‘Pwah! What was that?’
‘Rabbit,’ he would say with a stony face but twinkling eyes. I realised something was afoot and so eventually I only pretended to nod off. Sure enough, after about five minutes, he hit the brakes. I opened my eyes and stared at him.
‘Are you bored, Sean? Shall I drive?’
‘Game’s up . . . your turn.’
Needless to say, I didn’t continue the game of ‘Make the idiot bob his head’. No, this was not for me. I was about to have far more fun . . . with the police.
After about an hour of my shift at the wheel, on a journey estimated to take five to six hours, I spotted a snaking line of single headlamps in the rear view mirror. Result! This was the police motorcade. And they were not hanging around.
The Tour de France has a special place in the national psyche. It is regarded as a gift to the world. The French invest in other sporting events such as the 24 hours of Le Mans and horse racing’s Prix de l’Arc de Triomphe, but this is the big one. And all police assistance for the race comes from the State free of charge. This includes a dedicated corps of motorcycle cops. Apparently this is a truly elite unit; the best Motorcycle Traffic Police from all over France. Securing the route and ensuring the smooth passage of the race, they seem to be everywhere during a day’s stage. And they are capable of making progress extremely quickly on board their Bleu de France BMWs.
Back to my game. Now, the thing about speed cameras is that they flash, and at night you can see their activity triggered from some distance. The ideal gap between yourself and your stool pigeon, who will take the camera ‘hit’ for you, is around 1km (½ mile). That way, if someone in front of you causes the cameras to activate, you have enough time to slow down and avoid a fine. If those in front of you happen to be a line of elite police bikers, with a mission to eat as many kilometres in as short a time as possible, then you can regard this as a gift. Game on!
The police don’t pay speeding fines when on duty. So there I was with a by now snoring Kelly snuggled on a fully reclined passenger seat while I followed the red tail lights of my friends in blue. Maybe 20 of them.
Naturally, when I first saw the motorcade in my mirrors I slowed to the speed limit. They shot by, the lead biker hanging a leg in thanks. He had clocked the official Tour race numbers on our car, I presume. Once they had sped by at an alarming rate, it took me about 15 minutes to build my speed back up and close in to the hanging distance of 1km. I was tense but happy, gripping the steering wheel so tight I was pulling myself forward off my seat back. It got so fast I was conscious of not blinking much. My eyes may have been stinging but my mouth bore a smile.
It was surreal. Deep into the French countryside, the darkness becomes total. Streetlights and illuminated signs disappear, leaving the headlamps of your own vehicle as the only guide. Unless, of course, you are tailing a force of moto-gods.
A tunnel of light thrown forwards from my own car gave way to darkness and what looked like red fireflies up ahead of me. I could see their tail lamps dancing and shifting inside a glow bubble from their headlamps. It was so dark they looked like they were hanging in space.
Sure enough, every now and then there would be a flash from a roadside speed camera. I would slow down to pass by at the limit before powering back up to catch them. As the police never eased off, it would take me quite a while to get back on their tail. And so it went on with top speeds reaching an eye-watering number that French law forbids me from repeating. Let’s just say it was very, very fast.
‘Wake up, Sean, we’re here!’
‘No feckin’ way!!!’
We were about an hour and a half early. Kelly’s kip was over, but he was happy. We’d beaten the Germans to the hotel.
‘when you're hanging on by the skin of your teeth . . . keep your mouth shut.’
Sooner or later, over the course of the spring and summer, we’re going to get ourselves into one or two scrapes – brushes with the law and the inevitable speeding fines. These usually turn up a couple of months after the event, and there’s the tricky question to be answered of who was at the wheel at the time. And, because the ticket has usually got to us so late, having bounced around Eurosport International offices in Paris via a hire company, there is often very little time to resolve the issue before the fine is doubled because of late payment. Thus hasty negotiations begin at Eurosport UK as to who will take the hit. Everyone knows there’s no point in phoning up Sean Kelly, who will simply refuse to pay any speeding fines. I see his point. We are expected to be on time all the time for the 25 working days of a Grand Tour. Occasionally this requires a modest manipulation of the rules of the road. With so many thousands of miles covered, there is bound to be a moment when the flash goes off and a fine is issued. Sean regards this as a corporate responsibility, not a personal one. If pushed, Sean simply threatens to refuse to drive next time. As a fine is far cheaper than paying for a Tour driver, the argument simply draws to the same conclusion each year: the company pays.
