Le Tour – Stage 15

It had been calamitous for the team, there was no denying it. All the elite riders had fallen by the wayside – on stage 3 the sprinter had retired with tennis elbow, on stage 8 the climber had ground to a halt with housemaid’s knee and the General Classification contender for overall winner had got lost on stage 11 and ended up in Basingstoke (although to be fair many have lost their way in Basingstoke – all those roundabouts!). Morale amongst us remaining domestiques was sub optimal.

The implications were stark. No stage wins, no points and no media profile.

‘Where are we going to get the fucking sponsors for next year?’ was a constant refrain being muttered (and sometimes not muttered) by the team’s Directeur Sportif (aka Le Boss). ‘Who is going to want to put money into  Mucho Pedalo Energeez (MPE) now?’

Next up was Stage 15, a circular starting and finishing in Romsey.

‘It’s perfect for you,’ beamed Le Boss in an out of character effort to be positive, ‘lots of ups and downs, nothing too steep and the peloton will treat it as a bit of a rest day.’

‘Me? Why me?’ I panicked.

‘You’re a no-one, nobody will take you seriously, the peloton will be caught out by your move.’

‘But who will carry the sandwiches for the team?’

‘Good point’ …….  Le Boss paused to allow himself to bring all his racing expertise and experience to the problem – before beaming, ‘You’ll all have to have double cheese and pickle before you start … oh …no … you prefer ham sarnies don’t you?’

I did my best but there was no dissuading him.

‘We’ll give you the best preparation, a lighter bike, a motivational session with the psychologist ….. and enhanced nutrition.’

— x —

After a sleepless night I entered the team space in the bus to find my remaining four teammates sitting listlessly around the breakfast table. Le Boss was enthusiastically reviewing route notes, providing a running commentary that no one was listening to.

‘First we commit to the breakaway and give enough to make it stick. Then we pile the pressure on, tire the other riders out ….. break the elastic and create a big gap that the peloton won’t be motivated to close ……. Hmmm,’ he paused for thought, ‘Col de Woodlease Copse,’ he looked up at me, ‘That’s where you go, full gas for as long as you can…… the rest of you start fucking about then, going to the front of the group and slowing the pace …. cover any counter attacks ….. gradually bring the breakaway back to the peloton .. and you,’ he looked up at me, ‘will be away.’

He sat down at the head of the table grinning, ‘Brilliant!’

‘What about me?’ I felt the panic in my voice, ‘I’ll be off the front …. on my own …. with nearly half the stage still to ride!’

At this point Chef started putting breakfast plates in front of us and the ‘team’ began to show some slight signs of animation.

‘Hey! Why has he got an extra egg?’

‘That’s not on.’

‘I want an extra egg.’

Chef shook his head, ‘Budget’s been cut … only got 6 eggs.’

Le Boss sighed, took a deep breath (in order to trigger the person management skills he had recently acquired over an intensive three day residential course) before asserting, ‘HE’S GOT AN EXTRA FUCKING EGG BECAUSE HE’S GOING TO HAVE TO FUCKING COMPLETE NEARLY HALF THE FUCKING STAGE ON HIS FUCKING OWN YOU FUCKING BUNCH OF FUCKING NUMBSKULLS!’

As was fitting, this managerial exposition of tactical acuity was met by silence   … for a bit.

‘So we do all the work to get le jambon- beurre porter out on his own so he can win the stage and experience career transforming attention and ….. and, he gets the extra egg!!’

‘It’s not on.’

‘You are having a laugh!’

‘It’s divisive.’

‘Who is going to carry the sandwiches? That’s what I want to know……’

‘STOP!’ I shouted, on my feet with knife in hand ….. then quietly ……‘Enough.’ I had noted that they had all shrank back from me. ‘I will divide the egg into five.’

‘Hey that was my egg, if you’re not going to get the full benefit of it …’ began Le Boss.

‘Make sure you divide the yolk evenly…’

‘I don’t like the white, can I have more yolk?’

— x —

Despite him being often around the elite riders I had never had a conversation with the Team Psychologist. It began well enough…. ish.

‘How are you feeling?’

‘Well …… er ….. terrified, to tell the truth.’

‘Not surprised ….. it’s all on you.’

‘Eh?’

‘The whole carry on …… the future of the team, everyone’s reputation, future employment prospects.’

I stared at him, wishing I’d not eaten eggs for breakfast, ‘No pressure then!’

