Magic Spanner

by Carlton Kirby

  The Psychiatrist

  Chris Froome has a reputation for being, well, a bit bland. He is most certainly not. Behind the choirboy facade is a man very capable of saying boo to a goose – or indeed bollocks to a journalist, albeit in an oblique manner that you may not fully comprehend until long after you have left the scene. Hours later and well into a couple of pints of wine, journalists have been known to suddenly emerge from deep thought: ‘Hang on a mo!!! I think I’ve been insulted!’ Chris Froome is the thinking assassin’s assassin. Beware.

  Everyone should realise that Froome-Dog, as he is known, is not a pack animal. He hunts alone. He even hunts his friends. Richie Porte was a roommate and best friend of Froomie for years. Chris was helped to much glory by his Aussie pal. Then Richie departed for BMC for the chance to spread his own wings. When Richie was on the cusp of winning the Dauphiné of 2017, Froome-Dog went rabid on his mate’s ass. He organised a cross-team bully squad to attack his former teammate and later speared through a corner on a challenging descent in a move of such audacity that the commissaires initially thought they couldn’t sanction it because it was so brutally brilliant in terms of TV drama. Richie lost the race that he’d led by over a minute. So shaken was he by the move that a few weeks later, when the very same corner was repeated at the Tour de France, he was so busy guarding the ‘Froome line’ at the apex that he crashed out, breaking his pelvis. Had Froome ‘allowed’ Richie a clear run at the Dauphiné, many suspect that Porte could have been Tour Champion as well. Mates, eh!?

  So if Froome is like that with his pals, don’t expect it to be any different when he makes a move towards your microphone.

  My dad, Bill, wore the crossed-rifles badge during his tour of duty in the Korean War. He was a mortar bomber but, because of his remarkable marksmanship, was also a defensive sniper, protecting his unit from pesky enemy snipers. Once, over a few pints of bitter, my dad talked about breathing, thought control and the lowering of the heart rate before delivery. To kill, you must be calm. This is also the best tool in the psychiatrist’s locker: To open up the unwary, the good doctor needs to create an air of total and utter calm. The patient’s defences are thus reduced. He feels safe on the couch as the mind investigator begins his work.

  Here comes Dr Christopher Froome FRCPsych, who now addresses the patient. Sorry, journalist.

  Chris reveals a row of pearly baby teeth as he takes his seat. He begins the conversation with a Zen starter: ‘And how are you today?’

  Korean Radio reporter: ‘Oh, very well, thank you. Why are you so much better than anyone else in cycling?’

  Now this question comes from a country without a solid heritage in cycling. As a sport, road cycling in Korea sits some way below eSports arena computer gaming in terms of TV ratings. So the question is from a reporter who’s rather out of his depth but trying to be polite.

  Somebody at his journalism college must have told him to keep nodding and smiling. He looks like the waving, happy cat you see at the till in sushi bars, but it’s his head that’s moving at fixed tempo, not his arm. He looks happy enough, but he’s terrified.

  Dr Chris [looking deep into his soul, and smiling gently]: ‘It’s very kind of you to say, but I don’t really know where to begin on that one, so I’ll tell you about why I’m here today, shall I? Gooood.’

  Chris is now in total control. He goes on to talk through precisely what he wants to. He manages this in a flawlessly professional and considered way. I’ve seen well-informed old hacks tooled up with killer questions who simply melt under this onslaught of calm.

  Even in the dark days, when many in the press corps were convinced he had broken rules on the meds permitted for his asthma, this man remained a beacon of calm and decorum in hostile press conferences. Froome controls the flow. And makes you go with it too. Genius.

  The Best Mate

  The Eurosport anchor Jonathan Edwards is already smiling. He knows what’s next. G is dropping in. Happy days. Anchoring on live TV can be a juggling act. Some guests are difficult. Sometimes you have to work hard to open up an oyster. And then there is Geraint Thomas . . .

  Jonathan’s cheeks are now hurting, his smile muscles slowly setting to stone: ‘Welcome Geraint Thomas, who today has taken over the yellow jersey.’

  In slides our pal, still panting after a short jog from another broadcaster. Minders everywhere, but our star remains unflummoxed. While being miked up, he opens in trademark unabashed style:

  ‘Wow. Knackered. Really knackered. Sorry, tired. It’s been quite a day.’

