Magic Spanner

by Carlton Kirby

  In the old days, they’d hand out almost anything. Unlike today, riders did not enjoy the same levels of support in terms of being fed and watered. Indeed, it was a frequent sight to witness riders stopping to take a dash into a café or bar and just grab the first thing they could find. On a fateful day in 1967, one of Tom Simpson’s fellow riders did just that. Time being precious, he laid the bike down and ran into a small tavern, simply grabbing the closest bottle to hand. This turned out to be cognac. Despite this, it was handed around the leading riders, who were simply grateful to dampen tongues that were as dry as stone. Later that day poor Tom died of a cardiac arrest on the slopes of Ventoux. The autopsy found traces of amphetamines in his system and, of course, alcohol. The press thus proceeded to mark the man in two ways as a result. It’s true that dehydration on a punishingly hot day coupled with amphetamines proved to be a lethal combination, but Tom Simpson was no alcoholic; he was simply a man at the very limit of his resources, who had nothing else to quench the kind of raging thirst that thankfully few of us will ever be forced to experience.

  Dinner time

  Apart from the delights of calling the world’s most dramatic and beautiful sport, the thing that preoccupies commentators most is food. OK . . . and drink. Both types of sustenance vie for position at the top of the priority list – and, to be fair, the first drink of the night is considered a marker for how the rest of the evening is going to progress. Get this bit right, and the remaining downtime off the microphone is likely to be just dandy.

  For wine, France is king. Sorry, Italy, you have some spectaculars but vini francesi are i migliori. But the boot is most definitely on the other foot in the kitchen. Sorry, France, you can keep your Michelin stars and your fancy sauces because when it comes to top nosh, Italy has it. By far.

  There was a time when teams wouldn’t even bring a chef and catering along to races in Italy. So renowned and predictably excellent is the food in this cradle of culinary civilisation that teams knew they could get fed extremely well either at a roadside café or at a modest hotel. This was all in the days before everyone got a bit weird about nutrition.

  Then: An unshaven bloke wearing a string vest calls out through a doorway swinging with wooden beads that mark a vague boundary to his guesthouse kitchen: ‘Pasta Arrabiata or risotto? Red or white wine? Help yourself to bread.’

  Now: Bloke wearing a shirt with the team logo and a badge marked Doctor before his name: ‘Right, here’s an antihistamine. Wash it down with this electrolyte pulp. No dinner for you this evening. We have to shift those 600 grams or the numbers won’t work on Wednesday…’

  As for those of us who push buttons and pens and not pedals, the search for sustenance varies in length according to requirements. In Sean Kelly you find a man extraordinarily content with pizza. In fact, even in France it is his preferred choice. Most nights, annoyingly. Every night, if he could get away with it. I’m sure he went looking for pizza when he raced in South Africa.

  Me: ‘What is it with pizza all the bleedin’ time?’

  Sean: ‘It covers most food groups all in one go. You have your vegetables, carbohydrates, protein, and even fruit if you go for Hawaiian. Job done.’

  There are nights we eat apart.

  I follow the advice of a football commentator friend, Jurriaan van Wessem, the son of the head of the Netherlands National Academy of Arts and a man who went AWOL after being sent to study History of Art in Italy. He never returned. Juri says that one should always head for the railway station. Unlike the UK, where an absolute arse called Dr Beeching ripped up the system, Italy kept all its lines, both national and local. So just about everywhere has a station. As trains came before cars, there was usually a hotel of some note nearby to accommodate late arrivals before their journey continued the following day. These places still exist, albeit rather crumbling. Walk in past the exterior flaking paint and signage with letters missing, and you will find a crisply clean place of faded grandeur, at peace with itself. They also usually offer a no-choice menu of spectacular value. As cheap as the chips they don’t sell. I walked into one such place on the Tirreno Adriatico, in Civitanova. There was just one man running the place. It was a Sunday night and it was packed. He showed me to a table and without a word put a half-litre carafe of red in front of me along with a dish of spicy olives for me to pick at. What followed were four courses of the most welcome food you can imagine. A hearty chickpea broth. Spaghetti Vongole: white clams, butter, black pepper and some herbs – magical. A fine slice of grilled pork with diced garlic potatoes. Sorbet and a Limoncello. The bill was €15. I nearly wept.

