Passion: The Life Blood of Cycling

Remember those crazy South American football commentator ‘gooooool’ celebrations? These seem to get repeated on TV quite often in this country come World Cup time, and whilst I’m sure the editorial intent is for us to be amused at how another nation responds to sporting success, I always thought there was a subtly implied sense of superiority from, say, the BBC, our commentators patronisingly looking on at their hot-blooded counterparts’ exuberance as somehow amateurish, compared with our stiff-upper lip, controlled, British kind of way.

The reason I love the Giro d’Italia is that the race organisers have had a habit lately of giving commentary teams ample opportunity to really stretch their vocal chords in a way that would make those Brazilian fútbol crazies sit up and take note, and they oblige with gusto.  I watched stage 15 of the 2012 Giro first on Eurosport where the venerable David Harmon was screaming himself hoarse at the finish, and then found it again on YouTube where I watched – and listened to – the Italian TV coverage. Forget that this was a stage win by an Italian, in a race where the home nation seems to be having less and less success of late, this really was a stage that restored my faith in cycle racing: one of the best stages I’ve ever seen in a grand Tour, and the two commentators only added to the euphoria by completely letting their emotion getting the better of them. A strange phrase that, since surely losing a little bit of self control is what watching sport is supposed to do to people. No matter if you don’t understand Italian – passion sounds the same in any language.

It could be argued that it’s the riders that make the race rather than the percorso, but in recent years the Giro has consistently outshone its transalpine rival for enthralling racing. Whether the Tour is too big, there’s too much at stake, and that the emphasis on the tactics of control and defence – rather than attack – is a result of the French race’s predominance could generate a mini-novel of blogposts on its own. Is the traditional demanding final week in the Dolomites at the Giro really an incentive to dope? It’s a criticism that I’ve seen leveled at it, and ostensibly the reason why races like the Tour have reduced the number of kilometres and mountain-top finishes. But despite our Bradley’s outstanding win at this year’s Tour, for long stretches, and in the mountains where the race is supposed to come alive, what we somewhat reluctantly witnessed was Team Sky’s total dominance and control of the racing. Apart from Cadel cracking, it was like watching a wattage-controlled high-intensity Sky altitude training camp, day after day. Was the route not hard enough? Would it have made a difference anyway?  Undoubtedly if the route had been more challenging, Sky would have changed tactics and the result may wall have been the same. Whatever the  reason, I’d argue that the Giro better expresses what I consider to be ‘proper’ bike racing, where there’s something, an indefinable quality, that encourages riders to throw caution to the wind and try and make a race of it. Something in the water? There is a recipe on the peninsula for something called ‘Acqua Pazza‘ - 'Mad Water' after all…

Regardless of my opinions on the reasons, Stage 15 was undeniably an epic; I challenge anyone not to be moved by the action in the clip below, stunning racing augmented by two Italian commentators who ably add their quintessential latin passion to the race finale. Matteo Rabottini, a young pro with the Farnese Vini-Sella Italia team and son of former pro Luciano, thrilled the partisan crowd by holding off a storming Joaquim Rodríguez of Katusha in a pulsating finish. It was a performance of daring and bravery from the 24-year-old, who led the stage from almost start to finish, picked himself up off the tarmac after a fall in the wet at the foot of the final climb, and still had enough grinta to repel the challenge of the rampaging Rodríguez at the summit at Piani dei Resinelli. The Spaniard appeared to have timed his final effort to perfection to win the stage – as well as take the maglia rosa – by catching Rabottini with just 400 metres to go, but the proud Italian refused to let go of Purito’s wheel as he tried to accelerate past him, and then surprised him with a last-ditch winning effort to the line. And this after a gruelling 169km stage, alone for the most part through rain and mist over four categorised climbs – an exploit that is becoming a rarity in these days of almost palpable commercial pressure not to lose, rather than win. To an extent I think the outburst of emotion from both the British and Italian commentary teams is as much one of relief as anything else, relief that a race like this can still happen and a welcome indication that even ‘modern’ cycling still has this wonderful potential to help us lose ourselves completely in the pure excitement of the sporting spectacle.