  Jonathan: ‘Tell us about it.’

  G: ‘Well . . .’

  Aaaaaand he’s off!!!! Full gallop.

  Out pours a string of funny, well considered, never barbed, cleverly observed one-liners and vignettes of joyfulness. The guy’s a star and we all gaze on attentively – not with a sense of subservient reverence, but because we know he’ll have a story to tell that’s well worth a few minutes of our time. When G is on TV, the world melts away for the viewer. It’s just like listening to a tale from a mate down the pub. He can describe a stage of professional cycling in great detail yet with a simple sense of wonder and humour wrapped up with a healthy dose of self-deprecation. The audience is chomping at the bit. It’s like listening to your drinking pal who’s just shared a tube ride with Kate Moss. ‘Give us the detail!!!’ you beg. And he does. Top bloke.

  The Optimist

  For the uninitiated, you could come across Esteban Chaves for the first time and wonder if he was alright in the head. He never stops smiling! Now, I smile a lot. I’m amused by life. Chaves, however, is amused by life, strife and everything else. Whatever he’s having for breakfast, I want.

  Considering what Esteban has gone through in his career, it’s remarkable he’s been able to remain so chipper. A horror crash in 2013 at Trofeo Laigueglia left him with a fractured everything. Many thought he would never make it back to the top. Well, he did. And part of that remarkable recovery was his overwhelming sense of fun and wonder. It’s infectious.

  Unimaginative reporter: ‘How do you feel?’

  Esteban [with trademark grin]: ‘Yeah, it’s great! I’m good! Goood!’

  Reporter: ‘But you lost the stage. What about your rivals, Esteban, they really stuck it into you today?’

  Esteban looks down for a moment but never stops smiling. Softly he says: ‘Sure, it hurts to lose…’ Then bouncing back into the zone: ‘But hey! We are all friends, no?!’

  I love Esteban.

  The Enigma

  Nairo Quintana stunned everyone in 2014 with some gutsy, aggressive rides that brought him his first Grand Tour. Two years after the pink jersey at Giro d’Italia, he took the red one at La Vuelta. Since then, Nairo has kind of retreated from the battlefront. He has become an extremely cautious rider. Seemingly, he follows rather than leads attacks and the results on the big tours have dried up. It’s as if his ambitions are getting locked down. He’s much the same in interviews.

  The temptation for any interviewer must be to wave a hand in front of Quintana’s blankly staring face in a kind of hello?! moment, just to check for consciousness. And it’s not just with reporters. Apparently he is likewise disengaged even within his own team. In the past, he has been reminded by his manager that it might be a good idea to go back down the bus and thank his teammates who have just worked themselves ragged and delivered him to a stage win. It’s not something he is naturally given to doing. It’s not nastiness. He is just not a communicator. At all.

  Despite his career success and notoriety, Quintana is an easy man to walk by away from the race. He is remarkably anonymous. You just don’t notice him.

  Nairo is a bit of an enigma, wrapped up in a conundrum. He can’t be reached. You can try – and people do. But nobody has made contact. Not really.

  Juan Antonio Flecha, jolly as you like, lovely guy, former rider. A no-pressure interviewer because he doesn’t need to be. He gets a lot from riders, as he is well respected and super-well-in
formed: ‘Hey, Nairo, what a day with so many changes out there. What was the battle plan?’

  Nairo: ‘Er . . .’

  Flecha: ‘Was it to send satellite riders up the mountain to bridge to?’

  Nairo: ‘Yes. . . it was.’

  Flecha [smile fixing with anxiety]: ‘Well, it seemed to be going well until that penultimate test!?’

  Nairo: ‘We work hard.’

  Flecha [heading into begging mode]: ‘So where did it go wrong, Nairo?’

  Nairo: ‘My legs, not good.’

  Flecha [abandoning while filling in the gaps]: ‘Thank you, Nairo. Good luck for tomorrow. Let’s hope with two days of hard climbing to go, the strategy comes good for you guys. All the best.’

  Nairo: ‘Yes.’

  Nairo remains seated, staring into space, waiting for a crew member to collect him.

