The day was a still one. It felt pre-stormy. This was bad news for the riders who, of course, came to a halt. As the protesters wrestled with the now significant police presence, the billowing gas duly wafted gently over the riders. They stood astride their bikes with tears running down their cheeks. The race was, of course, neutralised. Medical teams ran out of eyewash; riders complained of breathing troubles. For 30 minutes we waited until everyone was well enough to go on.
Usually in such circumstances, there is a kind of accord called by the race organisation. Protesters threatening to block the road are asked to stand at one side and display their banners spelling out their grievances. These are then shown on television – and everyone is happy. This time, there was absolutely no accord. The protesters were castigated and even arrested. Their message went undelivered.
The riders responded passively. Probably, I suppose you could say, because they had been gassed. More likely, it is the understanding that the race security is much more effective these days and it’s best to leave this to the professionals. This wasn’t always the case.
In the 1984 edition of the Paris–Nice, Bernard Hinault had made a spectacular attack off the Col de l’Espigoulier. He and about 20 riders had broken clear of Hinault’s main rival, Robert Millar, who began the day as leader. All was going well for the French star until some protesting shipyard workers decided to block the road ahead. They stood there in donkey jackets, black wool with a plastic panel over the shoulders offering modest protection against the steady drizzle. There was a high quota of berets, moustaches and Gauloises on display. It looked very French. It was also a bit half-arsed in terms of organisation. They shuffled into position looking almost embarrassed as they mumbled their protest chants into the mist of a cold wet mid-March afternoon. Well, things were about to heat up.
Down the road the protesters saw Hinault. This was their moment. The chants grew louder and more committed. Sadly for them, so was Hinault. Fully. Instead of slowing down, Hinault accelerated. He was livid. These protesters could cost him the lead! Faster and faster, Hinault drove his bike on towards the human barricade. The protesters held their ground, but the chanting stopped. Insults flew towards Hinault, then silence – just for a split second, you understand, as everyone standing in the road realised there was about to be an accident. Hinault smashed into the group, sending the workers scattering. Game over? Oh no! Hinault was already off his bike, sending his swinging fists into moustachioed faces. They couldn’t believe it. Stunned, the workers took the blows from this madman. Who was mad as hell. Before the men with broken cigarettes between their bloody lips could return the blows, the organisers pulled The Badger off his quarry. Hinault had just written another page of his impressive history. The Badger is a notoriously grumpy animal. Magnificent.
So listen! If you want to continue enjoying your cycling live at a roadside near you, there are a few things we need to get sorted. Keep your protests off the road. Don’t bring flares. Don’t drape flags over your heroes, shouting ‘Olé’: it can tangle with a bike’s mechanics and cause a crash. Don’t splash riders with water: it can hamper vision. Don’t ‘help’ by pushing them uphill: it breaks a climber’s rhythm. Don’t bare your arse. And don’t wear outfits that can trip you up and bring down a rider.
One of the greatest characteristics of cycling is that anyone can just turn up at the side of the road and enjoy it for free. If this is to continue, we need mutual respect between spectators and riders. If you are one of the roadside fools, then be certain I will be calling you out for it. You might of course think this a bonus if notoriety is all you are after.
To the real fans, I say that when your heroes pass by, do please feel entirely free to go suitably nuts in all the excitement. I certainly do.
‘The pendulum has swung, as they say in commentating. To be fair, clockmakers use the term as well.’
12
Slow Day
Padding and filler. Generally used to enhance something for reasons of aesthetics or necessity. But let’s consider the period during many a transition or sprint stage that needs a bit of help from a commentator to keep things interesting. It’s time to ponder . . . nothing . . . and work out how to bridge it.
It’s 11.10 a.m. and Tour de France supremo Christian Prudhomme has just popped his head out of his sunroof to prove that no matter how much money you have, hair transplants remain a game played by those with less self-confidence. So, like HRH Prince William, a man truly at peace with his fallow areas, Christian emerges from the, usually red, Race Director’s car and flaps his outstretched arms like an albatross – slowly. This brings everyone to order. Before we go racing, all those wearing the various classification leaders’ jerseys have posed at the front for the cameras. Their toil will usually come much further down the road. So, with TV photo ops done, the bigger names drift away as the band of hopeful escapee brothers prepare themselves to do the job for which, at breakfast, they have been chosen by their Directeur Sportif:
‘Get your skinny arse into the break and show off the team jersey which you are being paid to wear. See Gianni Savio for your wages.’
And they’re off! Sometimes the break goes clear immediately. Meanwhile, everyone else does the decent thing and promptly takes a comfort break. This is going to be a long day.
Oh dear.
The Easiest Job in the World?
What
