Just below the tree line on Ventoux, before you get to the barren, brutal, desolate and windswept flanks of this terrible mountain, is Chalet Reynard. It’s here that you can find a road sign telling riders and drivers alike whether the pass is open or not. This road often becomes blocked by snowdrifts in winter and high winds in springtime, but being the height of summer, it was of course open. ‘Col Ouvert’ said the helpful sign, which was picked up by the TV camera on the back of the motorbike as it chased the pack upwards.
GM’s commentary went something like this:
‘So here we are. The riders approach this iconic, famous climb. This is the big one, folks, the one we’ve all been waiting for. The mountain that defines the Tour de France. So much history. Just think of all the famous battles that have been fought on this monstrous mountain. It is, of course, that most epic of all mountains, the Col Ouvert.’
I remember the reaction of the producer of the day. It was Patrick Chasse, a man who remains a big noise in the French cycling world. He was watching the screen and even though he didn’t speak Dutch he had a sense of what had just been uttered.
‘What did that monkey just say?’ he asked Jurriaan Van Wessem, an equally renowned journalist from the world of football.
‘I believe he just referred to the world-famous Col Ouvert,’ he said with a smirk.
‘In – croy – fooking – able!’ was Patrick’s rather entertaining Franglais take on the matter. Our friend GM did not do cycling again.
‘My brain is like a box of frogs on acid.’
Lazy Monks
No matter how dramatic a mountaintop finish turns out to be, it is usually a story that tells itself. The drama unfolds slowly, with the riders clearly visible and in small numbers. Their dogged battle is a chance for a commentator to call it home comfortably. This is a lily that needs no gilding. So if you want to measure the value of a commentator, then listen to a boring day: a transitional stage. One where nothing at all happens for hours on end. That is where a good commentator carries the day. Like a sherpa, often without much credit, a good commentator gets you to the line in good spirits, having carried you there despite the tedium.
On quiet days, some filler subjects crop up more than others. Usually things that annoy me get a lot of time. I’m not given to overt grumpiness for the sake of it, but certain things really rile me and on a quiet day they get on air. One of the stalwart subjects is Lazy Monks. There are a lot of them about.
Monte Cassino is a rocky hill about 130km (80 miles) south-east of Rome and was the site where Benedict of Nursia established his first monastery around the year 529. This sanctuary was the site of the horrific and bloody Battle of Monte Cassino in 1944, when it was destroyed by Allied bombing in an attempt to dislodge the German forces who were dug in to the impressively thick walls. The damage was extensive and the fighting was intense. What remained after the battle was a sad reflection of what had been before. As a result, a World Heritage Fund was established to make good what had been destroyed. Decades later the transformation is amazing, so I am told. For despite having visited the venerable building on the mount, I have not seen inside it.
On a day when the cycling world came by, it was – as usual for us – shut. It may well have said: ‘Gates closed. Go away.’ I find this simply infuriating, particularly when the world has paid such enormous sums to these institutions, either to maintain them or indeed rebuild them. Such places are only open to the chosen. Sadly, this righteous list does not include cycle fans. They don’t want squeaky sport shoes going round their basilicas.
So there I am, fuming on air, as we sat at the finish line just 30m (100ft) or so from the locked gates of the monastery. On what was a quiet day I had time to rant and knew it would not be long before the on-site producer from RCS Sport, the organisers of the Giro, would come to visit me. He calls me Cialtrone. It’s not affectionate.
‘Cialtrone, it is time to stop these critical words.’
Meet Roberto Nitti, a nervous man in a high stress job that he does very well. He can be quick to anger and paces around the compound in a festering, beady-eye kind of way. Cialtrone, by the way, means ‘slob’ in Italian. I like the joke.
During a break, Francesco, one of the rather excessively suave Italian commentators from Rai Uno, slides an arm over my shoulders. It’s like being introduced to a pet python. With this weight on my shoulders, I dare not move as his tobacco-dipped voice whispers some advice.
‘Carlton, Carlton,’ he said. ‘You have to play the game.’
‘What?’
‘You phone beforehand,’ he said. ‘You go and interview the Abbot. And then you have a private tour.’
Well, perhaps the lockout was a blessing in disguise because it gave me at least 20 minutes of transmission time while I stuck the boot in. Now, though, whenever I see gates to a monastery I simply have to stop the car and get someone to take a photo of me trying to force them open. Lazy monks. Can’t stand ’em!
Barolo: No Barrel o’ laughs
I love it when the Giro passes through some of the smaller, insignificant villages and towns where the locals really celebrate the whole event. Often you can go to some of the poorest and most modest areas of Italy, and here the press corps will be treated like royalty. These areas are charming and unpretentious. They may well not have much, but they’re determined to share what they do have with you. This might be a small
