The definition of ‘Magic Spanner’
MAGIC: The power to influence events via mysterious forces.
SPANNER: A tool for gripping or turning.
MAGIC SPANNER: The action of a mechanic to influence the recovery pace of a rider by way of mimicking a mechanical assist. Completed while hanging from a moving vehicle – thereby propelling the cyclist, at pace via automotive assistance, to regain time lost due to a racing incident.
Contents
Foreword by Sean Kelly
1 Life on Tour
2 The Breakfast of Kings
3 Drive to the Finish
4 Security, Good and Bad
5 The Five Lions
6 Kelly’s Smalls
7 Cigarettes and Coffee
8 Carjack
9 Comfort Breaks
10 Attention Seekers!
11 Protesters
12 Slow Day
13 Feed Station
14 Having Fun – The Secret to Cycling Commentary
15 Relations Most Public
16 The Dark Side of Cycling
17 There is No Money!
18 Back on the Road
19 And So to Bed – Hotel Stories
20 Party Time!
21 The Greatest Ride
22 The Other Bikers
23 When the Plug Gets Pulled
24 How Do You Feel?
25 The Party’s Over
26 And So It Comes to This
About the Authors
Acknowledgements
Index
Plates
Foreword by Sean Kelly
I reckon I’ve spent more July days in the company of Carlton than I have with anybody else these last few years. And I can tell you, he can be a challenge. As you all know he has a habit of going on a bit during commentary, and not just about the cycling. He can talk about anything . . . wherever he goes there are donkeys missing their hind legs. HE DOESN’T STOP! At the end of the day’s action we get in the car and his mouth keeps racing. Thank heavens for Radio Monte Carlo and my control of the volume button; it’s a useful tool.
I have been through my fair share of lead commentators and all have been very different. First there was David Duffield who started me off on the microphone. There was also Mike Smith, followed by David Harmon, and then Carlton Kirby along with Rob Hatch. They all have a different approach to their commentary; none sound the same. They have all been, or are, my teammates and I have enjoyed the company of them all both on and off air. It’s fair to say we are privileged to have a job that generates so much fun around a sport we love.
Of course we have our moments but I’ve never come to blows with any of them; although I have thought about jamming a bread roll into Carlton’s mouth a few times . . . he can go on . . . and on. He treats life as an adventure – a big one – and he certainly has a gift of bringing his anecdotes to life, as I’m sure you will find as you read on.
1
Life on Tour
4 a.m. A hotel in Paris. Day 20 of the Tour de France.
So there I am, dead of the night, a tubby middle-aged cycling nut locked out of his room . . . completely bollock naked. I’m waiting for the hotel security guy to let me back into my sanctuary. Considering my predicament, I’m remarkably at peace. Like a condemned man, I’m resigned to my situation. Bizarrely, I’m pondering what to do with my arms. There are no pockets to look nonchalant; folded arms would look a bit showy-offy. Inevitably, as there is little to be proud of, two hands are cupped over my man bits. I wait, breaking my serenity only occasionally to whisper ‘Aaaaw, shut up’ to the Japanese tourists trapped in the escape stairwell in front of me. For it is they who got me into this mess. They are getting restive. . . Well, they’ll have to wait.
The best part of three weeks on the road have taken their toll: 6 a.m. starts, hours of driving, hours of staring at a small TV monitor while commentating on the greatest sporting event on earth. Le Hexagon as it’s called – or ‘France’, to you and me – is a remarkable arena. And a big place. It takes a lot of getting around, which has left me shattered; physically exhausted, mentally frazzled. Still, though, I have just enough brain space to ponder a diversion: it’s amazing how much temperature and surface definition you can sense via a buttock! Yep, my door felt cold and smooth to the touch . . . ‘but I’m not using my hands. Amazing.’
My predicament started with a gently strumming sound that entered my dreams. Darrrum, darrrum, darrrum . . . What the hell is that? I asked myself. Darrrum, darrrum, darrrum . . . Like a kid drumming four fingers on a table, impersonating a horse. Or a classic Hollywood scene of someone losing patience. Darrrum, darrrum, darrrum, darrrum. It went on. At my bloody door! ‘SHAAAADAAAAP!’ I shouted. And it stopped. Then, just as I’m nodding back off, there it was again. This time I hurled a fine Crockett and Jones bootie at the door and screamed: ‘F-------k offf!’ for good measure. The effect was the same. A brief halt before the strumming was back again.
For me, there is a Rule of Three when it comes to being woken up. My wife is familiar with this. Once is okay. Twice may be forgivable. Third time? All done. I’m up and out of bed. Grumpy as they come, usually flamboyantly knotting a dressing gown as I head for the kitchen and a cuppa. This was far more serious. I was deeply fatigued and in no mood to reason. I was going to tell these bastards just what I thought of them, my dark mood accentuated by the entirety of my blue-white nakedness. Furious, I yanked the door open with a backed-up series of expletives about to let rip.
There was absolutely nobody there!
The corridor was completely empty save for the rolled-up fire hose next to my