‘Don’t be ridiculous ……. you’re under massive pressure!’

There was some more staring as I absorbed the fact that humour was not going to be much help to me in this situation. ‘OK ….. any tips?’

‘Stay focussed, laser focussed.’

‘Focussed on what?’

The psychologist rolled his eyes, ‘On riding your bike you idiot ….. no falling off or anything ludicrous like that – honestly, I don’t know why they picked you for this.’

‘What about tactics?’

‘Boss has got all that covered …. he’s briefing the others right now about how they will look after you until you catapult off the front.’

‘I don’t think they are very happy about it.’

‘No they’re not and that’s very understandable …. getting them motivated will be quite a challenge.’

‘Talking of motivation, have you got any tips for me?’

He shook his head and blew out his cheeks, ‘How much motivation do you need?   ……. you’d better win this or we’ll all be in the shit!’

— x —

And so, from one disappointment to another. The bike the mechanic handed to me as all the riders were gathering at the start line looked exactly like my old bike.

‘I thought I was getting a lighter bike.’

The mechanic sighed (was no one prepared to be upbeat about this?). ‘The spare was wrecked on that roundabout in Basingstoke – don’t you remember?’

‘But surely …’

‘And we have lightened the bike – we have taken the sandwich panier off and,’ he paused, obviously irritated at having to spell out the obvious, ‘You don’t have to carry sandwiches today.’

Suddenly my earpiece crackled into life – Le Boss on team radio, ‘Come on guys, come on, you need to position yourselves just back from the front of the group ready for the start. Remember to spread yourselves out ….. don’t give any impression that this is a team tactic.’

So I, and the other four guys, worked our way separately through the already tightly bunched riders towards the front, where the big names were allowed to congregate without challenge. Le Boss might be an absolute prat but he had judged the mood that morning perfectly – there was an overwhelming disgruntlement wherever you looked and particularly wherever you tried to push your bike through non-existent spaces to get closer to the front. No one wanted to ride the stage. It was hot (when was it not?) there were few competition points available for either the sprinters or the climbers and the overall winner (general classification) and podium places were, subject to unlikely catastrophes, already sorted. It was a nothing sort of stage and after 14 days of racing everyone was very, very tired and pissed off with the whole thing.

Then the race director shoved his head and shoulders through the sunroof of his car positioned in front of the mass of the riders. He began to wave his flag and the car began to move off, precipitating the rolling start in which us riders pushed off, clipped in and began to pedal. A few hundred metres up the road, after some frantic flag waving, the car pulled to one side and the race was enjoined in earnest.

Immediately two Lidle Trek riders sprinted forward and away from the mass of riders. They were followed by seven other riders from different teams and a small gap opened up.

‘Don’t fssss stss back’ crackled in my ear.’

This was a relief as I was already struggling to keep up and was fiddling with my gears and fortunately no MPE riders had made a move.

Le Boss had called it right, within five minutes the first breakaway had been reabsorbed into a peloton which, if anything, was slowing down. Riders were chatting, or rather moaning as we headed for the first climb of the day – le Col de Fishponds Farm.

I noticed the Lidle Trek riders re grouping and that I had now been surrounded by my own MPE compatriots.

‘Go with sss next one,’ crackled in my ear.

Suddenly it was all go, frantic pedalling, wishing you had selected a different gear, lungs bursting, on and on until you knew you couldn’t go on like this much further, but you did because you knew you had to and then RELIEF as the gradient eased slightly and, gasping for breath, you could risk a glance around to appraise the situation.

‘OK Jambon-beurre?’ Henri the MPE road captain had dropped back beside me.’

I nodded.

‘Just stick to my rear wheel, total concentration, no looking around, OK?’

‘OK’ I gasped.

‘Lidle Trek think they’ve got this one ……… they’re out in the wind doing the work for us ……. they’ll pour le sauce on every ramp …. we just follow ….. just stick to my wheel!’

And so the breakaway group of 15 riders made its way slowly up the climb, stretching out on each ramp and then coming back together each time the gradient eased. Despite my orders I did manage to glance up ahead and saw the three Lidle Trek riders taking in turns to lead the group, injecting a burst of acceleration at each changeover.’

‘Fantastic guys,’ crackled the radio earpiece, ‘ No favourites, sso clssssss, all domestiques, you’ve got ss minute on the peloton.’

So the peloton had let us go ….. for now – none of the group posed any threat to any of the overall race standings – wow!

