Given his achievements, it’s remarkable that he wasn’t a massive superstar with his face plastered all over billboards up and down the country. You know: ‘Simon Yates likes Tunnock’s Caramel, the biscuit of Champions’ – that sort of thing.
2018 was an astonishing year for Simon Yates. First up was the Giro, where he displayed the full range of aggressive fighting chutzpah that had the cycling cognoscenti, if not the British public, dropping their jaws at the sheer impudence of this kid. Smashing heavyweights up the Dolomites and the Alps, he was in pink, and winning stages with verve, strength and racing acumen, steadily building up a healthy lead with bonus seconds whenever he could get them. And then he blew up. While Chris Froome was putting in the ride of his life on the Finestre, the ride of a century even, Simon lost almost 39 minutes and the lead that fateful afternoon. Exhausted, spent and used up, he could barely finish the stage and was nursed to the finish line by his teammates.
Fast-forward four months and Yates arrived at the Vuelta a more mature rider. Still aggressive, yes, but having learned his lesson in the Italian spring, he knew now to race within himself, pace himself and play the long game. Added to his individual success was the remarkable fact that his eventual victory in Spain meant that, for the first time ever, all the holders of the three Grand Tours for that year were different riders of the same nationality. A magnificent roster of Brits, with Simon Yates’ Vuelta win completing the feat.
How extraordinary, then, that he has gone largely unnoticed by the British general public. This may well be because the nation has simply grown tired of cycling after all the dark and murky stories surrounding the sport. Or it may have been general ‘sports fatigue’, what with the Winter Olympics demanding attention in the early months and the FIFA World Cup making a nuisance of itself mid-season. Who knows? But the nation’s lack of attention may well have had something to do with the personality of Simon Yates himself.
Public relations work is not Simon’s forte. Like many a GC rider, he is supremely focused on his racing. He seems to see his role as winning bike races – and nothing else. His clipped responses to media questions and the general public don’t help the overwhelming impression that he really can’t be bothered with the whole PR circus. His lack of engagement means there is not yet an affectionate public nickname attached to this cycling superstar – Froome-Dog, Wiggo, Cav and G all trip off the tongue.
Whether Simon Yates likes it or not, it’s headlines on the sports pages and internet that help to generate the funding of his sport and indeed the very team that pays his wages. Now he’s got a Grand Tour under his belt, let’s hope that he opens up a bit and shows a more human side. At only 26 years old, he’s going to be on podiums at the biggest bike races in the world for some time yet. Hopefully he’ll be willing to share a bit more of himself along the way.
6
Kelly’s Smalls
10.15 a.m. I am at the edge of the TV compound where I wait in line for a bag check. Sean Kelly offers up his tatty SPORT bag and is immediately waved through inspection. This bag is the sort of carrier that any normal kid would be bullied about at school: tatty, faded, red and ripped. Its holes are ‘good ventilation for me wet stuff’. Kelly does not waste money on bags, or indeed a laundry service. He does his own each night. I am highly familiar with Kelly’s smalls. Security know about them, too – which I’m convinced is why they wave him through. Nobody wants to rummage through that lot. A more likely reason for Kelly’s wave-by is that he is The King and he would not be expected to cause any trouble. I, however, am of far lesser renown. Usually for me it’s a rather cursory inspection. Nothing serious save for the regular, ‘What is this?’
‘It’s a stapler,’ I say.
I have to show them. It’s my own fault. I bought a stapler that looks a bit like a gun, especially to scanners. I should get another, but it’s very efficient and I’ve had it ages. A bit like Kelly’s bag. ‘Ah, un agrafeur!’ Oui, indeedy. Thankfully, after about a week of seeing me looking forlorn as Kelly waltzes through, they give me one of the prized possessions of any tour: the Trusted Bag tag to bypass this search. But before I am elevated to this status I have a couple of days of bag rummaging, and sometimes the testicle scan too. I’m referring to the handheld detector unit seen at airports. They say this is for the belt buckle area, but I think otherwise. To be honest, if I were doing this for a job I’d scan some privates and give ’em a nudge too, just for a laugh. TV compound Gate Security is a boring job, so you have to mix it up a bit.
Slightly less comfortable, I head inside the high-fenced compound. Here you are a little freer than the general public, who are denied entry. You still have the men with radios in their ears, the most inanimate of whom are the VIP heavies. These guys become visibly heavier, as in more threatening, on elevated security VVIP days, such as a presidential visit.
‘I quite like the German kit as well, but don’t tell my Grandad.’
7
Cigarettes and Coffee
10.30 a.m. I am looking for our commentary position. Kelly has wandered off, looking for the Eurosport light production area, where the crew gather and keep
