish the stage and was nursed to the finish line by his teammates.

  Fast-forward four months and Yates arrived at the Vuelta a more mature rider. Still aggressive, yes, but having learned his lesson in the Italian spring, he knew now to race within himself, pace himself and play the long game. Added to his individual success was the remarkable fact that his eventual victory in Spain meant that, for the first time ever, all the holders of the three Grand Tours for that year were different riders of the same nationality. A magnificent roster of Brits, with Simon Yates’ Vuelta win completing the feat.

  How extraordinary, then, that he has gone largely unnoticed by the British general public. This may well be because the nation has simply grown tired of cycling after all the dark and murky stories surrounding the sport. Or it may have been general ‘sports fatigue’, what with the Winter Olympics demanding attention in the early months and the FIFA World Cup making a nuisance of itself mid-season. Who knows? But the nation’s lack of attention may well have had something to do with the personality of Simon Yates himself.

  Public relations work is not Simon’s forte. Like many a GC rider, he is supremely focused on his racing. He seems to see his role as winning bike races – and nothing else. His clipped responses to media questions and the general public don’t help the overwhelming impression that he really can’t be bothered with the whole PR circus. His lack of engagement means there is not yet an affectionate public nickname attached to this cycling superstar – Froome-Dog, Wiggo, Cav and G all trip off the tongue.

  Whether Simon Yates likes it or not, it’s headlines on the sports pages and internet that help to generate the funding of his sport and indeed the very team that pays his wages. Now he’s got a Grand Tour under his belt, let’s hope that he opens up a bit and shows a more human side. At only 26 years old, he’s going to be on podiums at the biggest bike races in the world for some time yet. Hopefully he’ll be willing to share a bit more of himself along the way.

  6

  Kelly’s Smalls

  10.15 a.m. I am at the edge of the TV compound where I wait in line for a bag check. Sean Kelly offers up his tatty SPORT bag and is immediately waved through inspection. This bag is the sort of carrier that any normal kid would be bullied about at school: tatty, faded, red and ripped. Its holes are ‘good ventilation for me wet stuff’. Kelly does not waste money on bags, or indeed a laundry service. He does his own each night. I am highly familiar with Kelly’s smalls. Security know about them, too – which I’m convinced is why they wave him through. Nobody wants to rummage through that lot. A more likely reason for Kelly’s wave-by is that he is The King and he would not be expected to cause any trouble. I, however, am of far lesser renown. Usually for me it’s a rather cursory inspection. Noth
ing serious save for the regular, ‘What is this?’

  ‘It’s a stapler,’ I say.

  I have to show them. It’s my own fault. I bought a stapler that looks a bit like a gun, especially to scanners. I should get another, but it’s very efficient and I’ve had it ages. A bit like Kelly’s bag. ‘Ah, un agrafeur!’ Oui, indeedy. Thankfully, after about a week of seeing me looking forlorn as Kelly waltzes through, they give me one of the prized possessions of any tour: the Trusted Bag tag to bypass this search. But before I am elevated to this status I have a couple of days of bag rummaging, and sometimes the testicle scan too. I’m referring to the handheld detector unit seen at airports. They say this is for the belt buckle area, but I think otherwise. To be honest, if I were doing this for a job I’d scan some privates and give ’em a nudge too, just for a laugh. TV compound Gate Security is a boring job, so you have to mix it up a bit.

  Slightly less comfortable, I head inside the high-fenced compound. Here you are a little freer than the general public, who are denied entry. You still have the men with radios in their ears, the most inanimate of whom are the VIP heavies. These guys become visibly heavier, as in more threatening, on elevated security VVIP days, such as a presidential visit.

  ‘I quite like the German kit as well, but don’t tell my Grandad.’

  7

  Cigarettes and Coffee

  10.30 a.m. I am looking for our commentary position. Kelly has wandered off, looking for the Eurosport light production area, where the crew gather and keep their gear, snacks and so on. It’s an informal rest zone with plastic chairs where you can also watch the output on a tabletop TV. This is always something of an artistic creation, thrown together in urgency so the coffee machine can be fired up ASAP. For our mostly French production staff, an espresso and a cigarette is a morning essential – or, as they call it, breakfast. Everything else is simply chucked about. Cameras and newspapers mix with half-eaten baguettes, drying T-shirts, edit cases, Greg LeMond’s mobile air-con unit, biscuits, sun cream and the usual camping ephemera. It’s not pretty, but Kelly finds it comfy and settles in with a copy of L’Équipe.

  It’s all very different for Eurosport’s regular neighbours inside the compound: the American NBC Sport team. Everyone knows the massive vehicles belong to them, not just because of the huge lettering on the sides of these behemoths but also because they have been corralled, in the style of a John Wayne western, into their own metal village.

  Security often guide broadcasters sharing the same language on to pitches next to each other. I guess this is so that, should they have to shout: ‘Get your head down!’ in the English-speaking area, everyone would understand and act immediately. Except, that is, for Jens Voigt, who works for NBC; they’re rather fond of him and his motto: ‘Shut up legs!’ The Jensie would, after such an order, naturally drift into the pedantry of an accomplished German student of English: ‘Excuse me, but if you mean hide or get on the floor, would it not be better to say so precisely? I mean “Get your head down” can mean to have a sleep, can it not? This is just my suggestion.’ The Jensie speaks great English, which is why NBC employ him, but he can get rather literal.