  The Joker

  Peter Sagan is a man who has defined an era. His freewheeling style is a joy to behold, except if he’s shoulder-charging you in a sprint. He is the definition of freestyle cycling. He rides like nobody else. When the fashion was for long lead-out trains, Sagan went the other way. With so many trains at the station, he simply hopped, hobo style, on to other people’s carriages. Long lines of riders, each in team order, would approach high-speed finales as well-drilled units. Meanwhile, Sagan merrily hopped from one to another, barging his way in. He got a free ride from the best. His teammates were used up far earlier in a stage. They set the approach pace with about 20km (12 miles) to go. One by one, they burned themselves out as other teams began to panic. Riders were strewn everywhere as teams tried to hold it together as a unit. Sagan stayed mostly solo and solid, part of a team but the ultimate individual. He would choose his time and charge on alone. Sagan might go early, might go late, but nobody knew when. That was for Sagan to decide. It’s brought him three World Championship titles and effectively killed off long lead outs. They’re much shorter these days. Two in front of the sprinter is now a maximum inside the flamme rouge. Sagan showed the way on this. Being flexible and wheel-hopping is difficult if you are working a line dance. Sagan might use one lead-out man before going it alone far earlier than most.

  Sagan is his own man. Which makes him a devil to deal with in an interview. He plays reporters like a kid boxer. He knows he can knock them out at any time. They can pretend to spar with him, but this just makes him laugh. Get serious, and he goes the other way. Get funny, and it’s over. He is a tough nut to crack.

  Ashley House, the Eurosport anchor who loves his cycling, and is an engaging, enthusiastic good guy: ‘Peter, great to see you out there and so dominant in the end!?’

  Sagan [voice like a hornet trapped in a jam jar]: ‘Well, you know how it is. Bah! Life . . . what can I say?’

  Ashley: ‘Well, talk us through those last 500 metres.’

  Sagan [smirking as if trying to hold in a giggle]: ‘Well, some go left, some go right. I go straight. I win. What can I say?’

  Ashley: ‘Well, hopefully a bit more! [Nervous chuckle.] You look solid in green, Peter. Is this your target now, to stay safe, or can we expect more from you over the next few difficult days?’

  Sagan [clearly impatient]: ‘Ah, we will see.’

  Ashley [with one last attempt]: ‘Tell us about those ski goggles you have around your neck? It’s 35 degrees!’

  Sagan, who is blatantly wearing a sponsor’s kit from another sport entirely: ‘I like them a lot. . . Bye!’

  And with that he’s gone stage right towards another poor soul who will try and dig deeper. No chance.

  The Zen Monk

  He’s called Cadel Evans but some of us wonder if his real name is Kunchen Evans – this being a Tibetan name that translates as ‘All-Knowing’. Cadel knows what he likes. And he doesn’t like talking much. This is not because he doesn’t want to engage, it is simply that his mind is so powerful it kind of gets in the way a bit. Cadel is a thinker extraordinaire. Ask him a question, and the silence will be broken only by a faint tinkling of bells coming from his ears as he goes deep to find meaning in the words you have uttered. He will answer, but this may take time. Many things must be considered before Kunchen speaks.

  It’s 1998 and Cadel Evans is doing great things as a youngster at the Tour VTT Mountain Bike Tour de France. I am the reporter. A bit of polite banter before we even begin: ‘Hi, Cadel, how are you today?’ Silence.

  Uh oh, he’s off already. Cadel begins to stare. He looks past my left ear into the distance. I’ve lost him; Cadel has gone deep. The question bounces around his massive brain like a bee in the dome of St Paul’s Cathedral. After a while, his lips begin to move well before any sound comes out. His voice, when it does come, is like a children’s entertainer very slowly explaining how the universe was formed. It’s as if he’s seeking the answer himself while responding. He repeats the question back at me: ‘How . . . am I . . . today?’ and then silence again. But at least the eyes are back in the house. His body is still, but his brain remains busy; just coming down off overload. He’s still thinking to himself: Wow, today . . . how are things? As opposed to yesterday? Or what they may be tomorrow? Hmmm, this is a toughie.

  Me: ‘Cadel? You ok?’

  Cadel [very slowly]: ‘Sure. Er, things are good. . . Really good. . . Thanks . . . for asking.’