Regardless of who’s driving, we have a rule that they are in charge of the stereo. The only radio station Kelly will listen to is Radio Monte Carlo for the daily sport news report. ‘Music? I find it very distracting,’ he says. ‘It’s a waste of energy listening to a load of bollocks.’ So it’s silence when he’s at the wheel, or RMC 94.2. Dan Lloyd, on the other hand, is a complete music monkey. It’s all the latest rap and dance music, and he has the infuriating habit of switching from one track to another halfway through so you never get to hear a complete song. To be honest, I hate most of the music that Dan plays apart from maybe a bit of alt-J or, rather bizarrely for him, his guilty pleasure: Richard Hawley. Whenever the rap attack gets too much, I just ask for a bit of Richard Hawley to replace whatever garbage I have been subjected to. The only thing in my opinion missing from most rap music is the letter C.
‘It’s thick rain. By that I mean sleet.’
Coming off Ventoux one year, Sean passed the honour of driving on to me. ‘You need the experience,’ he said. ‘You need to know what it’s like getting through these crazy crowds. Here’s the keys.’ And he chucked them at me.
On Alpe d’Huez, not only is there the issue of getting through the spectators at the end of a stage, there are also a lot of riders who regard it very much as their territory, and any vehicle, even if it’s a TV vehicle that’s broadcasting pictures of them all year, can be treated with disdain. They’ll knock the hell out of your car with cleated shoes and full bidons. It’s incredible that any hire company allows their cars to be used for the Tour because they’re guaranteed to be covered in dents and scratches by the end of it.
On this occasion we got stuck behind the publicity caravan and a giant can of Nestlé iced tea trying to get round a narrow corner. As the official evacuation backed up, one of the roadside Winnebagos decided it was time to try and join the line of priority vehicles who get to leave the crowded mountain first under escort.
The guy pushing into the line of Tour cars was not driving any old pumped-up camper van. This was the sort of vehicle that is regarded in camper circles as the Starship Enterprise. Galactic in scale, it would’ve dwarfed a mere tour truck twice over. It carried four motorcycles on the back and even had a garage for a small car. I speculated that the roof might have a helipad.
It clearly belonged to someone important and had been stationed halfway down the mountain as a relay for someone prepared to ride down to it from the top. Immediately we thought it had to be Oleg Tinkov’s private mobile hotel/entertainment centre. Despite the rule that no unbadged vehicles are allowed to enter the official evacuation line, this behemoth clearly believed it was beyond this ruling. But we saw no reason to treat it differently to any regular camper. So began the battle of wills between me in our black Skoda Estate and the driver of the gold monster.
Sean, with that familiar glint in his eye, was egging me on: ‘You’re not going to allow that, are you?’
Mr Tour Truck was convinced I would yield. But I
was determined not to let Sean down. I was also driving a hire car that was already up to the limit of damage liability. There must have been €300 of scratches and dents on it already!
The last straw was when Mr Tour Truck let go all his airbrakes and lunged forward. It was a big move – but he didn’t follow through. He immediately slammed the brakes back on, sending the truck’s nose into a bobbing frenzy as the air suspension tried to cope with the now halting mass. This kangaroo manoeuvre raised the stakes. I went all in. The scratching sound still echoes in my mind.
So close were we to the truck that our wing mirror was now squashed flush with our bodywork. As I hit the accelerator it dragged itself along the side of his cab, fashioning a neat fold in the golden metal that ran about a metre in length and probably dented to a depth of 2cm. This was proper damage.
Mr Tour Truck now took a mental trip to the dark side and, for the only time I can remember, Sean looked worried. ‘Oh dear, he does not look happy at all!’