Over the top of the climb and then from slow, maximum effort to fast and furious freewheeling  concentration. I just followed Henri’s wheel and as a result descended far faster than I would ever have done on my own, oblivious as I was to the speed and the danger of each bend.

Back on the valley floor our race settled down as we traversed gently undulating countryside. The Lidle Trek riders maintained the lead and a very challenging pace. A couple of riders dropped away, then three more and suddenly it became obvious that MPE were the most represented team in the group. We outnumbered Liddle Trek 5 to 3 – but still they didn’t take us seriously, they carried on pushing the pace whilst interchanging at short intervals. Not once did they ask us for help. We just sat in their wheels, out of the wind, and waited.

‘Peloton ……. 3   ssssutes,’ crackled my earpiece.

Then Henri pulled out and waited for me to pull alongside him. ‘It’s coming up Jambon-beurre , the col de Woodlease Copse … are you ready?’

I nodded, I had no breath for speaking – and we were still on the flat!

‘Our three will attack at the bottom of the climb …… one after the other ….. full gas ….. all the way to the bottom of the last ramp ….. empty their tanks then they’ll be done  …… hang back to disrupt any chase from the group.’

‘What  …… what ….. do I …..’

‘Follow my wheel …… I …. try to do a steady pace  ….. not let Lidle Trek get away ….. we accelerate full gas on last ramp ….. it’s a long one …… and then over ….. the ….. top…. I’ll get you …… down other side …. and then you are on your own.’

‘What if Lidle Trek ……. don’t ……. follow  …. the accelerations ?’

‘They will ……. they’re …. pumped.’

And then we were on to the climb. The three MPE riders ahead took the lead and set a furious pace up the first ramp – followed as predicted by our three rivals. Henri, keeping a steady pace allowed the six riders ahead to open a gap before gradually reeling them back in as they (by arrangement with the MP Energeez riders) slackened on the less steep sections. Again and again the MPe riders rotated and attacked on the steeper gradients and each time the Lidle Trek riders responded, although seemingly with decreasing vigour as each attack followed another.

Henri carried on at a steady pace (one which I couldn’t have sustained on my own but there was no way I was losing that wheel!). We were slowly crawling towards the top of the climb and at what I had worked out was the penultimate ramp, I thought the MPE guys ahead might have overplayed their hand. They accelerated again and there was a pause before there was any response from our rivals, and when it came it was slow and laboured. Henri had no trouble staying on their wheel as, audibly panting lungfuls of breath, they clawed their way up in the wake of our guys. Lidle Trek got themselves back in contention just at the foot of the last, killer ramp.

I didn’t need Henri’s flick of the shoulder to know this was it, after all I had always considered myself a cyclist who carried the sandwiches, not a sandwich carrier on a bicycle!

Henri accelerated around all six riders with me, just about, in tow.

It was one of those nightmares where all you can do is focus on dragging in the breaths and pumping  the legs round (Ok, OK, maybe the psychologist had a point) as my world narrowed to the wheel ahead, all periphery dark and unknowable. After a while all the thoughts of quitting got left behind, trashed on the tarmac under Henri’s rear wheel. Then cognition in general fell by the wayside. I counted breaths, got to 500 and changed to pedal pushes and then back again. The whole carry-on developed a timeless quality and I found myself wondering whether I was about to have an out of body ….’

‘DRINK!’ shouted Henri as we crested the top.

There was a short flat stretch, during which I managed to gulp down some water, poor some over my head and then drop the bottle before the most terrifying descent of my life. Down long sweeping curves, low over the drop bars, breaking sharply to navigate tight corners, then full gas back out of them. Henri swooped down with ease, I followed his line, resisting the temptation at times to shut my eyes.

Out onto the valley floor we shot and Henri kept up the furious pace – with me still struggling to keep up.

‘Two  ssssss on the breakaway, five minutes on the pelosss, crackled in my earpiece.’ We (or rather they) had snapped the elastic!

Then I noticed that I wasn’t struggling to keep up with Henri anymore and then there was a flick of the shoulder and I was accelerating past him – into the wind ….. on my own!

‘Allez! Allez! mon Jambon- beurre,’ I heard him shout.

And then I really was on my own.

