ANNUAL VOLUME 6
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Contents Foreword Richard Williams . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 Paolo Ciaberta Milano-Sanremo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 Guy Andrews Secteurs. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38 Daniel Sharp Giro d’Italia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72 Geoff Waugh Chasing motorbikes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 118 Gerard Brown Tour of Romandie . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 156 Marthein Smit Kermis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 184 Wig Worland Grass track . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 212 Olaf Unverzart Descending . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 240 Taz Darling Tour of Britain . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 274 Image details . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 318
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Foreword Richard Williams, chief sports writer, the Guardian At times during 2012 it was as though British cycling had discovered some glorious new drug, a powerful psychotropic substance with absolutely no harmful side effects. After 75 years of efforts seldom remarkable enough to engage the attention of the wider public, a British rider finally won the Tour de France and for a couple of weeks the country turned yellow in celebration. When the same rider went on to win the Olympic time trial almost in the same breath, on a perfect day in front of vast crowds, the yellow turned to gold. Amazingly, this was no chemically induced hallucination. Bradley Wiggins was a national hero. Two moments in particular, both of them from the Tour, made this a season to be remembered with special clarity and pleasure. The first was the sight of Mark Cavendish’s rainbow jersey bulging with more than half a dozen bidons on the stage to La Planche des Belles Filles. In the first week of the race here was the world champion – the man just named the greatest sprinter of all time by L’Équipe – carrying water to team-mates who were urgently pursuing an overarching strategy that had no place for him. The second was that of Wiggins himself returning the favour as the peloton streamed out of the tunnel under the
Tuileries and on to the Rue de Rivoli for the last time. The yellow jersey drove to the front of the line and did a turn to give Cavendish the best possible chance of increasing his number of consecutive victories on the Champs-Élysées to four and his career total of Tour stage wins to 23. Cavendish’s frustration at no longer being the recipient of prioritised tactics was understandable and could not be entirely disguised. But the way he kept it in check and fulfilled his duties as a team player – even leading the peloton down the rain-slicked descent from Port de Lers to the foot of the Mur de Péguère during the stage from Limoux to Foix – indicated that Team Sky’s success was not just down to Dave Brailsford’s aggregation of marginal gains but also to the human qualities of the riders hired to execute a carefully tailored plan. Few of Cavendish’s predecessors as world champion can have worn the famous jersey with greater pride, and that blistering finish in Paris was his reward – although probably no consolation for his inability to win the Olympic road race a week later. These were imperishable images, symbols of a year in which hundreds of thousands of spectators packed every metre of verge and pavement for the Olympic road races and
time trials. Symbols of a year in which the British sporting public learnt to enjoy the sight and sound of a derny rider pacing a field from which Chris Hoy and Victoria Pendleton emerged triumphant. Elsewhere Ryder Hesjedal’s win in the Giro d’Italia – the first Grand Tour victory for a Canadian – tipped a hat to the pioneering successes of his compatriot Steve Bauer in the 1980s. Those who were unable to offer a wholehearted cheer for the return of Alberto Contador and Alejandro Valverde or for the Olympic success of Alexandre Vinokourov could take heart and pleasure from the achievements and huge promise of such younger riders as Peter Sagan of Slovakia, Tejay van Garderen of the United States, Nairo Quintana of Colombia and Thibaut Pinot and Pierre Rolland of France. If it was suddenly possible to entertain the thought that Britain had become the dominant influence in world cycling, there was plenty going on outside the bubble of local euphoria. If there is a wish for the future, it might be for the sport’s governing body to pull its head out of the sand and insist on every major participant running a women’s team alongside the men, with linked television coverage. That, too, would be progress.
