And then we have the likes of Barolo.
Barolo wine has, unjustly in my opinion, carved out a reputation for itself as one of the country’s premier Italian reds, with its self-proclaimed rich and velvety texture. The vines are ancient and the area is full of old money. It is a very wealthy place.
There is not a dog turd in sight or a bus ticket blown through the street. The holy vines look like they’ve been not just pruned but manicured. You go past all these beautiful estates and villas where, for generations, these families have been very well off indeed, thank you very much. Even when the wars have washed through, the landed and branded could buy favours with a great big barrel of wine and remained untouched and impregnable. None of the good stuff ever got bombed. I see it as my job to chip away at these institutions.
When the Giro passed through Barolo, they provided absolutely nothing! This was in stark contrast to their poorer cousins further south. However, we the media are supposed to write about Barolo, broadcast about Barolo and take photographs of Barolo. For this, all they gave us was their reputation. What’s more, they shunned the entire event. As if we were supposed to be grateful just being allowed to be there.
Barolo, one of the richest micro regions of Planet Earth, didn’t even provide water for the press corps. And it was a hot day. The press were getting grumpy. There wasn’t a coffee machine to be found.
There was even a wine tasting where – and this is where some press guys lost it – you were expected to pay! If you want to wind up a group of journalists, just make them pay for everything. Apparently their pumped-up, over-muscular, eat-only-with-aged-liver-or-well-hung-game plonk was too valuable to be given graciously and freely to those supposed to comment on it. Remarkable.
Then, when we were broadcasting the stage and at a crucial part of the race, the cameras cut away and dwelled on, for some time, a helicopter shot of a vast and notable Barolo wine estate. To me, this whiffed of a prior arrangement, airtime considered a fair swap by the TV direction crew in return for some of the local produce. There were big close-up shots of the winemaker’s signs, giving it global publicity and free advertising. My comment on air was, ‘I guarantee you that someone’s going to be sending a transit van round to be filled up with wine from that estate because there’s no reason whatsoever for it to be on your screens while so much is happening in the race.’ I got my arse kicked all round the TV compound for that comment – I suspect because it was true.
A quick note to my friends in Barolo: technology has caught up with you guys. There are obviously many, many wine shops over in the UK. On average, Barolo can be found 40 per cent cheaper in the United Kingdom. I could go to Majestic Wine round the corner from my home and get exactly the same bottle for significantly less without having to lug it around Italy for a few weeks.
So there you have another 20 minutes killed or crafted – depending on your opinion of what I do. You could call it filler. I call it fun! OK, grumpy fun, with a score settled.
But, other than engaging in knocking down institutions and pillars of the hierarchy, I always find that a bit of idle chat about Sean Kelly’s dinner choices the night before or what drinks sent me and Dan Lloyd under the table make for a good bit of banter.
Then there’s so much news from the teams that you pick up when you’re on site – you find out a lot. There’s no excuse for not being entertaining when not much is going on. That’s part of the job. If it sounds easy, then you’re doing it well.
I often compare commentary to that nightmare where you’re walking around town with no clothes on. On occasion, you find yourself completely exposed and your job is to find a hiding place, bury the issue and keep the show on the road. We’re like that old adage about a swan: all serene on the surface but going like the clappers underneath the surface. When I started my career in the BBC regions and then TV-am, I was told by both institutions that I was far too relaxed and laconic. That is indeed how I come across to some folk. I think it’s a kind of self-preservation mechanism for when things start to get a bit hairy. Some animals pretend to be dead when they’re in danger. I just chill out and crack a joke. I may appear to be cool and calm on the outside but I’m probably desperately tense and juggling for my life on the inside.
‘Kenny de ketele is at a simmer at the moment but he’s ready to boil over.’
13
Feed Station
The physical demands for a rider on a Grand Tour are enormous. In fact, it’s estimated that a rider will burn more than 6,000 calories a day, meaning that they are constantly trying to refuel their bodies with enough nutrition to make a very long journey over challenging terrain possible. Sure, the riders set off in the morning with gels in their pockets and full water bottles in the cages. And although these are replaced regularly, with the help of the poor sod