— x —

Now generally I like cycling on my own, but this was not one of those occasions. I missed Henri. I missed Henri a lot and even considered slowing so he could catch up before the crackle in my earpiece reminded me of my task. So, like a good domestique, I buckled down and tried to set a pace I thought I would be able to maintain to the foot of the first of the (small) remaining climbs. It was hard, but not as hard as creating a substantial lead had been. It was all about maintaining rhythm and hoping the tank wouldn’t empty before the finish.

I got updates through my earpiece. I was maintaining my gap on the breakaway (I smiled at the thought of the MPE riders ‘fucking about’ and the Lidl Trek riders becoming increasingly pissed off) but they were being hauled in by a reanimated peloton and beginning to reduce the gap I had on it. I did and redid the numbers. It was going to be touch and go, but I was beginning to feel I might just manage it when Le Boss weighed in again.

‘You’re being causss! you’re being caught!  ……. You need to ssss something back for the last climb .. or they are going to sss you.’

I didn’t want to disrupt the rhythm I was in so radioed back, ‘OK will just roll up the Col de Dunbridge Lane, I’ll lose a bit of time  .. but I’ll attack again from the top.’ That was the penultimate climb.

Ten minutes later I hit the bottom of the climb and selecting a lower gear than normal set about rolling up whilst expending the least energy I could. For the first time I became aware of spectators on both sides of the road shouting encouragement and waving flags – not exactly a wall to wall mass with a narrow passage opening and then closing behind me, but still impressive. I began thinking about the next and last climb and how I would tackle it – there would be more spectators there. I tried to relax, trying to let some of the pressure go – giving myself a little mental break before the big push. As I summited I noticed that I had allowed myself to drift slightly off the side of the tarmac onto a strip of hardened earth running alongside it. No problem, I thought, I’ll just ease myself back onto the road.

Then, suddenly, ludicrously, I was lying on my side on the tarmac with my bike on top of me.

— x —

I was astounded, confused and bewildered. What had happened? How had I come to be lying on the road under my bike? None of this made any sense, it was as though I had been propelled through a reality wormhole.

Get up! Get up! Cognition returned. Get up before some of the spectators get involved and probably make things worse.

Then I noticed how quiet it was, how totally devoid of shouting spectators the hill was. Where had they all gone?

Get up! Get up! The team car will be here in a second and I’d better be on my feet in order to cope with the stream of invective that was coming my way.

As I pushed the bike up and off me I felt my right arm protest, Oh shit, what have I done?

I got to my feet and pulled the bike upright by my side. A glance back at the edge of the tarmac gave me all I needed to know about the fall – a 20cm deep by 50cm long hole right next to the tarmac into which I had unwittingly steered my front wheel. My body had been committed to the change in direction – but the bike could not follow. A metre either side and the verge was level with the edge of the tarmac. 50cm in god knows how many kilometres! – all that had stood between me and every chance that I would never have to carry the sandwiches again.

Where is everyone? Where is the team car? Where are the camera motorbikes? Where is Henri? Where is the peloton?

Whilst trying to work out what was going on I checked the bike – seemed OK. Then myself. Little road rash, I had toppled rather than slid. Right arm a bit sore, collar bone OK, shoulder seemed to cope with rapid windmilling of the arm, elbow – ‘OUCH!’ a bit tender, wrist a bit stiff, fingers fine.

And still no one came.

Best see if I can ride OK.

I remounted and slowly pedalled off. All good …ish ….. well good enough anyway.

Looks as though I’m going to have to finish this on my own.

The remainder of the stage was straightforward, which perversely did nothing to help maintain morale. After a while it became difficult to brake or move the gear shifters with my right hand, so I forced the bike into a low gear and found myself rolling slowly along in the pretence of a rather nonchalant  fashion – one hand on the bars, the other hanging by my side.

I wasn’t surprised to find the stage finish deserted, just one white Skoda estate left waiting for me, keys behind the front nearside wheel. I did allow myself a bit of curse directed at MPE as I struggled to lift my bike one handed into the back of the car and then work out a safe method of driving that would get me back.

An hour later I presented myself at the local ‘Urgent Treatment Centre’. While waiting to be seen I checked my bike computer – best numbers for the season to date: distance, climbing, average speed – despite being somewhat detained for a while at the top of the Col de Dunbridge Lane! Curses! Curses!

I was x-rayed, provided with painkillers and a sling and told I had a small fracture of the radial head in my elbow joint, recovery time 4 – 6 weeks.

I was not on the start line for stage 16 the following morning. Someone else must have carried the sandwiches.