Magic Spanner

by Carlton Kirby

  So when I see some idiot setting off a distress flare next to the peloton, I go nuts. I think they should be banned and I say so on a regular basis on air. To what effect? Well, thankfully, at the 105th Tour de France, someone took note. I’m not saying I have the ear of Christian Prudhomme, the Race Director, but he was once a Eurosport employee and I know he listens in. Anyway, a ban on flares would have required a change in the law in France. Instead, with just under a week left of the 2018 race, a request was issued to the local police along the remainder of the route, and this was accepted by the local prefectures.

  Basically, in France if a police officer believes you to be a public nuisance – for example, playing music too loud, partying too late, etc – he can issue a desist order. If you ignore this, you can be arrested. The deployment of flares was added to the local lists of antisocial behaviour for the duration of the remaining race route. It was a clever way to deal with a situation that was getting out of hand; this had been a particularly smoky race.

  Absolutely no more smoke was seen during the final six days on the Tour. I declared it ‘the end of the moronathon’. I like to think I did my bit.

  It remains to be seen if other races will adopt the same attitude towards flares – or, indeed, if the sport will insist on race organisers banning them. It may happen, but visit any number of cycling web pages and you’ll see many pictures including flare smoke. It’s fair to say that smoke billowing around a mountaintop does produce some fantastically dramatic pictures. The internet and the media is full of this stuff – and it makes great copy. On TV it begs a ‘super-slo-mo’ call from the director, particularly at the Giro d’Italia. But it is bonkers.

  ‘On paper Dumoulin should win. But paper is highly flammable.’

  Mankini Man Comes Up Trumps!

  Every dog has his day, and for one mankini-clad peloton hound this day duly came: he landed the biggest, juiciest bone you can imagine.

  On the Giro was a fan running alongside the riders in his underpants when one of the Nippo–Vini Fantini team punctured just next to where this guy was taking a breather from his near-naked exertions. The rider leapt off his dayglo yellow bike and turned to his team car for a replacement. The mechanic duly arrived and got a spare bike off the roof of the support car. Meanwhile, the very helpful Mankini Man held the original punctured bike at the side of the road; he didn’t want to lay down such a beautiful and expensive bike on the ground. The rider was now on his spare bike, got the shove off from the mechanic and duly headed up the mountain, closely followed by the team car. But they’d forgotten about the first bike, held by Mankini Man! Our friend cried out and started trying to chase after them, waving and shouting, wheeling along this extraordinarily expensive, state-of-the-art, fully carbon racing machine. Dan Lloyd and myself were royally amused at the sight of it, battling our chuckles to carry on calling the race. But the story didn’t end there.

  At the end of the day, the mechanic counted up the bikes and realised that he’d left one behind. The pictures were all over the evening news. But the bike was nowhere to be found. The next day Nippo–Vini Fantini, who were being described as fools by all the reports, opted for the nuclear option. They made a formal complaint to the police. This didn’t go down well.

  To be fair, Nippo–Vini Fantini died as a team shortly after, so it was not as if they were awash with cash. A bike of this kind, depending on spec, can be around the €12,000 mark. That’s a lot of money. Nonetheless, the general feeling among the public was that the scenario was a bit like catching a ball at a baseball game: the prize should stay with the catcher. A magistrate agreed and the edict was made that the fan had not stolen the bike but had indeed been gifted the prize – which he had, after all, tried to return. Result!

  It warmed the heart: Mankini Man rode home a winner.

  Skippy the Bushwhackeroo

  ‘Ohhhhh shit. It’s Skippy. Let’s get outta here!’

  There are many obstacles to the smooth passing of a day. Some you can’t avoid – like traffic jams or security checks. Others you can avoid with skill and good planning. But the biggest, and just about avoidable, barrier to a happy day is a bloke called Skippy. He’s probably already borrowed this book off someone. Hi, Skippy!!

