Then just as I’m convincing myself I am clearly going mad . . . it started again. The sound was coming from behind the fire doors directly opposite mine. ‘Bastards!’ I thought. Kids just pissing about. Well here we go then, have some of this!
It was about now that my world went into slow motion. Holding my door handle, I pivoted Sumo style and launched a kick directly at the Push Bars To Open sign, the idea being that the miscreants would be sent flying as the doors flew open into the stairwell.
Wham! The doors smashed open against the concrete walls.
Now, screaming is an auto-reaction, usually in response to the perception of exaggerated threat. On this occasion the threat levels were considered high on both sides of the fire doors’ threshold.
The screams from both directions went on for a few elongated seconds. The Japanese tourists rocked back en masse at the sight of a Sumo/Bjarne Riis lookalike. Meanwhile, I simply lost control of the situation. Still screaming, I grabbed both bars and slammed the fire doors back shut.
Clunk! went the fire doors. Then, Clunk went the door of my room.
Bent over and still holding the bars of the fire doors, I looked over my shoulder, knowing I was in trouble. ‘Aaaaaaaw, for God’s sake!’
Next to the hose was a red telephone. I picked it up. There was no need to dial. It began ringing at the front desk. Security answered.
‘Oui!’
‘Bonsoir, Monsieur. C’est Monsieur Kirby. J’ai un petit predicament! Um . . . I’m locked out of my room.’
‘OK, I’ll come up and let you in.’
‘Um, I must warn you that I’m actually, um, en nue . . . naked. Completely. And. . .’
‘Yes?’
‘There are some Japanese tourists locked in the stairwell.’
Just as he puts the phone down, I hear him start to laugh.
Darrrum, darrrum, darrrum . . .
‘All right, I know you’re there . . . give it a bleedin’ rest.’
What seems like an age goes by before: POING! Finally the lift announces its arrival.
I prepare to greet the security guard. But it’s not the security guard.
It was an elderly American couple who must have enjoyed the same night out at the Moulin Rouge as my Japanese friends. Unlike my pals in the stairwell, they had seen the sign for the Night Porter’s bell. The Japanese guests had thought they were locked out and duly made their way up the fire escape in the hope of waking some kindly soul who would let them in. Well, it didn’t go too well for them, did it? Likewise my American friends.
‘Good evening,’ I ventured.
‘Oh. My. God!’ said the lady.
Terror begets clumsiness. The air was now filled with the sound of the frantic swiping of the door key as the theatregoers desperately tried to gain entry. It opened and they crashed through their door, slamming it behind them. I could hear her crying.
POING! At last the security guard comes strolling down the corridor. He’s smiling and biting a lip while politely half-covering his eyes. ‘Good evening, Monsieur Kirby,’ he ventures as his linked phone goes off. It’s the Americans.
‘Yes, Security?’ he answers. ‘A naked man in the corridor. Yes sir, I’m dealing with that now.’
I slip, albeit slightly camply, into my room.
‘Merci, Alphonse! Don’t forget the Japanese.’
Welcome to Magic Spanner: The World of Cycling according to Carlton Kirby. Join me on a journey into both the heart and the margins of the world’s greatest sport, where we ponder a Universal Truth: every time something goes right, something must also go wrong. So, let’s get on and expose the rather odd bits that have accompanied me and this crazy sport! Enjoy.
‘He’s screaming . . . albeit silently.’
2
The Breakfast of Kings
The Cast
Sean Kelly: aka The King, seven times consecutive winner of Paris–Nice, among other marvels. Now a commentator for Eurosport.
Greg LeMond: Three-time winner of the Tour de France and former World Champion. Consultant to Eurosport.
Kathy LeMond: Greg’s wife, informal manager and bodyguard.
Pascal: Greg’s fixer – and litter bin kicker, given to theatrical displays of displeasure – who makes sure everything’s in order for his boss.
Dan Lloyd: former British professional cyclist. Now a lead presenter for GCN and co-commentator for Eurosport.
And me, Carlton Kirby: TV commentator for Eurosport.
6 a.m. A hotel somewhere hot in Italy. The Giro is in full swing. I stumble down for breakfast after a night spent vibrating windows with my snoring, to find Sean Kelly sitting behind a pile of mush. This is not unusual. You might think that King Kelly would be given to enjoying a choice bowl of muesli, a yogurt perhaps or maybe some fresh fruit. This would certainly have a better look about it – and such fare is being enjoyed by other cycling royals sitting not five paces to my left. Greg LeMond, the Duke of Des Moines, is in the building, which instantly proves two things: 1. There is air conditioning in this building (no air con, no Greggie boy); and 2. This is as upmarket as it gets in this particular location. This is LeMond Central and Greg is up in every sense. In fact, if Greg is awake, he’s up! Up for anything. This human being has an on switch like no other. Full on. I love him. Greg is partying – at breakfast. Loud and lovely with his amazing wife, Kathy, and his pocket enforcer, Pascal, who is exceptional in many ways: he’s everywhere, he knows everybody, is super-friendly and speaks numerous languages, all with a heavy French accent. He’s a tiny guy who makes up for his diminutive height by sticking his arms out to make himself look bigger, hands on hips. You could actually put him in your pocket, though.
So cycling royalty are tucking in. As loud and welcoming as the LeMond corner is, I head for the pile of mush. ‘Morning, Sean.’ To which the long-drawn-out response is always: ‘Alright’, in