Ken Hargrave – Our Cycling Champion

I lost one of my cycling heroes back in June. Ken Hargrave, who, along with his wife Doreen had taken me under their wings back in 1983 as a schoolboy riding for the Old Portlians, lost his fight with mounting illness and frailty. Although this was terribly hard to do, it was an honour to be asked by Doreen to write this Eulogy that the vicar read out at the service. I wish, as a farewell gesture, that I'd had the strength to read it out myself. Impossible.

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Long before the Internet took over as the supposed fount of all knowledge for racing results, cycle coaching, tips and advice - a lot of it a load of unbelievable rubbish, as he would often mutter - riders like us relied on wonderful people like Ken for good-natured support, encouragement and help. He was the epitome of the approachable club cyclist, a talented competitor in his own right, blessed with a selfless honesty, integrity, and a love of the sport he was keen to pass on to us newcomers, eager to learn. As well as unlimited access to his collection of 'Cycling Weekly' going back some half century or more, there'd be a seemingly infinite pool of experience willingly passed on, gems which affectionately became known, in certain circles, as 'Kenisms':

When do I drink when I'm in a race, Ken?

"Drink before you're thirsty. And eat before you're hungry. Little and often."

But what do I eat?

"Doreen's made some jam sandwiches in foil for your jersey pockets, here's a banana, and there's a cheese and pickle sandwich in the kitchen you should eat before we go." And invariably, at least two cups of her delicious thirst-quenching tea, too.

What tyre pressure should I run, Ken?

His experienced thumb was all that was required. He'd push it into my front and rear tyre in turn, and that cheeky grin and a wink would confirm I'd got it right, or the track pump would come out, and in a few moments we'd be ready to ride.

How do I ride a wheel, Ken? It looks really dangerous!

Hours of Sunday club runs though the lanes were the place where his advice was meticulously put into practice: "Don't look down at my back wheel; when you're riding, if you focus on my backside you'll be the right distance away and be able to see what's going on in the bunch around you too."

To an easily embarrassed 15-year-old boy, this seemed decidedly odd at the time, but now we all know. As with all things bike, he was absolutely right.

"And make sure you listen too: the swish of tyres on the road, and the sound of people changing gear means that something is happening: the racing has started. Keep your eyes AND ears open!"

His patience with us was legend, certainly when we first started out and were having trouble even finishing races. Perseverence was what counted:

"Stay in there, no heroics. Keep plugging away, and one day it'll 'click'."

I remember the evening it eventually did 'click' for me, a Thursday night at Brands Hatch, and it all happened just like he said. I stayed in the fast-moving bunch, having sipped and nibbled all race, stared at riders' backsides for longer than is advisable, and listened intently to the point of self-inflicted tinitus ... The shandy Ken bought me that evening at our usual haunt on the drive home really was the sweetest thing I've ever tasted.

That cycling epiphany - all thanks to Ken and Doreen - had given me a sense of freedom, of self-worth and secret pride that I'd struggled to find elsewhere. They'd made a five-foot boy feel ten-feet tall.

Along with our families there will no doubt be many among us here who have Ken and Doreen to thank for shaping us into the people we are today, and it's a debt of gratitude we'll no doubt never be able to adequately repay. Thanks to them, a life with cycling in that era seemed idyllic, much simpler, sunnier even when it rained. We really were young and carefree, as one of Ken's favourite riders wrote. Laurent Fignon was a favourite for his attacking, have-a-go riding style, and no doubt also for his matter-of-fact honesty and belief that cycling, even at the top level, should still be about having fun. It's no surprise that posters of the much-missed French champion still hang in Ken's garage alongside numerous bikes and other cycling paraphernalia, and I'm sure that's how many of us view our racing adventures with him. Simple, honest - physically challenging for sure - but fundamentally just great fun.