  Skippy McCarthy has what I assume is a foxhole somewhere in Vienna, Austria. He’s rumoured to have a place in Oz too, though many say he’s actually a Brit. But Skippy is the ultimate cyclo-groupie, spending as little as possible in order to maximise his time following the Tour. Thus he has a tendency to try to get whatever he can from anyone connected with cycling. Clothes, food, accommodation, transport – anything. Light a barbecue, and you’ll have a guest.

  He often asks teams: ‘Just a bidon, mate. . . Can I grab a shower? . . . Any ripped kit? . . . I’ve got a puncture. Help us out, mate.’

  ‘Did I mention Kangaroo Reserve Preserve? We’re selling jam to help orphan joeys! Ooh, is that egg going to waste?’

  Skippy can be a real nuisance and on a long hot Tour, most of which he rides, he does get a bit whiffy. So why don’t we just tell him to piss off? Well, firstly, he’s a big bloke. Skinny but big.

  At the Tirreno Adriatico in 2014 I heard, ‘Caaaaaaarlton… Over here, mate!!! Caaaaaaarlton!’

  It was the first time I’d been tagged. I turned to walk over as Dan Lloyd walked on. I was a lamb to the slaughter. Thankfully I’m more mutton-like and not so tender.

  ‘Hello. What’s up?’

  Skippy held out his hand. Before I could think, I responded politely and was shaking it. Big mistake! My hand was now firmly clamped in his big paw. I was trapped.

  Skippy: ‘All’s good, mate! Where ya stayin’?’

  ‘With Dan Lloyd.’ I turned and pointed with my spare hand. Dan was leaning against a wall with one shoulder at an angle, arms folded. He was about 80m (260ft) away. He looked at me over his sunglasses, which sat halfway down his nose, like a teacher staring down a naughty kid. He shook his head very slowly to deliver the warning. He then pushed his specs back into place and looked away in a Get on with it kind of way. Get on with telling Skippy to piss off. I got the message.

  ‘Gotta go. Sorry!’ Using my other hand, I pushed against his forearm and pulled my hand clear.

  Skippy wasn’t happy: ‘Look, I’m here for the Keep the Koala campaign, mate. Where are you staying? I need to talk to you about the campaign.’

  I’m already off at a brisk pace, like an Olympic walker.

  Skippy loses it: ‘WHERE YA F--KIN’ STAYIN’, EURO-F--KIN’-SPORT . . . WHERE ARE YA? . . . THINK OF THE KOALAS!!!’

  To his credit, Skippy fundraises for a myriad of causes. For a couple of seasons he was a mobile billboard for Kids With Cancer Foundation Australia. Lately he’s switched to the Stop Killing Cyclists ‘safe passing distance’ initiative. He carries card-backed posters of these worthy campaigns and has thus managed to get himself photographed with an arm around the shoulders of the likes of Alberto Contador.

  ‘Hi, mate, riding for Kids With Cancer. Can I borrow your room for a mo? Just a shower, mate. It’s for the kids, after all. Eh, mate?’

  This is the kind of line you fall for just once. On his first Tour, a kindly David Harmon handed Skippy his room key. About two hours later and after much knocking, David had to get the hotel staff to let him in. There he found Skippy fast asleep in bed, with all his washing hanging wet around the room.

  Harmon: ‘Skippy, you’re in my bed!’

  Skippy, stirring: ‘No worries, mate, we can split it. You take the mattress and I’ll use the base.’

  Harmon: ‘Er . . .’

  Skippy: ‘Hey, it’s for Kids With Cancer, mate!’

  An uncomfortable night ensued. Next morning, Skippy is in the shower calling out: ‘Where are we staying tonight, David?’

  Harmon: ‘I’ll just check. Give me a mo…’

  A hasty escape plan saw Kelly and Harmon slipping away quietly as Skippy towelled down. He probably heard the tyres screeching away through the open w
indow.

  But the boys were not quite in the clear.

  After the day’s broadcast, they headed towards the open highway. As they reached the tollbooths, there was Skippy, waiting on the other side of the barriers . . . for them!

  Kelly was driving. ‘Ohhhh shite, he’s seen us!!!’