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Gerard Brown
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Tour of Romandie Mid-channel, Wednesday We find ourselves again in the vehicle pod of the Tunnel, your photographer mildly malcontent with this undignified mode of cross-channel transit, my words of encouragement – it’s quicker – only just emollient. However, once out into the slashing rain of northern France, destination somewhere a long distance to the south-east, we are back in the groove and all systems go, under a sky the colour of a slag heap to catch a sight of the blue and green Sky over the Tour de Romandie. Romandie forms that part of Switzerland where the natives speak French, the Suisse Romande – its name referring to the Latin derived romance language. One of the old songs they sing by the fireside hereabouts talks of “having the curiosity to take the trouble to climb a mountain”. The mountain in question, the Moléson, rises above the medieval town of Gruyère, its name synonymous with cheese. Take note: fromage in French slang means ‘a cushy number’ but we all know about mountains. This promises to be a contrary week. The Tour de Romandie has run without break from 1947, a handy run in for the Tour, occupants of the podium an illustrious roll call, and the very romance of the name promises a real treat – a bike race through glorious Swiss countryside. That’s the spur… for us, if not them. Buchères, France. Thursday, 9am. Rain En route from the overnight stop to the start, a nimble dart into a tabac for a copy of L’Équipe. I open to the cycling page, goggle at the picture and flourish it to your photographer at the wheel. Wiggins, British tricolour road race champion’s jersey, his arms rising to the victory salute, out of the pack, first sprint win of his career. Went from 350 metres. Sat up for a moment to take a glance behind him before, as the L’Équipe reporter puts it, “standing
up again on his matchstick legs to give the Swiss spectators a sight of how sharp he is”. The salute was “hesitant”, according to the report, as if he wasn’t quite sure how to do it, unaccustomed as he was. In the approach to the main event, the Tour, Sky is obviously laying down the challenge very hard. Geraint Thomas won the prologue. Race by the throat. Cadel Evans, the 2011 winner, is on a facer here. Montbéliard, France. 13km from the Swiss border. Thursday, 11am In the general aimless wandering around, hunting for the source of our accreditation, race due to leave in an hour, the usual sense of nothing much happening, blare of the tannoy rasping out details of riders as they sign on, the race announcer unfamiliar to us who are accustomed to Daniel ‘Honeythroat’ Mangeas, we encounter Graham Watson, minus the curious polished black flowerpot he sports as a crash helmet. Friendly exchange of greetings before the conversation turns to serious matters: your photographer eager to explore the merits and demerits of some new Series 4 gubbins or other, definitely not off the shelf Dixons, and Watson pointing out that it needs a different battery pack, which is a minor drag, more gear to lug around in the waistband tool belt, and sundry other animadversions of quintessential interest to the professional shutterbug. He turns, then, kindly to me: “Are we boring you?” “I’m enthralled,” I say. The teckernickerlogickal round up completed, Watson strolls off in search of his driver; we home in, following his pointer, on our contact. Laminates waiting at the finish. We’re in and head off. Until you get the plastic you’re no more than a trespasser, compelled to jump barriers and wriggle through gaps in the fencing or wait on the charity of insiders with free passes. I’ve been there. It’s unreliable. A short way into the Swiss countryside, the phone rings. It’s the Sky press officer –
my request for a sit down with Chris Froome has been met. That evening at their hotel. Between the arranging of an appointment, generally through an intermediary, and the keeping of it by the subject of attention, there’s often a yawning disparity. We also serve who only stand and wait. Like actors waiting to go on stage, we have to keep our energies simmering lightly, not to go stale, ready for the moment when they have to go full belt. Les Vacheries, Swiss canton of Jura, Thursday evening The Sky hotel shows the early signs of a team’s arrival, mechanics already at work, various staff members scurrying, the chef in full swing. There’s always something of the intruder about a lurking interviewer; a stalker, an unwanted guest. Down, suspicion, down, stick to the job, be cool, open, friendly and interested. Crush impatience. Sorry I’m late. Noooooooooo, not at all. Interview conducted, we come away with excellent input from Froome, arrange with Dave Brailsford to talk tomorrow, then a favour to head of performance science Tim Kerrison in the matter of photographs for their file which means a request to talk to him will probably be received well. Friday, en route to the start On the way down the more direct forest track next morning, signs of efficient logging and the soothing waft of resinous fresh air. Nature’s denizens are out on patrol – the sudden glimpse of a red squirrel making for the pines, a fox scoots across, rooks caw. Something incongruous about heading for a bike race out of such rural fastness. The spirits are torn. Duty superimposes. Beyond the woods into open country interspersed with villages. Switzerland looks as if an army of cleaners goes out each morning with brush and dustpan to tidy up. Even the cows are herded out of view, in case they don’t stand in pleasing