It wasn't always laughter and light though, as I'm sure Michael James will testify. There were moments when Ken could get quite exasperated with us, but rightly so. Sometimes we really weren't giving the bike the focus it deserved, were 'playing at it', and wasting our time. He wasn't angry that we might be wasting his time because he loved the bike too much, and neither was it that suddenly we weren't supposed to be enjoying ourselves. It was far more that Ken passionately wanted us to realise how important it was to make the most of whatever talent we might have - to be the best we could be. That sounds like a pretty good approach to the way we all ought to tackle everything we do in a lifetime, in my opinion, and it's an opinion shaped in no small measure by the man we've come here to honour today, a cycling champion in the truest sense of the word.

"Cycling was his life when I met him, and it always has been" Doreen told me last week, and for people who knew him, had the good fortune to ride with him or have been part of those teams in which he's been a pivotal character for so many years, we'll miss him dreadfully. But it's the team he's been in for over 60 years that will undoubtedly feel this terribly sad loss the most. But Doreen, you'll never be alone because we're team members too, not second-claim but fully-paid up members of Ken and Doreen's team, for life, and we'll be here for as long as you need us.

And to all of you - if you do two simple things in the next few weeks or months, here are a couple I'm sure Ken would appreciate. Firstly, just get out on your bike, ride, feel the freedom it offers you, and go and marvel at the beauty of the open expanses of the Ashdown Forest. The terrain is tough when you're on two wheels, but infinitely rewarding, and for this reason it's the place he truly loved when he was cycling. Do it, do it with friends, and do it soon.

And secondly, we're all wearing black today because it's the done thing, but if the truth were told, Ken hated black, especially when it came to bikes. He'd often lament the modern trend for bikes to be black, all naked carbon-fibre and anodised components, a marketing-fabricated image of 'mystery and stealth' to impart some feeling of speed. "Rubbish", he'd say. "All these bikes look like they're in mourning". So, when you get home later, go and take a look at your bike, and if it fits the description above, promise Ken that you'll make one easy change and at least swap out that sad black handlebar tape for something happy and bright. And then go out and ride with a smile on your face because you, like me, have been privileged enough to have known Ken Hargrave.

One To Treasure: Autographed Livre d'Or 1987

Even the man's signature shows his fun-loving side:

Right - Get that on eBay, pronto!!

I met Roche in Valloire in July 1996, in a blowing gale and single-digit temperatures as riders were ferried to an alternative start for the shortened stage to Sestrieres. His signature with the doodle of the bike was the same back then, and is a humourous indicator of how much he still loves cycling. You only have to chat with him for a moment to realise that he's not only a true professional who was one of the best in the world at his chosen sport, but that it was always so much more than just a job for him. His continued affection for cycling is obvious, and I'm delighted to report, highly contagious.

Stephen Roche - Born To Be A Rider

From Wikipedia:

Blarney is something more than mere flattery. It is flattery sweetened by humour and flavoured by wit. Those who mix with Irish folk have many examples of it in their everyday experience.

And so it was that two leading proponents of the genre - owner & compere Frank Beechinor and cycling hero Stephen Roche - came to provide us with a masterclass in the art, in an evening at Cadence Performance in Crystal Palace, one of a number of venues Roche has visited on a tour to promote his new autobiography, Born To Ride. I'm still buzzing about how much fun this was.

Remind me. Who is the book about?

I know the title of this post isn't exactly that of the book - which incidentally was going to be the darker and more interesting "Angels and Demons" - but it's my take on it. It's entirely intentional: Anquetil was clearly born to ride, as were Kelly and Cavendish. But Roche really was born to be a rider, in the completest sense of the word. As a fan, and undoubtedly for any sponsor, he's exactly the type of successful yet eloquent modern athlete I'd not only enjoy witnessing winning, as so often he did, but I'd also want to listen to and be representing my brand. He's effortlessly engaging, a marketing man's dream, with a commercial value beyond being a fast-moving logo-plastered sandwich board for a multitude of corporate backers. A prolific, stylish winner on the bike, you could always rely on Roche for a brilliant quote once off it. Gift of the gab, yes. Irish Blarney, if you like.

