Now, I have had some drinks in my time. Toddy in Tuvalu, made from coconut tree sap; Bissap in Burkina Faso, made from hibiscus flowers; Arrack in Sri Lanka, made from palm syrup; whiskies, eau de vies, and a myriad other types of firewater from all over Planet Earth. But if you put them all on a table and I had to pick just one, I would chose Italian Hells Angel Father Christmas Juice every time. It was fabulous. Smooth as you like with a donkey-kick finish.
‘I made it myself,’ he said proudly. ‘It’s delicious,’ I said, handing it back. ‘No, no, no. That is your bottle, we have plenty.’ He gestured to a pyramid of unopened bottles stacked just yards away in the dancing shadows. ‘Enjoy!’
And I did.
I don’t know how I got to my hotel room that night. In fact, I don’t know much about what happened after perhaps my third gulp of grappa. There is a photo somewhere of me wearing what appears to be a sun hat standing at the rear of my new band of brothers. I have my arm raised, shouting cheers towards the camera. Soon after this was taken, I must have passed into oblivion.
I awoke the next morning in a beautiful room around 30km (18 miles) away from the mountain party. As I came to, I realised I was very cold indeed. I lay spreadeagled on a king-sized bed with large French windows flung open to a modest balcony. We were facing east, so the morning sun was pouring past gently waltzing net curtains. From the bed, the view contained nothing but sky. I was clearly still at altitude. It was then I looked down to see that I was completely naked, save for one foot that still had a shoe and sock on it. Then I saw all the clothes strewn around the room. I had clearly undressed myself and performed a dance of death while trying to get my trousers off over the shoe. Luckily I’d landed on the bed instead of tipping over the balcony and down the gorge that fell away 300m (1,000ft) or so from my hotel, perched on the mountainside.
Later that morning, with dark glasses and aspirin doing a lame job on my headache, I saw my Slovakian and Sicilian friends as they unloaded their barrier truck. ‘Was it you guys that took me home last night?’ No words were returned. What I did get was uproarious laughter and the shaking of heads as they worked on, pouring with sweat. To this day, I still don’t know how I made it to safety that night. I remain concerned that there may be a sequence of incriminating pictures awaiting release on to the internet.
‘Not too hot, not too cold, just like the three bears’ porridge.’
21
The Greatest Ride
What makes a great ride is not always as simple as winning a bike race. What truly stirs the emotions, certainly with me as a commentator, is when undiluted human endeavour is displayed in its myriad forms: fortitude, panache, bravery, doggedness, flamboyance, verve and sheer guts. Cycling has always been about going deep. And the deeper you go, the darker it can get.
Greatness isn’t always accompanied by champagne and laurels. Sometimes it comes with blood and bandages. From my position as a commentator, I’ve had the privilege of sitting at the finish line and witnessing these extraordinary feats from a group of sportsmen that put so much of themselves into this dramatic sport.
The greatest riders have always been the ones able to suffer for longer than the rest. Think of Jacques Anquetil, Fausto Coppi, Gino Bartali. But it wasn’t just innate talent that helped them win. Sure, they had that in spades, but never forget how important is sheer bloody-mindedness. It’s perhaps almost the most vital strand of any successful rider’s DNA.
Post race, commentators are often given to pondering great rides of the past over a beer or at dinner. As a group, we are in awe of those about whom we speak. It’s a reverence. And we often drift into a mild cycling quiz, asking questions of each other. Testing. Wondering. There used to be a regular question that drifted in: ‘What’s the greatest ride for you, then?’ In recent times, I’ve witnessed some remarkable rides that have had me pouring emotion from the commentary box. And they haven’t all been famous victories, either.
Iljo Keisse on the Tour of Turkey 2012 led the pack into Izmir by 16 seconds at the flamme rouge. He fell on a right-hander, remounted and then dismounted again to put the chain back on. Finally on his way, he then held off big sprinters like Alessandro Petacchi and Marcel Kittel in a drag race to the line.
Think of Nairo Quintana on the Tour 2015. He was second in the general classification, behind Froome, and his do-or-die push in the Alps had me out of my seat and willing him on. First he did it on La Toussuire, then he dropped his rival again on the following stage on Alpe d’Huez. It was amazing.
Then there was Thomas De Gendt up the Stelvio Pass at the Giro in 2012, beating off Michele Scarponi by nearly a minute and coming very close to stealing the entire race.
And who can forget Steve Cummings’ stage victory on the 2015 Tour, when he bridged to Romain Bardet and Thibaut Pinot on the way up to the airfield at Mende, winning on Nelson Mandela Day for the South African team MTN–Qhubeka?
These were great rides. There are many more. Some you’ll find elsewhere in this book. But if you’re looking for an historic ride in recent times, and possibly of all time, look no further than the Giro d’Italia on 25 May 2018 and Chris Froome’s extraordinary stage victory at Bardonecchia, where his 80km (50-mile) solo break clinched the Giro. It was awesome – in the correct use of the term. I remain, as do many, simply in awe of the achievement.