The still heavy traffic meant that we had been able to move only around 30m (100ft) down the road. We watched the driver climb down from his cab. A huge gorilla of a man, he inspected the damage and duly began leaping up and down like a cartoon troll. As you’d expect, the road was rammed with security, and several officers were busy restraining our friend from paying us a visit. It wasn’t long before we got the dreaded tap on the window.
The Tour Police are renowned for their no-nonsense behaviour towards anyone, particularly wayward media folk. We were in big trouble. There was a real possibility we would now lose our accreditation badges – a royal pain in the arse. If they had reached in and ripped them from the quick-release clips around our necks, we would have had to fly hastily home to continue the commentary from London off tube. Luckily, Sean’s reputation goes before him. Seeing Sean, the sergeant gave us a simple Gallic wag of the finger and a fierce ‘Non!’ We felt like naughty school kids and responded with a whimpering ‘Excusons-nous, monsieur’. We moved off slowly, leaving our still gesticulating friend and his newly resculpted multi-million-pound machine to the cops and an inevitably costly high-end respray.
‘Jungels there, tongue out like a spaniel on a motorway.’
Sean’s driving may have its disadvantages, but I’m happy on the whole to pass on the responsibility to him. He has his ways and for the most part he is good company in a sort of peaceful partner kind of way. We are like an old married couple. There is not much action but a good deal of respect and warmth. There are some oddities, though: one is that Sean is convinced that it’s possible to get a suntan through a car’s glass windows. He regularly displays his silverback credentials by stripping off while driving to achieve the desired bronzage. So far, his pale Irish complexion is a testament to him being completely wrong. I can also confirm that Sean has a great deal of hair, and not just on top of his head. When that shirt comes off it’s like there are two of him: the inner man and the satellite miasma of deep fuzz that surrounds him. Maybe I’m wrong and it’s that silvery outer shield, not the glass, preventing the tan.
Catso!
I love Italy. Out of all the countries we visit, its mountains, coastline, olive groves and vineyards, not to mention its depth of history, never cease to amaze me. It’s incredible that every part of the Tuscan landscape has been shaped by civilisation over thousands of years. There is no part of it that does not show the touch of human hands, yet it retains a majestic, almost supernatural beauty. So, a stunning, gorgeous country. Unfortunately, it’s blighted by some of the most terrifying and dangerous drivers in the world.
The closest I came to death on its roads was when I was covering the Giro with Dan Lloyd. He was driving and had entered into one of those silly lane wars with another car where two carriageways narrow down to one.
The other car was a brand-new, blacked-out Porsche Cayenne Turbo. It was getting closer and closer and closer, and the guy was clearly getting angry as both he and Dan refused to give the other any space.
‘Knock it off, Dan,’ I said. ‘He doesn’t drive that thing round here from selling olive oil. The guy’s f--king dangerous, can you just let him go?’
Dan thought about it, thought about it again, then said, ‘No. I’m not having it.’ A gap opened up and he shot into it before the Porsche could react. I looked behind and saw the driver reaching across to pick something up. It was probably just his mobile, but I was imagining something far more sinister. We were in deepest Sicily, and in that part of the world there are different rules for the sort of people who can afford to drive a Porsche Cayenne. And those rules are usually written by them. The traffic suddenly cleared and Dan floored it, Mr Corleone chasing after us in close pursuit.
However much damage this chap was about to inflict on us, either physical or mechanical, the chances were that, despite our car’s Giro d’Italia livery, he’d get away with it. We screamed down the road, our Skoda Estate giving everything it had to save our lives, bless it.
Now, I cover motorsport as well as cycling. I have been driven by the greats of endurance racing and rallying. Most people, including Dan Lloyd, mistakenly imagine that they are close to elite level drivers. They are not. But what followed were some of the most skilful pieces of defensive driving I’ve ever seen.