I always cringe when sportsman are asked to, for example, 'talk us through that second goal'. There's very little point, really. Do we simply expect too much from our sporting heroes? I admit it's far too easy to criticise footballers in particular for their banality, in no small part due to the ubiquity of the sport's coverage, and I'm unreservedly grateful that cycling is getting more of a look-in in the UK given the success of the British contingent on Team Sky. However, I'm nevertheless hard-pushed to find Cav's constant thanks for his team-mates particularly edifying. He's undoubtedly accurate and being genuine, minding his 'P's and 'Q's, but in my opinion he's not engaging anyone other than a very narrow audience of previously converted geeky followers. I'd like the real Mark Cavendish to stand up please, warts and all. Fortunately Wiggo has a tendency to be a bit more of a loose canon, prone to inadvertently saying something that - heaven forbid - doesn't fit in with strictly moderated sponsor 'messaging'. It's so much more interesting when he goes off-script. But when we talk about Roche, well, Roche is in a different league.

Some of the evening's anecdotes surrounding his exploits and antics are better known than others. On the 1987 La Plagne stage collapse - Liggett's memorable commentary maître d'œuvre - and so exhausted that he's unable to talk, he describes his communicating with the Tour doctor by blinking as 'not a great conversation'. The audience is in stitches. This alongside the much-publicised gem of a response to a TV interviewer as he lies prostrate in the ambulance, and 'not ready for a woman just yet'. From the Stephen Roche Story DVD, asked for the secret of his first stage-race success in the 1981 Paris Nice, a young Roche, already showing an excellent command of the language, reveals "Chez nous on mange beaucoup de patates" - in our house we eat a lot of potatoes. It's media-savvy, instantly endearing genius. Tonight perhaps only he could have got away with his highly amusing impression of Sean Kelly because he's a fellow Irishman and friend. I failed in an attempt to stifle my laughter, the flimsy urge for political correctness brushed aside by something simple, peurile, and most of all, fun. It was spot on.

It didn't matter that there was much talk about aspects of the book that as fans we were, for the most part, well aware of already. It was all there: his violent persecution by the Italian tifosi as 'a traitor' for taking the race to incumbent Giro winner and 1987 team-mate Roberto Visentini in what photographer Graham Watson describes as the 'best stage race he's ever seen'.

Visentini in his usual spot: on Roche's rear wheel.

On strategy for winning the Tour, he gave us revealing insights into the tactical nous for which he's held in particularly high esteem: the constant on-the-road observation and decision making, the evening planning for the days ahead, potential alliances with other teams, and the analysis of his rivals' state of both body and mind. And who thought bike racing was just about riding fast?

Make mine a Triple.

Similarly the revelation that he might not have won The Triple if it hadn't been for the weather. The 1987 Giro witnessed unseasonally cold conditions in the normally cauldron-like south, the Tour had hot days interspersed with the sort of colder, wetter weather Roche thrived in, and the World professional road race was run off in low temperatures and early-morning rain. I'd helped out with the supporting video presentation for the evening, and the clip that was shown of his rainbow-jersey winning ride - again, not widely broadcast in the UK, if at all, at the time - was met with a virtual standing ovation from the 100-plus guests. His move through a gap barely wide enough for his Benotto-taped Cinelli 64's was the epitome of audicity, the toothy smile breaking across the grubby face of a World Champion who'd earned his title competing in the rain and cold for 7 hours. The hair stood up on the back of my neck, because here we were standing next to the man that did that.