  Screaming ‘Eurosport . . . Heeeey, Euuuuuuro-f--kin-spoooooort!!!’, Skippy was heading their way, dodging the cars being released from the tollbooths. Still behind the barrier, Kelly took the ticket in a panic and hit the accelerator. One of Skippy’s paws slammed on the roof.

  ‘Give us a f--kin’ lift, you bastards! Don’t you care about KIDS WITH CANCER??!!!’ he screamed at the departing Skoda Estate.

  They were gone. And a lesson was learned by David.

  ‘Never speak to that eejit again. Understand?’ said Kelly.

  David just nodded in shock. He’d been Skippied.

  ‘He flies up hills exactly as bricks don’t.’

  11

  Protesters

  If you’re into the Rolling Stones, you’ll know that, for Jumpin’ Jack Flash, life is a gas, gas, gas. But if you’re into rolling hay bales on to the Tour de France route, then be prepared for the flash of stun grenades and plenty of gas, gas, gas as well. This is the latest round of the French way of dealing with disputes. Protest first as a starting point . . . then talk. It’s sort of the opposite to the British way. In France they get the percussive bit over with early on, then pick up the pieces. I was told by a colleague that this method defines the ground rules early on and can end with a glass of wine and a handshake – albeit between bandaged hands. The Brits go the other way with disputes: all nicey, nicey at first. Slowly things smoulder. A few scuffles, then arbitration. Nobody knows what the baseline standpoint is until the very last. Drags on for ages, everyone miffed.

  I do see the point in the French revolutionary way. After all, it served them well in the past. But sadly it’s a method that doesn’t mix with cycling. If a local disgruntled workforce decides to get the bale rolling, so to speak, it can prove disastrous. This happened on Stage 16 of the 2018 Tour de France.

  The run to Bagnères-de-Luchon was 218km (135 miles) long and was meant to be tough. It came after the second rest day and involved five climbs, getting progressively harder. There were two Category 1s at the end and a downhill run to the line. It was a day made for a breakaway. The teams knew this and so it took a lot of time before the group established itself up the road. Finally, after an hour of many attempted formations, 41 riders pulled clear of the main challengers for the title and headed up the road. This group was an impressive fighting force and was destined to contain the stage winner. The challengers would have their own battle behind this gang of breakers. And so it was that after a very feisty start to the day we thought we’d settled into a calm period. Oh no.

  En route a very cleverly planned ambush was being implemented. A tower of round hay bales had been stacked close to the race route. On top of these were the protesters, disguised as happy race fans. They were dancing and shouting as one might expect. Advance security had indeed been fooled and so much of the police force guarding the route had passed by, along with the advanced organisation vehicles. Then, just as the riders were approaching, the protesters went into action. Tractors moved in and the bales were pushed into the road. Police arrived just ahead of the riders and officers were seen putting themselves in front of charging machines carrying bale spikes that threatened life and limb. Tear gas was deployed.

  The day was a still one. It felt pre-stormy. This was bad news for the riders who, of course, came to a halt. As the protesters wrestled with the now significant police presence, the billowing gas duly wafted gently over the riders. They stood astride their bikes with tears running down their cheeks. The race was, of course, neutralised. Medical teams ran out of eyewash; riders complained of breathing troubles. For 30 minutes we waited until everyone was well enough to go on.

  Usually in such circumstances, there is a kind of accord called by the race organisation. Protesters threatening to block the road are asked to stand at one side and display their banners spelling out their grievances. These are then shown on television – and everyone is happy. This time, there was absolutely no accord. The protesters were castigated and even arrested. Their message went undelivered.

  The riders responded passively. Probably, I suppose you could say, because they had been gassed. More likely, it is the understanding that the race security is much more effective these days and it’s best to leave this to the professionals. This wasn’t always the case.

