The stage win was remarkable, but the implications even more so. Victory here put him in the pink jersey, and, with only an individual time trial to come, had to all intents and purposes won him the Giro itself. He was now the holder of all three Grand Tour titles simultaneously, something that had not been achieved in the modern era.
The reaction to what should be more widely regarded as an historic victory, especially now that Froome has been vindicated over the Salbutamol case, was, sadly, mixed. The New Zealand rider George Bennett poured scorn and suspicion on the performance by saying live on TV, ‘No way. He did a Landis. Jesus!’ (Floyd Landis famously put in an astounding performance at the 2006 Tour de France at Morzine to win the race, only to be found positive for traces of testosterone later.) Later, Bennett was quoted in the press: ‘He made a bigger comeback than Easter Sunday.’
I overheard one French commentator, who has always referred to Froome as The Kenyan, say, ‘Hmmm. So the jersey passes from one asthmatic to another.’ (Froome had taken the jersey off Simon Yates, a rider whose team paperwork in 2016 meant his own permitted anti-asthma treatment was not properly registered. He served a four-month suspension.)
I believe that Froome put everything into that day, drawing on all his resources – emotional, psychological, physical. He went all-in on every level. He drew on the anger and frustration of what had happened in the months leading up to it. That anger is a very big part of what drives him and always has. He got angry with Wiggins when he had to look after him in 2012. He’s vicious when he needs to be. He’s the ultimate predator. And this victory was the ultimate two fingers up to the press who had been hounding him constantly over the Salbutamol case. Likewise he stuck it to his opponents, fellow riders who had publicly spoken out against him racing the Giro and who now fell silent. He had rounded on his critics using his legs, spirit and formidable intelligence. It was a cathartic moment.
Personally, I feel great sympathy for Chris Froome. Every victory he achieves is received only grudgingly by press and public alike. There are always questions over his wins, and when he doesn’t hit that stellar form, there are questions about that too. What does a guy have to do? It’s ironic that he equips himself so politely and respectfully in public yet gets such negative press. I believe in the future, as his career is fully quantified, Froome will be treated much more kindly.
So whose was the greatest ride ever? For me, the question has a definitive answer. Froome’s attack that day and subsequent stage win and ultimate Giro victory was an other-worldly performance. We won’t see such a ride again. Chapeau, sir!
‘It’s Chris Froome that will be in the Colombian sandwich.’
22
The Other Bikers
There are more motorbikes following Grand Tour races than ever before. Some of them are essential to the broadcast and wider media. Some are not.
Now, I like motorbikes. I have one myself. In 1993 I completed what was known as a Super Course. I still can’t believe it, but in the space of just 10 days I went from total novice to the owner of a full motorcycle licence. I was, remarkably, suddenly allowed to ride absolutely any motorcycle on sale, no matter what capacity. It was a licence to kill . . . myself.
Not surprisingly, you can no longer do such a short Super Course: the accident rate in graduates was rather high. Having riders with just 10 days’ experience spanking around, potentially on superbikes, is no longer deemed wise. Surely, you are thinking, no one would be mad enough to buy a high-powered motorcycle with under two weeks of riding experience.
Er, hello?
I went from training on a 125cc Honda Plastic to being the proud owner of a Harley-Davidson FXR Evo 1,360cc Police Bike. It was madness.
I remember going along to Warr’s Harley-Davidson just off the King’s Road to collect my treasure. When I got there, it was standing outside the wash shop, on a back road, looking amazing. All paid up, I swung my leg over it and levelled it before setting off. It weighed a ton. I was in trouble. Suddenly I realised I was in charge of something of which I had absolutely no experience. It was like going from flying kites to a Spitfire. Sure, I had the paperwork. But nothing else, let alone a speaking voice. I was terrified.
I started her up and gently let the clutch begin to bite. Slowly I moved into the road. As I grabbed a handful of revs, the salesman came out of his office and waved. I waved back. With my clutch hand . . . Booom! Aargh!! The bike lunged forward and I was thrown back, forcing my only gripping hand to wind open the throttle further.
In super-slow motion, this would have looked amazing. Like something you might find on YouTube under ‘Fat Ballet Biker’, with the soundtrack of ‘The Blue Danube’ accompanying subtitles:
‘This is Houston: Apollo, you are clear of the tower.’
I hurtled along, rattling windows as if I’d been shot out of a cannon. I fired past frightened kids being scooped up by mothers. ‘Wanker’, mouthed one.
I pulled on the brakes in panic, the machine coming to such a dramatic halt I nearly went over the handlebars. The engine stalled.
I sat there white as a sheet, panting. ‘What the hell have you done, you mad arse??’ I murmured.
And I had a