When asked to compare racing from then with now, the pressure on today's pros is something that Roche unsurprisingly has opinions on, not least I expect because it's the place where his son Nicholas plies his trade. For someone wrestling with the predictability of modern racing, I'm particularly interested in his views. Roche bemoans that fact the today's riders are too willing to ride for second place, for UCI World Tour points, to defend their 'interests' rather than seizing an opportunity to win. The result is that the radio-controlled racing has become formulaic and predictable, with Roche repeating his Carrera DS Davide Boifava's mantra 'to win you have to be prepared to lose'. His view that today's riders - still living in Armstrong 'era of the robots' - don't seem to enjoy the sport as much as they did in the past also chimes well with Laurent Fignon's Nous Etions Jeunes / We Were Young And Carefree - another recommended read. Whilst multilingual Roche may well have found the PR side of his work easy - and enjoyable - compared with most, he obviously still had to deal with the uncertainty and contractual wrangles brought about by his recurring struggles with injury. The overall tone is that modern cycling appears to have lost its sense of fun, that it's no longer anything like a game. Gone is respect, tradition and character, replaced with the modern-day practice of building riders up, pushing them as prodcuts, expecting so much on a sporting and commercial level, and then abandoning them when they fail - the fear of which means no one is prepared to take any risks. You can see this change slowly yet inexorably creeping in, and for me it's not a positive development.

Peter Cossins has done a fine job of bringing everything together in a highly enjoyable read. Despite being a massive fan of cycling from this era in particular - for reasons outlined in the paragraph above - it doesn't matter one iota that I was already aware of most of what has been written in the book. As The Washing Machine Post so eloquently points out, you knew what was coming, because you'd been interested all along:

Biographies and autobiographies suffer from the same intrinsic problem; most of the intended readership already know that the butler did it. the destination is often already well kent; the motivation for purchase is more about the journey.

Un champion du monde peut en cacher un autre ...

Now imagine being treated to a book - and career - review with the man himself. Roche augments the whole experience with has insights, amusing anecdotes, banter and witticisms. All in all, a wonderfully enjoyable evening, and enough to make me want to jump aboard that old steel bike, ditch the helmet and feel the wind in my greying hair, to go and ride with all the enthusiasm of the 20-year-old carefree young man I was back when Roche was astounding us all with his 1987 'annus mirabilis'

I'm well known as a died-in-the-wool Hinaultista, but I'm quickly gravitating towards Roche after this evening. My wife Kelda and I hung around to the end of the event to get him to autograph a multitude of my 1987 copies of Miroir, Vélo and Bicisport, and he seemed to genuinely enjoy looking back at the images. He surely wouldn't be human if there was no lingering nostalgia for the pro rider he once was, and I'd guess that it's undoubtedly the case. Plans are underway, through Frank's various contacts, to get Le Blaireau up to Cadence for a similar evening, but he's really gonna have to go some to match the Irishman's charm, to be sure.

Will We Be Dancing On The Alpe in 2013?

Here's me showing the boys how to let their sweat-sodden, salt-encrusted hair down in Carry-Le-Rouet, after we'd all completed the end of the final stage of A Travers in July 2009. If I hadn't taken up cycling, I'd probably have been a dancer. I'm not referred to as 'Mincer' for no reason, riding around (and walking, come to that) looking like the unholy bastard (and admittedly miraculous) lovechild of and Alan Carr and Graham Norton.

There's clearly the heady mix of relief and euphoria, the plentiful cheap alcohol carried by hyper-oxygenated red blood cells to flood my brain, causing me to show some uncharacteristic joie de vivre. Because underneath I'm absolutely seething: as documented elsewhere in the blog, I was pipped to the finish down on the Med coast by Jamesy, yet a-bloody-gain.The man has no class. Can't he let me win? Just once? Can we just not be racing each other all the time?

So, come the Alpe in 2013 (he's never ridden it, despite my repeated attempts to get him to do it over the years, so I have the advantage of familiarity) I promise that for once there'll be no more nice guy, none of my usual 'won't it be nostalgic and sentimental to ride up together' and finish like a couple of 1986 hand-in-hand Greg & Bernards. Instead I'm gonna behave just like him, the competitive sod, and even though it's not a race and it doesn't really matter, I'm gonna get to the top before him. Whatever it takes. I might even get an accomplice to stand along the route taking photos near the top.

Whooh! Hark at me! Call me Macho, rather than Mincing, Mike Curtis, clearly trying the shake off the effeminate tag (it's probably the one I left attached to the collar of the delightful chiffon blouse I just bought myself).