How I Won the Yellow Jumper

by Ned Boulting

  The shock. The denials. The protestations. Then the support of colleagues and rivals. The sniping from the sidelines of former riders. The accusations of cover-ups. The elimination. The suspension. The comeback.

  The rewriting of the history books, and the tearing up of the future. The incomprehension, disgust and anger of the public. The whole emptiness of it all.

  I thought of Contador. And immediately I was at a loss. It is not just the fact that I do not speak Spanish, and that he is too unsure of his English to risk answering me in anything other than his native tongue, but I have simply never been able to gain an access point into Contador. His character, both as a rider and a man, seems to repel interest. He holds at bay the curiosity which he attracts. Like two negatively charged magnets, the rider and his public skirt around one another, holding their distance.

  I thought of the day in Luchon when I had asked him if he was proud of his tactics. It was the day he had attacked Andy Schleck when his young rival’s chain had come adrift. I pictured his passive face, and big round brown eyes no more than a foot from mine, as he strained to hear my words above the cacophony of the finish-line announcer. He had an interpreter alongside him to translate into Spanish any question he didn’t understand. This one he got immediately, and launched into his mealy mouthed half-truth of an explanation before the translation had even begun.

  I let the Spanish wash over me, and watched him instead blandly justifying his actions. He looked unruffled. Later, when shown a full transcription of his words, I was struck by their lack of expression. Contador, the accountant. That’s what his name means in Spanish.

  Bertie, we nicknamed him, lending him a geniality he scarcely merits. In some ways he is a champion for our age: professional, conservative, but there it ends. He had survived the storm called Operación Puerto, the drugs scandal that implicated a sizeable number of athletes in Spain. Although his name had been linked to the inquiry nothing stuck. But now, finally, he had a positive to explain away.

  He should have been great. He should have been the greatest. And he should have been worshipped as such.

  A Dutch train sounded its mournful and slightly underwhelming horn. The double-decker inter-city to Schiphol airport slid into view outside my window, the passengers on the top level passing by at head height to me. A man wearing a silver suit glanced across from his paper and caught my eye as I looked up from my computer. We exchanged a small smile, at the strangeness of the encounter.

  As his train gathered speed and pulled away, I looked back at the TV.

  Cancellara had pulled clear on the final split times. Millar was now just 5km out, but he was now riding flat out for second place. The rest of the contenders were nowhere. I watched for a while, as the laptop fizzed with theories and counter-theories about Contador. Like a thunderhead on a summer day, the hot air was getting funnelled into a monster storm cloud. The cataclysms, the nightmare scenarios, the endgames for the sport were being touted all across the Internet: Contador – The Winner of the 2010 Tour de France?

  On the final time trial of the Tour, Contador had been pushed surprisingly hard over the first half of the course by Andy Schleck. Indeed, for a period of ten minutes or so, the split times suggested that the entire Tour was in the balance. The virtual yellow jersey swung between them, a second either way. Then, as Schleck’s effort fell away, Contador’s steadied, and in the end the Spaniard rode out his win by just thirty-nine seconds, crossing the line in Paulliac straight into a seething melee of camera crews. I have a video on my phone of the moment he crosses the line. It has a Buster Keaton-like comedy about it. First a blur of Contador, hurtling from left to right. Then, half a second later, a phalanx of sprinting media operatives, clutching Dictaphones, and cameras, and microphone booms, like a horde of topless women chasing inexplicably after a British comedian.

  Somewhere in the midst of all the pushing and shoving that followed, Contador’s shades were knocked from his head. As the crowd dispersed, our cameraman John Tinetti, sharp-eyed as ever, noticed them lying on the tarmac and, with entrepreneurial ingenuity, picked them up and hurried round to the mixed zone. There he handed them over to me, along with a marker pen, so that I could get the new Tour champion to sign them. What a prize.

  Such relics can be laced with significance. The sweat-stained shirt, the stump, the hat-trick ball, the token of the genius. I have a colleague who reports on boxing who once swiped the corner stool Mike Tyson had sat on in between the rounds of an epic world title defence. His daughter now sits on it to do her homework.

  These things have meaning. Yet, as I glanced down at this pair of slightly scratched, green-tinted glasses, I couldn’t see much. They seemed as empty as the impassive eyes they were designed to shade.

  What was it about Contador that lacked an appropriate sense of importance? When he turned up in Monaco for the start of his 2009 Tour win alongside the returning Lance Armstrong, he was like a little note in the margin compared to the big man. Shunned by his Texan teammate, and frozen out by his coterie of cronies, Contador cut a lonely figure. An air of abandonment clung to him.

