Basically, in France if a police officer believes you to be a public nuisance – for example, playing music too loud, partying too late, etc – he can issue a desist order. If you ignore this, you can be arrested. The deployment of flares was added to the local lists of antisocial behaviour for the duration of the remaining race route. It was a clever way to deal with a situation that was getting out of hand; this had been a particularly smoky race.
Absolutely no more smoke was seen during the final six days on the Tour. I declared it ‘the end of the moronathon’. I like to think I did my bit.
It remains to be seen if other races will adopt the same attitude towards flares – or, indeed, if the sport will insist on race organisers banning them. It may happen, but visit any number of cycling web pages and you’ll see many pictures including flare smoke. It’s fair to say that smoke billowing around a mountaintop does produce some fantastically dramatic pictures. The internet and the media is full of this stuff – and it makes great copy. On TV it begs a ‘super-slo-mo’ call from the director, particularly at the Giro d’Italia. But it is bonkers.
‘On paper Dumoulin should win. But paper is highly flammable.’
Mankini Man Comes Up Trumps!
Every dog has his day, and for one mankini-clad peloton hound this day duly came: he landed the biggest, juiciest bone you can imagine.
On the Giro was a fan running alongside the riders in his underpants when one of the Nippo–Vini Fantini team punctured just next to where this guy was taking a breather from his near-naked exertions. The rider leapt off his dayglo yellow bike and turned to his team car for a replacement. The mechanic duly arrived and got a spare bike off the roof of the support car. Meanwhile, the very helpful Mankini Man held the original punctured bike at the side of the road; he didn’t want to lay down such a beautiful and expensive bike on the ground. The rider was now on his spare bike, got the shove off from the mechanic and duly headed up the mountain, closely followed by the team car. But they’d forgotten about the first bike, held by Mankini Man! Our friend cried out and started trying to chase after them, waving and shouting, wheeling along this extraordinarily expensive, state-of-the-art, fully carbon racing machine. Dan Lloyd and myself were royally amused at the sight of it, battling our chuckles to carry on calling the race. But the story didn’t end there.
At the end of the day, the mechanic counted up the bikes and realised that he’d left one behind. The pictures were all over the evening news. But the bike was nowhere to be found. The next day Nippo–Vini Fantini, who were being described as fools by all the reports, opted for the nuclear option. They made a formal complaint to the police. This didn’t go down well.
To be fair, Nippo–Vini Fantini died as a team shortly after, so it was not as if they were awash with cash. A bike of this kind, depending on spec, can be around the €12,000 mark. That’s a lot of money. Nonetheless, the general feeling among the public was that the scenario was a bit like catching a ball at a baseball game: the prize should stay with the catcher. A magistrate agreed and the edict was made that the fan had not stolen the bike but had indeed been gifted the prize – which he had, after all, tried to return. Result!
It warmed the heart: Mankini Man rode home a winner.
Skippy the Bushwhackeroo
‘Ohhhhh shit. It’s Skippy. Let’s get outta here!’
There are many obstacles to the smooth passing of a day. Some you can’t avoid – like traffic jams or security checks. Others you can avoid with skill and good planning. But the biggest, and just about avoidable, barrier to a happy day is a bloke called Skippy. He’s probably already borrowed this book off someone. Hi, Skippy!!
Skippy McCarthy has what I assume is a foxhole somewhere in Vienna, Austria. He’s rumoured to have a place in Oz too, though many say he’s actually a Brit. But Skippy is the ultimate cyclo-groupie, spending as little as possible in order to maximise his time following the Tour. Thus he has a tendency to try to get whatever he can from anyone connected with cycling. Clothes, food, accommodation, transport – anything. Light a barbecue, and you’ll have a guest.
He often asks teams: ‘Just a bidon, mate. . . Can I grab a shower? . . . Any ripped kit? . . . I’ve got a puncture. Help us out, mate.’
‘Did I mention Kangaroo Reserve Preserve? We’re selling jam to help orphan joeys! Ooh, is that egg going to waste?’
Skippy can be a real nuisance and on a long hot Tour, most of which he rides, he does get a bit whiffy. So why don’t we just tell him to piss off? Well, firstly, he’s a big bloke. Skinny but big.
At the Tirreno Adriatico in 2014 I heard, ‘Caaaaaaarlton… Over here, mate!!! Caaaaaaarlton!’
It was the first time I’d been tagged. I turned to walk over as Dan Lloyd walked on. I was a lamb to the slaughter. Thankfully I’m more mutton-like and not so tender.
‘Hello. What’s up?’
Skippy held out his hand. Before I could think, I responded politely and was shaking it. Big mistake! My hand was now firmly clamped in his big paw.