  Sometimes I do have pizza with Sean. They are, of course, excellent in Italy.

  ‘Shaken, but how stirred he is, is anybody’s guess.’

  14

  Having Fun – The Secret to Cycling Commentary

  I learned a lot from David Duffield – undoubtedly, one of the finest cycling commentators.

  Duffers, as he was known to his friends, came into cycling via the bike trade. Here was the man, unsung, who helped to bring the Raleigh Chopper into our world. He had to fight for it too. The bosses were into ‘proper bikes’, but David was convinced the ‘American cruiser’ had a place in Europe. It was a huge success. Then came BMX. David couldn’t believe how much fun these were, and again he had to fight to get what looked like ‘little bikes for big kids’ off the ground. On both counts he was a genius who took a modest salary yet made millions for the companies he worked for, including Raleigh, Halfords, Falcon, Claud Butler, Pashley and Muddyfox among others. When Alex Moulton, who’d developed the ingenious suspension system that enabled the Austin Mini to succeed, decided to have a go at bicycles, it was David Duffield who got the call to help develop the market for his revolutionary small-wheel commuter. Everybody knew the man and knew he was the touchstone for anything cutting edge in the business.

  Such out-of-the-box thinking might be part of the reason he became the established ‘alternative’ voice of cycling. The hugely popular Phil Liggett was at ITV and had wrapped up the Tour de France gig and more for the millennia. Four-time Individual Pursuit World Champion Hugh Porter was at the BBC, meaning the Olympics, Commonwealth Games and most other major events were spoken for too. That left David Duffield with the remnants. ‘The crumbs on the plate – but tasty crumbs’, as he put it. He was, as he said himself, The Third Man; he used to sing out the tune from the classic film for comedic effect on entering the office – followed, for some reason, by ‘Morning, campers!’

  Duffers was from Wolverhampton, the heartland of manufacturing. The other two Midland Mafia boys had wrapped up the cycling gigs on television, so David was left with the rest of the duties on offer. This usually involved tribune work; calling races home for the benefit of the crowd in market squares or city parks. He was the live voice on-site. So while Liggett and Porter were embedded inside their cosy studios with lip mikes and headphones, David was under a brolly on the public address system, geeing up a crowd of damp fans at, say, the Lincoln Grand Prix. If you attended a UK cycling event from the 1970s onwards, then you knew David’s voice.

  This was a man who stood tall in so many ways – almost 2m (6ft 6in) in his stockinged feet, with a fingertip-to-fingertip span bigger than his height. He would extend his canoe-paddle hands on thin wrists in every direction and the returned handshakes were warm and frequent. You couldn’t go to a bike show and walk three paces with him before someone would shout: ‘Duffers!!!’ And another long chat would ensue with either a fan or one of the many thousands of folk he was connected to in the business. He was a genuine gent with a big heart and a bigger sense of mischief. I loved him.

  So how did he move into the cosy studio of Eurosport? Well, back in 1989 when the channel started, it was, frankly, regarded as a little lowbrow by the other two busy boys on terrestrial TV. They passed David’s name to a desperate producer in Paris who needed someone to call home the Milan–San Remo on the new channel. David jumped at the chance and neve
r let go of the position. He grew with Eurosport and became the most prolific commentator of his generation. Sure, he was ‘only’ on satellite TV, but he didn’t care because the races were plentiful. He was a boy in a toyshop and the door was now locked behind him on this gig.