  And so begins a series of questions that take for ever to get a response. When each answer does come, despite great thought and contemplation, they are short and un-complex.

  So a sequence of inviting questions from me come back with: ‘Good.’ ‘Fine, yeah.’ ‘Tough, yes.’ It’s as if he thinks I would be entirely incapable of coping with the real answer he has been contemplating during the long pauses. These far deeper answers have now been locked away in a cerebral golden casket to be retrieved later. Much later, when the Sun implodes. It’s not good TV.

  Of course, Cadel’s legs responded far faster than his tongue. Lucky for him. Not for me. Cadel went on to become a Tour de France winner and World Champion. I watched him thrive with great fondness. He was and indeed remains among my favourite riders of all time.

  His interview skills did get better. A little.

  But I still hear bells when I think of him.

  ‘He’s a bit of a Swiss army knife rider – he can do anything.’

  25

  The Party’s Over

  29 July 2018

  I stand at the end of the Champs Elysées after the awards ceremony and idly kick a bit of yellow confetti off my shoe. It’s another British winner of the Tour de France, the sixth one in eight years. Incredible to think that before 2012 no Brit had ever won.

  I feel a sense of great pride – and relief. This, mixed with a combination of a mild patriotic tingling and extreme exhaustion, makes me well up with emotion. I’m given to that even on air, as you know. But I don’t have to choke it back this time and my eyes duly fill up with tears. I blink them away and turn towards the Place de la Concorde, not far from the finish. I take a left up to Place de la Madeleine. This square is off-course and the taxi rank near the boutique for Maille mustard is usually accommodating. Apologising softly, in that very English way, I bump past revelling spectators in the street. My job on this Tour is done.

  It’ll be a quiet night on my own. I’m too spent to join the rest of the TV crowd for the wrap party. I just want to be somewhere really quiet and not speak another word. I feel like the time triallist who gives his absolute all, right up until the finish line, whereupon he collapses into an exhausted heap. I’ve given it everything too, and now it’s all over I can barely mutter a word.

  For those who have been locked in a production truck, this is party time! For me, I’ve been the party host on every single stage. I have been ‘up and on it’ for three weeks. Most of my colleagues have been quiet and focused for the same period. So the graphics guys, editors, producers, directors, play-in staff, and so on now have a chance to let their hair down. I have very little hair. And what I have left will not be going anywhere ne
ar a nightclub.

  I always take a quiet modest hotel next to the Gare du Nord, where I go deep into monk mode, as I call it. I buy a Chinese takeaway – as un-French a meal as possible. After 21 stages, I’ve usually had my fill of the local stuff. Maybe I’ll have a beer, but Belgian or German only.

  I hole up in my room. No company, no TV, no bright light. Quiet.

  I just sit there on my own, eating as slowly as I can – unlike the refuelling feeding style I’ve endured for too long at work. As I dine, I reflect on the past three weeks of excitement, fun, boredom, exhaustion, good and bad meals, nights in stuffy rooms, nights in luxurious rooms, thousands of kilometres of tarmac covered in a hire car, the camaraderie and enmity of colleagues, the incredible feats of heroism and brilliance from the riders and, of course, the thought that another British rider has added to the chagrin of the keepers of cycling’s Holy Grail – the French, Belgians, Italians and Spaniards. I smile. I am at peace. I am alone.

  Tomorrow I have a first-class ticket on an old-fashioned train with super-comfy seats that will whisk me to Rue station near the Picardy coast. My lovely wife, Steph, and our adorable kids, Margot and Teddy, will meet me there and whisk me off to paradise: Les Tourelles is a chateau hotel full of old-world charm right on the beach at Le Crotoy, a humble fishing village at the mouth of the Somme estuary. It has a harbour dotted with a few modest restaurants and a tidal beach with sand as soft as milled white pepper. Room 14 overlooks the sea, facing south-west. I can sit by the open French windows and the little balconette to breathe in the fresh air and drink in the beautiful view, along with a glass of Jupiler draft beer from the lovely bar downstairs. Here I can come down as easy as a seagull gliding off a cliff. Silence. Well, for about half an hour. ‘Come on, Dad!’ Forget cycling. It’s now time to wrestle. I’ve missed my gang!