Weaving through the heavy traffic, we entered a roundabout at full speed. Dan flicked the indicator and headed for a ramped exit that went down to the motorway. We must have been travelling at over 100km/h (60mph) with our friend almost glued to our bumper. Then, at the very last moment, Dan pulled hard on the steering wheel, careering us away from the exit, our squealing and plumes of smoke rolling away in the breeze. Our pursuer reacted too late and found himself halfway down the ramp with a queue of cars now behind him. He was unable to back up. He leapt out of the car to hurl abuse at us. More than this, I swear to this day he was waving a handgun at us. No shots were fired, but the message was clear. This was very scary.
That night we were out of Sicily, many miles away from our road rage incident, but we still parked the car in a hidden corner at the back of the hotel. Just in case.
Getting your Ashfelt
If the driving in Italy is frightening, the roads themselves don’t always fare any better. There’s a lot of corruption, and contractors often cut corners to siphon off funding. The road may look okay as soon as it’s finished, but in certain areas, usually in the south, those who have ‘won’ the contract have failed to lay down deep enough foundations. Any road is only as good as its underbelly. It might look fine on top, but the main cost of constructing a highway lies underground. Once the mayor has had his picture taken and cut the ribbon, the sorry story of corruption is often just beginning. The road can quickly degrade and even become downright dangerous.
Dan Lloyd and I often pass by sorry, mouldering towers of an uncompleted viaduct long past its completion date, clearly standing as a monument to corruption and ineptitude. There are regular road slips where a mountain route has simply fallen away. Some landslips are more serious than others, so Dan and I have a debate when we come across yet another Road Closed sign. Do we take a significant detour and add more time to our journey or simply go for it? We usually give it a go. The wisdom of this is highly questionable, but both Dan and I like a bet and sometimes we agree it’s worth a punt.
On one occasion we came around a mountain hairpin to find a huge scoop missing from the road. It looked as if a giant had taken a snack on the tarmac. The other half of the road was intact. ‘What do you think?’ asked Dan. ‘Er . . .’ Going through my mind was the alternative of a 40km (25-mile) loop around the hill we were attempting to cross. This fact far outweighed any sense of danger on what looked like a perfectly serviceable half of road. ‘Go for it, but don’t hang around,’ I said. We backed up about 20m (65ft) and lit up the wheels. We shot over without a problem, save for a muffled rumble behind. Our route immediately looped around to the other side of the ravine, so we were able to look back across to where we had just passed. ‘F--k!!!�
�� said Dan in a higher pitch than normal. It was a bloody miracle we’d got over. Earth and rubble was still falling from under what was now the wafer-thin strip of tarmac that remained. It looked like a magic carpet slightly buckling at the edge and hanging in the air. We were clearly the last beings who would make it over. Even a pedestrian would have brought what remained crashing down some 80m (260ft) to the valley floor. We didn’t say much more to each other that night.
But the most spectacular decision to plough on regardless happened outside Naples, where our satnav had a nervous breakdown. Dan was delighted that our escape from a bowl-like finish zone had beaten the suckers queuing to escape on the official evacuation. While they grumbled in traffic, we were flying up a reasonably good-looking road that no one else seemed to know about. Merrily we pushed on as Dan mentioned how weird it was that this road was not on the satnav. We soon found out why.
The sight that greeted us was truly weird: what can only be described as a rucked-up tarmac carpet. The road had literally slipped back down the mountain and piled up in a multitude of folds at the foot. We stared at it a while and figured that if we pushed on over the mound we could then crest the peak and see what lay ahead. It might get better on the other side.
Bouncing our poor Fiat 500L over the messy bit, we pushed on over the rough foundations until we reached the top, where we were pleased to find a road surface heading down the other side that appeared good. On we went.
The Italian government is said to spend precisely the same amount of money per capita on infrastructure in all its regions. The way this money is spent, or goes missing, varies dramatically throughout the nation. The Italian Tyrol in the north is like visiting Germany; everything is clean and works perfectly. Trains, trams, roads, bridges, lighting, you name it – are all impressive. Then you begin heading south – and the further you go, the worse it gets.
Magic Spanner Page 14