  The day before the race got under way, in the car park outside the Fairmont hotel, Armstrong held an impromptu press conference, pinned up against a team car by dozens of reporters. The rest of his team, meanwhile, milled around with their bikes, waiting for Armstrong to finish. Right on the periphery, occasionally glancing at his watch, was Alberto Contador, the soon to be two-time winner of the Tour de France, who had it within him, given his age and superiority over the rest, to challenge the legacy of Armstrong himself. He was looking bored and a little impatient. But most of all, he looked ignored.

  ‘That’s Alberto Contador over there.’ I nudged a colleague who like me was only half listening on the outer rings of the Armstrong throng. ‘He’s going to win the Tour.’

  ‘Housekeeping!’ There was a double knock on the door. I kept quiet. And then I heard the footsteps retreat down the corridor and away from my room.

  Over in Australia, and still booming out from the speakers, the Sporza commentator was heading for his dramatic final flourish. It was time for him to refer to his prepared notes. This was the climax of the race ‘. . . the undisputed, and still undefeated four-times champion of the world, Fabiaaaaan Cancellaaara!’ He let rip in English suddenly, apeing a boxing commentary.

  I watched the usual thing unfold. Cycling has a way of producing great champions, immense rides, colossal achievements. But it doesn’t always provide them with the trimmings befitting greatness. Every other sport culminates in an arena fit for purpose; the more giant the occasion, the more monolithic the backdrop. Fabian Cancellara’s record-breaking fourth world title was being celebrated in front of a row of suburban Australian retirement homes. He was embraced and feted in front of a picket fence with a sneaky view into someone’s front room. I carried on watching, trying to muster a proportionate sense of celebration.

  Some time later, David Millar was called upon by television to pass comment on the Contador case. His status as reformed doper allowed him no respite, even in the afterglow of one of his most full-hearted rides. I watched him from the other side of the world. He looked a little pained, but not at all reluctant. He spoke of the need for certainty, he called for calm, he appealed to people’s better natures and trusted, hoped, that all would be explained away. Without diminishing the seriousness of the accusation, he tried to call off the dogs of war.

  But the dogs had long since left their kennels, and were tearing down the online alleyways, salivating at the scent of transfused blood. Just as all this was happening at the World Championships, news broke that two more Spaniards, including the second-placed rider on the 2010 Vuelta d’Espana, had returned an initial positive test, subject to later confirmation. Minutes afterwards, and at about the same time, the Italian police revealed that they had raided the house of the confirmed doper Ricardo Ricco, and confiscated some mysterious tablets.

  And on and on and on.

&
nbsp; I switched off the TV, and snapped shut the lid of my laptop. I stared out of the window and contemplated heading out into the Thursday morning drizzle for a run.

  Another bright yellow train came to a noisy, grinding standstill just outside. I drew the curtain, plunging the room into an even more profound gloom, and I composed a text message congratulating Millar. I hit send, then, a little reluctantly, started to change into my running gear.

  Months later, and after a wearyingly long procedure, Alberto Contador was cleared by the Spanish Cycling Federation of deliberate doping. They upheld his assertion that he had unwittingly eaten meat contaminated with clenbuterol. That exoneration paved the way for Contador to ride on. As this book goes to print, the best guess is that he will almost certainly head for the Vendee, where the 2011 Tour starts.

  All that, though, was still to come. The news I had just heard was merely the starting pistol, announcing the beginning of a battle of accusation and denial. Back then, I only had one bald fact to contend with: Alberto Contador had tested positive for a banned substance.

  I was lacing my running shoes, when my phone beeped at me. It was David Millar, texting from Australia.

  ‘Thanks, Ned. What a joy to rip that first lap. D.’

  What a joy, indeed.

  LEWISHAM HOSPITAL: PART THREE, AUGUST 2003

  Hours wore on. Or perhaps minutes. As awareness crept in, I was seized by the very mildest form of panic, which is really only one level up from fascination. My dysfunction had become apparent to me. Which isn’t to say that I could actually do anything about it.

  With each attempt to address the turn of events that had dumped me in this curtained chamber deep in Lewisham Hospital, I displayed the attention span of a gnat coupled with the memory of a goldfish. Trying to remember was like purposefully flinging open the door to a room, striding in, and then instantly forgetting why I had entered it. A moment’s confusion, then I flung the door open anew. It was tiring.

  This is where the Piece of Paper came into its own. Hand-written in black rollerball, it listed the chain of events in bullet points.

