Before the rider answers into the jostling multicoloured microphones, there’s a muffled chorus of ‘Oh, FFS . . .’ from all the other reporters who have made the scene.
If it’s Mark Cavendish in front of you, and he’s in the mood for mischief, you get the bullet: ‘Using me hands. Next question.’ He points at another more capable reporter and you’re done.
‘How do you feel?’ is a question excusable only for those for whom English is not a first language. For the rest, this is a question that falls from the mouths of only those at the lame end of the broadcast journo spectrum. Yes, it may well be an open-ended question that can’t be answered with a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’. But asking it means you’ll be found out as either green or lazy. It’s too common. Pack it in.
Win, and you talk. Lose, and you walk
Some riders really resent the media and PR part of their job. It is an inconvenient by-product of success. As a stage winner, or race leader, there is a press conference to attend. Everyone else can go.
Cycling is not a stadium event, so there is usually a journey to be getting on with at the end of a long day’s racing in order to get into position for the following stage in the morning. This inevitably means that time spent talking with the press is a nibble at the precious rest and preparation schedule of the big name cyclist.
Yes, you can remind riders – and their own team manager will do – that public relations is indeed part of a tidy contract that brings them, if they are good, great rewards. Cycling is a sport that relies almost entirely on private sponsorship. And the sugar daddy team owners and race organisers need to see the stars wearing their kit and talking nicely about their day. It’s a brand management thing. And to keep the wheels from coming off the bandwagon, the stars are expected to play along.
So sorry, superstar, the contract clearly states: ‘You must suck it up and engage with the press and public . . . even when you are physically and mentally shot to bits.’ (Obviously, they put this in lawyer speak.)
What the contract does not say, however, is that they have to like it. And often they don’t. This can make for a stressful time in front of mikes and cameras. The way this is handled often reflects on the personality of the rider – or ‘victim’, as they sometimes see themselves.
The Tough Guy
Mark Cavendish’s twitching jaw muscle has become legendary in the world of cycling journalism. Once that starts to go, you know you’re in for a rough ride.
Meet Tim: BBC trainee. Nervous, overawed and underqualified. He’s been parachuted in to have a go at a sport that is frankly way down the pecking order at the Beeb, what with the distractions of Wimbledon and Match of the Day.
Tim has all the badges. Tim, therefore, has all the access. Tim is now standing in front of a man who has sized Tim up. Cav is ready. Tim is not. Let battle commence:
Tim: ‘Hi! I’m Tim.’
Cav: Silence. Jaw twitching. Eyes narrow.
Tim [perspiring]: ‘Right, let’s start off with today, shall we?’
Cav: ‘No, let’s end with today. One question!’
Tim: ‘Your people said five minutes.’
Cav: ‘One question. Or none, if you like. There’s a queue behind you.’
Tim has now dropped his notes: ‘Er . . . how do you feel?’
Cav: ‘Alright, thanks for askin’. See ya.’
Cav is now addressing Daniel Friebe’s microphone. Daniel is a known and trusted ITV reporter who immediately settles the nerves with a well-judged, insightful question. Meanwhile, Tim is busy pushing through the crowd with apparently very little blood left in his face.
Later, at the bar, he’s talking to BBC’s cycling lead Simon Brotherton, a kindly man. Simon has the look of a counsellor about him. Tim is venting, in spitting whispers, at the sheer injustice of it all: ‘Frankly, I find Mister Cavendish simply impenetrable.’
‘Here’s to Cav’ was the giggling toast at the Eurosport table.
The Psychiatrist
Chris Froome has a reputation for being, well, a bit bland. He is most certainly not. Behind the choirboy facade is a man very capable of saying boo to a goose – or indeed bollocks to a journalist, albeit in an oblique manner that you may not fully comprehend until long after you have left the scene. Hours later and well into a couple of pints of wine, journalists have been known to suddenly emerge from deep thought: ‘Hang on a mo!!! I think I’ve been insulted!’ Chris Froome is the thinking assassin’s assassin. Beware.
Everyone should realise that Froome-Dog, as he is known, is not a pack animal. He hunts alone. He even hunts his friends. Richie Porte was a roommate and best friend of Froomie for years. Chris was helped to much glory by his Aussie pal. Then Richie departed for BMC for the chance to spread his own wings. When Richie was on the cusp of winning the Dauphiné of 2017, Froome-Dog went rabid on his mate’s ass. He organised a cross-team bully squad to attack his former teammate and later speared through a corner on a challenging descent in a move of such audacity that the commissaires initially thought they couldn’t sanction it because it was so brutally brilliant in terms of TV drama. Richie lost the race that he’d led by over a minute. So shaken was he by the move that a few weeks later, when the very same corner was repeated at the Tour de France, he was so