  Without the strictures of ITV or the BBC, Duffers developed his own style. In the absence of any production guidance, or even a co-commentator, and with hours and hours of long stage races to fill, he relied on his experience on the PA in Preston and beyond – and that stood him in good stead. Being able to regale the audience with his musings and his tales both big and small from the cycling world, he was a wonder to behold. That, coupled with a rapacious appetite for good food and, ahem, the products of the grape and hop, meant that he could fill dead air like no other. And he took this all very seriously.

  In the early days of our pairings, he said to me with a wink and a tap on the side of the nose: ‘Tomorrow we are in the Algarve, so tonight we are going to sample a bit of it!’ We were to voice the race from a studio just outside London, but that night David and I went to a Portuguese restaurant called O Galo Negro. It was in Lewisham, I believe. Anyway, we had Portuguese wine and spiced chicken, all written down in his notebook with the correct pronunciations. He then informed the owner that he would be mentioning his place on television the following day and would he like to seal the deal with one of his finest port wines? This was a given. David enquired after the owner’s original place of birth and other bits and bobs. The next day, before we went on air, David said: ‘We won’t be saying we are actually in Portugal, but we won’t be saying we are not there either. We will, however, be helping the audience to believe we are there. Leave it to me.’

  I did my welcome and teed the race up. David then had his moment: ‘Thanks, Carlton. Well, I’d just like to take a moment to thank our friend Jose Balan from Tavira, whose Frango Temporado is the talk of the town; it’s spicy chicken and was all washed down with a spectacular Galitos Red – lots of blackcurrants and liquorice notes. . .’ And on he went. There was nothing happening in the race because the breakaway had gone early, we had three hours to kill and David’s trip had not only covered 20 minutes of quiet time but had also framed the day and made the audience assume we were in Portugal, adding credibility to the rest of the week’s broadcast. Genius.

  Sadly, David is no longer with us. I presented a eulogy at a celebration of his life in the spring of 2016. The mood was naturally sombre as I began with: ‘David told me a few secret truths about cycling. Many of which I can’t pass on. But one thing I can share is this: He once told me that Lucozade Sport, in a see-through bottle, is exactly the same colour as Scotch and Ginger!’ The place erupted.

  Having fun is what life is all about. And David knew that. He showed me that being on the telly as a commentator is not about fitting in, it’s about being yourself. Anyone can impersonate a commentator, but being a unique one is the goal. ‘Be yourself,’ he told me, ‘and if they like you, then you will fly. Never forget that nobody else will ever be as good at being you as you are.’ So I duly made a pact with David, who I’m sure still hangs around, to simply be myself. So far, it has stood me in good stead.

  15

  Relations Most Public

  My dad, Bill, was a mortar bomber in the Korean War. His role was to protect infantry on the front line just 200m (656ft) up ahead. This made Billy-lad, as he’s known, a prime target. Dad doesn’t like to talk about it too much, but he has said that the order ‘Fix bayonets!!!’, as they were about to be overrun, still wakes him up at night.

  ‘In any battle, things can get a bit messy. What matters is how you cope…’

  Things indeed got a bit messy for Team Sky not that long ago. They coped . . . rather well.

  The bloodhounds of journalism have the word investigative as part of their job title. This is a role that can be useful to society, changing lives for the good. It is also an excuse for being a royal arse. The trouble with journalists – and as a commentator I am one myself – is that they need a story. They don’t do this just for fun. They need to meet deadlines and they need to feed their kids . . . or pet crocodiles. Controversy is pure currency to the investigative journalist, and so a sniff of blood is likely to get these guys attacking in packs.

  As a result, it’s hard to get anything out of well-drilled teams like Sky or Team Ineos, as they are now. Their view of all journalists seems to be that you can’t offer a nibble to a hungry beast without the possibility of losing an arm. So the shop is closed.

  But if Sky operates in lockdown, it’s because they would rather let their racing do the talking. And sometimes the racing does an awful lot of talking indeed. I’m not just referring to winning Grand Tours. No. Watch them. Always. They are soooo clever.