  It wasn’t exactly a Buddhist mantra, but I intoned it internally with all the earnest devotion of a monk perched on a Tibetan mountainside reciting Om Mani Padma Hum. In a world which had become chaotic, it at least made coherent sense. The problem was that no sooner had I read it, than I had forgotten it all over again.

  Kath, to take her mind off my insanely repetitive line of questioning, had started to scrape away the bits of Jamaica Road still embedded in a deep cut to my right elbow. I watched her with fascination as she fiddled away with a gauze swab dipped in sterile water, flicking grains of tarmac out from a wound close to my elbow bone. I didn’t feel a thing.

  More evidence that all was not well. The tiniest scratch would, on any other given day, have me swearing blue filth and screwing my face into the shape and flavour of a tightly squeezed lemon. Here I felt nothing.

  The curtains whipped smartly to one side and the Holby City doctor was back.

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘How are you?’ Kath threw the question on to me like a hand grenade.

  ‘Fantastically well,’ I ventured, unsure of what the correct response should be, but wishing not to appear morose.

  There followed a discussion between medical professionals (Kath is a qualified nurse) about how best to stitch together my unsightly elbow flap. Then there was a fair amount of rotating my arm to the left and right. Of course, there were also plenty of torches to be shone directly into my eyes. Then the questioning began again in earnest. Clipboards with charts were readied to record the calibre and quality and implications of the replies.

  Kath seemed by now, in her frustration, to be driving the agenda.

  ‘Ask him something he’ll definitely know the answer to. He’s just come back from a month on the Tour de France. Ask him who won the Tour de France.’

  ‘OK. Who won the Tour de France?’

  Deeply hidden in my memory, a sudden thrill. A sudden taste at the back of my mouth. I tasted delight, pride and shock.

  I thought for a long time. I was reasoning. I was aware that it sounded oddly triumphalist, but I was also desperate to say the right thing. And the right answer appeared within my grasp.

  I glanced for the last time at my battered bike helmet and the tear in my Lycra. It was all the confirmation I needed.

  ‘Was it me?’

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I should start by thanking Emily, who got me started on this journey. I owe a debt to Richard Moore, but I’ve already bought him a nice bottle of wine, so we’re quits. Thanks to Stan at Jenny Brown, and to Matt Phillips at Yellow Jersey, for his alchemy.

  Thanks also to Paul and Sue, who gave me lunch in 2003, and told me who Mario Cipollini is. To Josh for a word of encouragement in 1989. To Mike and Simon, for Monopoly in 2010.

  Thanks to Brian Barwick, Mark Sharman, and Niall Sloane, all of whom have either signed or retained the TV rights to the Tour de France for ITV.

  To all those who have worked with me on Tours past and present, back in London and on the road in France, thanks for your dedication, and sense of adventure: Rob Llewelyn, David McQuaid, Steve ‘Bilcoe’ Blincoe, Freddie Morgues, Wrenne Hiscott, Chloe Deverell, Gary Franses, Pete Vasey, Andy Sessions, Revika Ramkissun, Sophie Veats, Tony Davies, Titus Hill, Peter Wiggins, Peter Hussey, Chris Littleford, Chrissie Jobson, Sarsfield Brolly, Patrice Diallo, Carolyn Viccari, James and Brian Venner, and all others in France and at Molinare who make the show happen. To other tourists: Matt Pennell, Stephen Farrand, Paul Kimmage, David Walsh, Phil Bryden, Bob Roll, Honie Farrington, Peter Kaadtmann, Mike Tomalaris, Simon Brotherton, Graham Jones, Phil Sheehan, Johnny Green, Simon Richardson, Frankie Andreu, Dave Harmon, Richard Williams, Brendan Gallacher, Daniel Friebe and Geoff Thomas.

  To John, Steve, Gary, Chris, Glenn, Liam and Woody. Not forgetting Philippe and Odette and Romain, as well as Phil and Paul.

  And a huge debt, as ever, to Matt.

  Thanks to David Millar, Thomas Voeckler, Richard Virenque, Robbie McEwen, Lance Armstrong, Bradley Wiggins and Mark Cavendish: names I will never forget. Thanks also to Brian Nygaard, Fran Millar and Dave Brailsford.

  And finally, to Kath, Edith and Suzi. They are my full stop.

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  EPUB ISBN 9781409041764

  Version 1.0

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  Published by Yellow Jersey Press 2011

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  Copyright © Ned Boulting 2011

  Ned Boulting has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

  First published in Great Britain in 2011 by

  Yellow Jersey Press

  Random House, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road,

  London SW1V 2SA

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited can be found at:

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  The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN 9780224083355

 

 

 
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