Regardless of who’s driving, we have a rule that they are in charge of the stereo. The only radio station Kelly will listen to is Radio Monte Carlo for the daily sport news report. ‘Music? I find it very distracting,’ he says. ‘It’s a waste of energy listening to a load of bollocks.’ So it’s silence when he’s at the wheel, or RMC 94.2. Dan Lloyd, on the other hand, is a complete music monkey. It’s all the latest rap and dance music, and he has the infuriating habit of switching from one track to another halfway through so you never get to hear a complete song. To be honest, I hate most of the music that Dan plays apart from maybe a bit of alt-J or, rather bizarrely for him, his guilty pleasure: Richard Hawley. Whenever the rap attack gets too much, I just ask for a bit of Richard Hawley to replace whatever garbage I have been subjected to. The only thing in my opinion missing from most rap music is the letter C.
‘It’s thick rain. By that I mean sleet.’
Coming off Ventoux one year, Sean passed the honour of driving on to me. ‘You need the experience,’ he said. ‘You need to know what it’s like getting through these crazy crowds. Here’s the keys.’ And he chucked them at me.
On Alpe d’Huez, not only is there the issue of getting through the spectators at the end of a stage, there are also a lot of riders who regard it very much as their territory, and any vehicle, even if it’s a TV vehicle that’s broadcasting pictures of them all year, can be treated with disdain. They’ll knock the hell out of your car with cleated shoes and full bidons. It’s incredible that any hire company allows their cars to be used for the Tour because they’re guaranteed to be covered in dents and scratches by the end of it.
On this occasion we got stuck behind the publicity caravan and a giant can of Nestlé iced tea trying to get round a narrow corner. As the official evacuation backed up, one of the roadside Winnebagos decided it was time to try and join the line of priority vehicles who get to leave the crowded mountain first under escort.
The guy pushing into the line of Tour cars was not driving any old pumped-up camper van. This was the sort of vehicle that is regarded in camper circles as the Starship Enterprise. Galactic in scale, it would’ve dwarfed a mere tour truck twice over. It carried four motorcycles on the back and even had a garage for a small car. I speculated that the roof might have a helipad.
It clearly belonged to someone important and had been stationed halfway down the mountain as a relay for someone prepared to ride down to it from the top. Immediately we thought it had to be Oleg Tinkov’s private mobile hotel/entertainment centre. Despite the rule that no unbadged vehicles are allowed to enter the official evacuation line, this behemoth clearly believed it was beyond this ruling. But we saw no reason to treat it differently to any regular camper. So began the battle of wills between me in our black Skoda Estate and the driver of the gold monster.
Sean, with that familiar glint in his eye, was egging me on: ‘You’re not going to allow that, are you?’
Mr Tour Truck was convinced I would yield. But I was determined not to let Sean down. I was also driving a hire car that was already up to the limit of damage liability. There must have been €300 of scratches and dents on it already!
The last straw was when Mr Tour Truck let go all his airbrakes and lunged forward. It was a big move – but he didn’t follow through. He immediately slammed the brakes back on, sending the truck’s nose into a bobbing frenzy as the air suspension tried to cope with the now halting mass. This kangaroo manoeuvre raised the stakes. I went all in. The scratching sound still echoes in my mind.
So close were we to the truck that our wing mirror was now squashed flush with our bodywork. As I hit the accelerator it dragged itself along the side of his cab, fashioning a neat fold in the golden metal that ran about a metre in length and probably dented to a depth of 2cm. This was proper damage.
Mr Tour Truck now took a mental trip to the dark side and, for the only time I can remember, Sean looked worried. ‘Oh dear, he does not look happy at all!’
The still heavy traffic meant that we had been able to move only around 30m (100ft) down the road. We watched the driver climb down from his cab. A huge gorilla of a man, he inspected the damage and duly began leaping up and down like a cartoon troll. As you’d expect, the road was rammed with security, and several officers were busy restraining our friend from paying us a visit. It wasn’t long before we got the dreaded tap on the window.
The Tour Police are renowned for their no-nonsense behaviour towards anyone, particularly wayward media folk. We were in big trouble. There was a real possibility we would now lose our accreditation badges – a royal pain in the arse. If they had reached in and ripped them from the quick-release clips around our necks, we would have had to fly hastily home to continue the commentary from London off tube. Luckily, Sean’s reputation goes before him. Seeing Sean, the