  Give them an inch and they will take 49.71 miles – or 80km. They proved this during the 101st Giro d’Italia in 2018. Froome’s masterful domination when he launched his solo attack with this distance remaining on Stage 19 up to Bardonecchia was something to behold. The Sky machine working beautifully to put the hurt on the entire field and tee up Froome’s spectacular launch. This was strategy planned and delivered – but earlier in the season, away from the eyes of many fans and at a much lesser event, Sky’s relentless planning and workings were, for me, no less impressive.

  In December 2017 the journalists at the French newspaper Le Monde scented blood and for the following six months Sky were on high alert, aware that the pack was ready to pounce.

  According to tests carried out at La Vuelta in 2017, race winner Chris Froome had elevated levels of the permitted but restricted anti-asthma drug Salbutamol in his system. The case caused uproar, not least because Froome was adamant that he had done nothing wrong and would race on during an appeals process.

  Sky backed their man, but as the furore grew with each passing month on the way to the Grand Tour season, the pressure to withdraw from racing must have been close to unbearable.

  The noise of protest and disdain grew louder after Froome won the Giro d’Italia, becoming the simultaneous holder of all three Grand Tours. On the approach to the Tour de France, former winner Bernard Hinault called for riders to strike if Froome were to take the start. The furore forced the race organisers, the Amaury Sport Organisation (ASO), to issue a statement saying Froome would not be allowed to register to race. The following day, just five days before the start of the Tour de France, both the World Anti-Doping Agency (WADA) and cycling’s world governing body the UCI announced that Froome had no case to answer. The test readings were deemed explainable and valid so the four-time Tour de France winner would race after all. Froome did not win the 105th edition of the Tour de France, but he helped teammate Geraint Thomas to the prize and secured a podium for himself. On the face of it, this was an amazing result for a rider competing against the fatigue of the three Grand Tour wins and the sheer pressure of the public antagonism whipped up by the Salbutamol enquiry. Of course he was attempting to win a fourth Grand Tour in a row, but his still very impressive third place and the win for his friend Geraint Thomas must have felt like a very special achievement all the same.

  It had been a long process to establish Froome’s innocence. Many of us in the media got bruised along the way for refusing to condemn him before the appeal had been completed. The PR and strategy departments for Team Sky must have emerged from the bunker on that sunny Monday with battle scars aplenty but medals on their chests. This had been a long campaign and they achieved some remarkable things – but I had witnessed their effectiveness a little earlier, on a cold mid-February day in Andalucia in 2018.

  The Tour of Andalucia may not be at the top of the list of great events even for dedicated cycling fans. But for Sky, the race was a vital element in the process of bringing Chris Froome back into competitive racing after two months of press speculation and vitriol, and at the same time reintroducing the public to a man who, let’s remind ourselves, was racing under appeal. How would the crowd react? With cups of urine throw
n in the rider’s direction – as was the case at the Tour de France in the past? Well, just to make sure any piss-toleroes were dealt with effectively, Sky arrived with the only bodyguard in the race. He was at Froome’s side whenever he was off the bike.

  Despite this, the fans in this racing-mad region of Europe were accepting and intrigued rather than hostile. There was conversation not condemnation in the cafés.

  We commentators were fascinated to see how this would pan out. The primary question in our minds was: Would Team Sky allow Froome to win? Surely he needed to build bridges while racing back to Grand Tour form, so to come out winning would likely make life even harder ahead of the Giro. He would be active, we reckoned, but off the radar. We were absolutely right.

  Early season races are notoriously difficult affairs to gauge form. Nobody wants to hit their best too early. As a result, you often get great riders at races such as Andalucia who wish to simply find out where they are on their own performance curve. Winning is not necessarily a priority. Froome had been training at altitude in South Africa and so nobody knew quite what to expect. The start list was ‘very provisional’ right up to its declaration the night before. Nairo Quintana pulled out on the eve of the race.