  In the 1984 edition of the Paris–Nice, Bernard Hinault had made a spectacular attack off the Col de l’Espigoulier. He and about 20 riders had broken clear of Hinault’s main rival, Robert Millar, who began the day as leader. All was going well for the French star until some protesting shipyard workers decided to block the road ahead. They stood there in donkey jackets, black wool with a plastic panel over the shoulders offering modest protection against the steady drizzle. There was a high quota of berets, moustaches and Gauloises on display. It looked very French. It was also a bit half-arsed in terms of organisation. They shuffled into position looking almost embarrassed as they mumbled their protest chants into the mist of a cold wet mid-March afternoon. Well, things were about to heat up.

  Down the road the protesters saw Hinault. This was their moment. The chants grew louder and more committed. Sadly for them, so was Hinault. Fully. Instead of slowing down, Hinault accelerated. He was livid. These protesters could cost him the lead! Faster and faster, Hinault drove his bike on towards the human barricade. The protesters held their ground, but the chanting stopped. Insults flew towards Hinault, then silence – just for a split second, you understand, as everyone standing in the road realised there was about to be an accident. Hinault smashed into the group, sending the workers scattering. Game over? Oh no! Hinault was already off his bike, sending his swinging fists into moustachioed faces. They couldn’t believe it. Stunned, the workers took the blows from this madman. Who was mad as hell. Before the men with broken cigarettes between their bloody lips could return the blows, the organisers pulled The Badger off his quarry. Hinault had just written another page of his impressive history. The Badger is a notoriously grumpy animal. Magnificent.

  So listen! If you want to continue enjoying your cycling live at a roadside near you, there are a few things we need to get sorted. Keep your protests off the road. Don’t bring flares. Don’t drape flags over your heroes, shouting ‘Olé’: it can tangle with a bike’s mechanics and cause a crash. Don’t splash riders with water: it can hamper vision. Don’t ‘help’ by pushing them uphill: it breaks a climber’s rhythm. Don’t bare your arse. And don’t wear outfits that can trip you up and bring down a rider.

  One of the greatest characteristics of cycling is that anyone can just turn up at the side of the road and enjoy it for free. If this is to continue, we need mutual respect between spectators and riders. If you are one of the roadside fools, then be certain I will be calling you out for it. You might of course think this a bonus if notoriety is all you are after.

  To the real fans, I say that when your heroes pass by, do please feel entirely free to go suitably nuts in all the excitement. I certainly do.

  ‘The pendulum has swung, as they say in commentating. To be fair, clockmakers use the term as well.’

  12

  Slow Day

  Padding and filler. Generally used to enhance something for reasons of aesthetics or necessity. But let’s consider the period during many a transition or sprint stage that needs a bit of help from a commentator to keep things interesting. It’s time to ponder . . . nothing . . . and work out how to bridge it.

  It’s 11.10 a.m. and Tour de France supremo Christian Prudhomme has just popped his head out of his sunroof to prove that no matter how much money you have, hair transplants remain a game played by those with less self-confidence. So, like HRH Prince William, a man truly at peace with his f
allow areas, Christian emerges from the, usually red, Race Director’s car and flaps his outstretched arms like an albatross – slowly. This brings everyone to order. Before we go racing, all those wearing the various classification leaders’ jerseys have posed at the front for the cameras. Their toil will usually come much further down the road. So, with TV photo ops done, the bigger names drift away as the band of hopeful escapee brothers prepare themselves to do the job for which, at breakfast, they have been chosen by their Directeur Sportif:

  ‘Get your skinny arse into the break and show off the team jersey which you are being paid to wear. See Gianni Savio for your wages.’

  And they’re off! Sometimes the break goes clear immediately. Meanwhile, everyone else does the decent thing and promptly takes a comfort break. This is going to be a long day.

  Oh dear.

  The Easiest Job in the World?

  What now? As a commentator, it is my job to pass comment. Let’s hope there’s something to say because this fairly nondescript day will end in around five hours with a sprint. Sure, it will be remembered for the drama of the approach. The break will get caught at around 18km (11 miles) to go and a frantic finale will make the highlights show. So . . . what to do for the remaining four and a half hours?