So we have got the conversation ball rolling. To be fair, there is not much further for it to go before we get on air. ‘Sleep well, Sean?’ . . . pause . . . ‘Not bad. Me back’s a bit—’ (grimaces). And that’s it.
So what is Kelly eating? Baguette husks with hard cheese and regular jam as well. The food of champions. Or it was for many years. This is Belgian bikers’ brekkie. ‘Too many bloody carbs in the middle bit,’ Sean once explained. So, like many old-school riders have done for decades, he pulls out the soft centre of every baguette, then fills the empty shell with cheese and jam. Yum.
The mantra goes on. Not content with pulling out the fluffy bit, Sean moulds it into what I am sure were once the missiles of his youth. Not that he’s throwing them any more – he simply plays with them until they turn grey and have the texture of Blu-Tack.
‘Righty-oh. Eight thirty OK?’
‘Yep, see you then.’ And with that he’s gone.
‘Carol Tone! Come and join us!’ It takes me a second to realise Kathy, as warm as ever, is talking to me and has kept me a place.
As I slide in, Greg launches:
‘Eggs! There’s gotta be a better way! Eggs are different sizes, right? Water boils at different temperatures depending on altitude, right? So there is no genuine rule that says an egg is guaranteed soft boiled in three minutes, right? You know I’m right. So here’s the thing, we develop an egg sensor. I dunno, x-rays, ultrasound, there’s gotta be a way. A better way. Whaddya think, Crayol Tun?’
‘Greg, I don’t really mind how my eggs turn out.’
‘Well, I care!’ says Greg. ‘Look at all these, for cryin’ out loud. None of ’em right.’
In front of him Greg has probably eight eggs, all open and uneaten. None have passed the newly coined Greg’s Eggs Test. It’s about now I’m reminded of the teacher in Charlie Brown whose voice is a background muffle. ‘Mumble mumble eggs mumble mumble. Technology mumble mumble.’
‘You OK, Kathy?’ She goes from dazed to electrified in a second.
‘Sure am! Never better. How’s it going? How’s Sean’s driving holding up?’
Kathy is a marvel. I love chatting to her. I’m just about to go into Sean’s latest mountain rally session when bam! I’m slapped on the shoulder by Greg:
‘Ultraviolet! Doesn’t the wavelength alter depending on surface resistance? Does this change with the solidifying of the egg’s core?’
‘I don’t know, Greg.’
Dan Lloyd, anchor for Global Cycling Network (GCN) and an ex-pro, walks in. He’s wearing sunglasses he bought for too much money in a junk shop on the Adriatic coast. Green plastic Gucci, with graded brown lenses from the 1980s. On me they’d look dreadful. On Dan they’re just right. Certainly right for his hangover.
Two things get Dan animated: beer and money. He hates spilling either: ‘You owe me €60.’
‘What?’
Dan takes a weary sigh. Like a teenager faced with a parent he has lost all respect for, he takes a long breath and then fires off a staccato series of thoughts, all nailed together as a sentence, designed to fend off any interruption or any form of argument.
‘We got towed last night, you told me to park over by the garage, it’s the finish line, they lifted us last night, it’s €120, so you owe me €60.’
Without waiting for any reply he stands up, downs a cappuccino in one and leaves the breakfast room without another word.
It’s time to go.
‘It’s a bit of a dog’s breakfast. Other breakfasts are available.’
3
Drive to the Finish
7 a.m. The morning drive to the TV enclosure isn’t usually too bad, as we’ll have arrived in the middle of the night close to where we’re supposed to be. It gives us a chance to take a good look at what the finish will be like for the riders, and we’ll make various notes about what the pinch points are likely to be, where a rider can attack and what they’ll need to watch out for. Normally, Sean will be driving at this point, so I’ll be there, pen and paper in hand, as he makes lots of technical comments and/or expletives like: ‘Feck. That’s going to be shit!’
Sean is a master at finding a parking spot. This is absolutely vital to ensure a speedy getaway at the end of the day. Naturally, it helps being a former Grand Tour winner, and police and security guards seem to be queuing up to help him out. In France, he’s a huge name: everyone still remembers his seven consecutive victories in Paris–Nice and his string of stage wins on the Tour, Giro and his Vuelta title, not to mention his victories in the Monuments (classics) including Paris–Roubaix and Milan–San Remo. This means he’s given a bit more leeway than others who might get flagged to one side. Even so, finding the right spot to leave the car still remains something of an art. Occasionally even Sean gets this wrong, like when he parked in the pitch of an ice cream seller, who decided to block us in for revenge. Or the time we were given the thumbs up by a local cop who had his parking ticket book signed by Sean. All was good until we got the call from Captain Black – or the Tour de France Head of Facilities, to give him his official title. Upset him, and you’re off the race. And I mean off. Sean had to leave the commentary position while we were on air to move his car – or else. Seemed he’d parked in the Team Cannondale coach bay and had precisely two minutes to move it. Well, our position was about two miles away. Sean got there – and again found out how lucky he is to be him. The car was lifted back off the low loader, probably in acknowledgement of his Paris–Nice record. He also kept his all-important press badges.
One commentator