  The Americans, of course, take everything very seriously indeed. They don’t have their own security and, frankly, they don’t need it because they operate in a massive metal prison. It’s like their own sanitised village. It’s got everything in there. The French admire this: ‘Their coffee machines are permanent. Wow!’ They also have showers, wardrobe, make-up, lounges, catering, production and edit suites. All highly ordered and out of bounds. You can often catch a glimpse of legendary commentator Phil Liggett in the sunshine on the top floor of one of their three-storey pantechnicons having a fruit smoothie before make-up. Paul Sherwen, his former colleague and one-time pro, used to toss down peanut M&Ms as if feeding chimps. ‘There you go, peasants!’ he’d shout down, followed by his trademark yak-yak-yak guffaw. And we were grateful; just one more reason why he’ll be so missed. Paul provided a glorious dose of irreverence in a world of egos. No matter what your rank, you were treated the same. Everyone was a target for his mischief but universally took no offence. The only other contact between NBC and Eurosport France comes in the form of complaints about drifting cigarette smoke. This is a regular thing. The way the Americans engage electric fans and shutters against a mere whiff of Eurosport’s tobacco smoke, you’d think it was a gas attack. I’ve never seen men in pressed chinos and polo shirts get so agitated.

  Bomb Squad

  Meanwhile, as Kelly reads L’Équipe amid the mayhem of Eurosport International, I am at the finish line installing myself for the day ahead. I have passed the final checkpoint, which is a visual once-over made by the bearded and well-hewn chief engineer, Matthieu. I can now go about my business – except, of course, in the eventuality of une operation exceptionelle being declared. In other words: dogs!

  Bomb dogs have great fun. Their life is a game of hide-and-seek. They are the jolly end of the police dog division. Their unit naturally includes guard dogs and attack dogs, usually in the shape of Dobermanns or German shepherds. Bomb dogs, on the other hand, are almost exclusively spaniels. They don’t look very policey. They also smell very doggy in a glandular sort of way, and, due to the fact that they know there is a treat coming very soon, they get very excited. And when they get excited it gets even more pheromonal. You see, even if they do not find a rogue device they will get a biscuit. They love their job. I always wonder if these reward biscuits smell like Semtex. It would make sense. Anyway, as the game goes on, the spaniel is encouraged to go just about everywhere. The sniffing-out job is given to this particular breed because it has an enormous capacity to smell. Its nasal passages are cavernous. Sadly, such a sniffing void has a good deal of snot up there too. Scent glands need moisture to work properly, and sometimes this is shared with everyone who happens to be in the proximity of a series of blowouts that balance the sniffing. It’s rank. Of course, all this can be going on while we are on air. Bomb dogs’ operations are random.

  Keeping tabs on a race can be something of a challenge at the best of times, but a panting dog with both his front and back end happy glands in meltdown can be a distraction. Add to the mix the presence of commentator staples like sandwiches and bars of chocolate, and you have trouble. Sean Kelly has lost the occasional sandwich mixte to these hounds while our German colleagues in the booth opposite once looked through the partition glass holding a newly shortened knackwurst and displaying a forlorn expression that asked ‘Was ist das?’ Worst of all, though, is the fact that a happy dog in hunting mode can get very waggy. You can bet that during a commentary if you hear the conversation go something like: ‘. . . and hEEEre we go jUUUst approaching the tUUUUUUrn for the col . . .’, you can be sure there is a sniffer dog’s tail doing battle with a broadcaster’s testicles.

  ‘For those of you listening on Twitter, this is a cycle race.’

  8

  Carjack

  10.45 a.m. We have been cleared as a zone of safety. Kelly has arrived and is asking what the smell is. ‘Spaniels,’ I explain. Then just as he is setting up, his phone goes. It’s security. The conversation at his end goes like this: ‘Hello. . . Yes. Yes, it is. . . Ooooh, right. . . Right ho! Yep. . . Right ho. Sorry. Yep. Oooookay.’

  ‘Everything OK, Sean?’ I venture.

  ‘I’ve got to shift the car.’

  Then a drawn-out ‘F--k sake!’ for good measure.

  Every authorised car has a banner sticker on the front and back screens, which features a unique number. These stickers are naturally highly prized and impossible to rip off; although plenty have been shredded as fans try to pull a fast one, with the idea of pinching a sticker and getting closer to the action than they’re allowed. Cars are badged so that if the vehicle is in a place that it should not be, a warning can be issued. Should this warning go unheeded, the car will be banned for all or part of the race. So all warnings regarding parking are to be heeded immediately. Sean disappears.


  More Security than Spectators

  Let’s briefly move from the overzealous security to overkill, shall we? Keeping any Grand Tour secure is a tough challenge. The nature of racing on open roads, covering vast distances each day, means it is perhaps the most vulnerable form of sport there is. It is simply impossible to police an active event that on some days spans more than 200km (125 miles). The modern world is a dangerous place and so every effort is made to keep the most vulnerable parts of a race on open roads secure.

  There are three types of area requiring stringent security measures: the start, the finish and any pinch points where the race will slow and crowds will naturally gather – usually big mountain tests and populous towns and villages.

  So security tends to be selective or, rather, concentrated in the potential danger zones.

  The only exception to this I have come across was the Tour of Beijing – remarkable in the depth and breadth of its security operation, but also dead because of it.

  The race had clearly been kept secret from the population to avoid what worried the organisers most: crowds.

  For mile after mile, all you witnessed was a highly policed urban desert. The riders were the omega men, apparently the last on the planet, save for a very lucky few. Hardly anyone actually saw the race on site . . . eerie!

  Even the police at the roadside didn’t see what passed by; they were duty-bound to actively observe an alleyway, for example, to which they had been posted. This meant they stood with their backs to the road where the action was. Thousands of them, it seems, all spaced out at various ‘danger’ points with their backs to the race, guarding every side road, junction and pedestrian crossing you can imagine. They were like statues bolt upright with their overlarge breadboard hats sloping at an hors catégorie angle extending down past the top of their shoulders.