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patterns. The fields are spangled with the small narcissi, cowslips and white anemones of spring. That, however, is about as far as the charms of the paysage go. La Neuveville, by Lake Bienne. Later on Friday A rather kitsch burg – Swiss choc-box décor, half timbering, gaudily painted gable ends and eaves, fancily fretworked bargeboards and the like, though to be fair, La Neuveville got there long before the choc-box painters. In fact, it’s celebrating its 700th anniversary as a ‘new town’ this very year. Brailsford rendezvous set for noon, we are loitering by the bus at 11.30am, Brailsford quick on the jump: “Let’s do it now.” So we do the needful and then stroll off to weave through the thicket of riders at the start. Pat McQuaid networking, having twitted Wiggins for giving a time to the minders. I have a quick chat with Danilo Hondo. “How many more years, do you think…?” Suntan smile: two. A couple of the Europcar boys slip away from the bunch out of the sun’s glare and into the shade of a pedestrian tunnel. The stage rolls out, Cadel Evans (winner in 2011) brings up the rear, smiling. Relaxed or unfocused? He’s way off the pace. Does he have the mental force to once more surmount the psychological mountain he climbed last year to win the big one? We skirt the course to a vantage point on the day’s major climb, armed with a couple of doorstop ham sandwiches and bottles of pop from a bar in a sleepy hamlet. No satisfaction in the backdrop of scenery. A distant line of snowy peaks, in haze. The race is attended by the Vaudoise chapter of Yamaha hairies. Strings of them. They blast along the course in small posses, apparently part of the security setup but making more noise than obvious contribution to safety. Police motos cruise steadily in their wake, like knights of the blood onto the field after the smelly rustic oik skirmishers have quit the scene… infra dig to mingle.
Piste de l’Ours, first category climb. Saturday On the way down the valley away from our night halt, we stop to talk briefly to two men hollowing out a short length of Scots pine with two moulding planes, one dated 1890, the other a newer fashioning, boxwood. Curiosity compels the stop and my own background in furniture making adds to the interest. They pose reluctantly for a portrait but here are two artisans practising an ancient craft. Further on, we pass a chalet – red shutters embossed with marquetry yellow sheep – whose tiny front garden is populated with gnomes, looking remarkably like Evans. While we wait on the bosky ‘Bear’s Track’ col, I hit the phone to secure us a berth for the night in Crans-Montana, handy for the Sky hotel, one interview to go. The ski resort is abundantly supplied with hotels, most still closed, those which are open hideously expensive. The list dwindles, call after call. Then a man answers. Hotel not open but, if we’re stuck, call back. Five calls on, I ring back. “We’re stuck.” Okay, he will sort us out a room. I ask how much. “Honestly? Nothing.” And so it proves to be. “But why?” I ask as he shows us the room in the deserted premises. Someone did the same for him once, in Germany. He’s passing on the kindness and, maybe, one day we’ll come back as guests. He recommends a restaurant, tells us we are free to come and go as we please, to leave the key on top of this shelf. Waiting for Kerrison to arrive, I listen to a journalist from a popular, well-known velocipedic organ, interviewing Froome and marvel at, one, the racing man’s singular forbearance, so to give up his time yet again, and two, the listless nature of the interviewer, not a flash of enthusiasm. Final time trial. Sunday A couple of decent bottles for our saviour of last night followed by breakfast. Church bells chime the early hour in a town barely
yet awake and up and doing. We eat and, primed, set off. Not easy to locate a car park. Gendarmes everywhere and entirely unhelpful. We resort to that better option: our own resources. We spend an hour or so tramping uphill and down in search of team buses having parked our car way back in town. The map of the Départ is near useless, so it’s a matter of refining options so that we can be clear to get away as smartly as possible. This involves a long hike back to the car, driving back and parking, rather more precariously, on a verge near the start and a better line of team buses… Sky, a chat with Yates – “Are you giving Brad coaching in descending?” “No.” Wiggins is out of yellow – Sanchez has won the last two stages – but Sky’s leader put two minutes into him in the Paris-Nice final TT. Yates is upbeat – “It means he can wear our team skinsuit”. We walk past Andrew Talansky, huggermugger with Allan Peiper. Too blustery a wind. Ditch the disc wheel. Sage decision. The word goes swiftly round this sector of the Village Départ. We watch the action on the ramp for a while, head off for a closer vantage on the course itself, lesser riders flying through, and we’re done. Having to leave before the result – an eighthour drive ahead of us – I text Yates later for the news. Wiggins overall and time trial. He shipped his chain, switching to the small ring, two minutes into the ride but stayed lucid – even admitted that not long ago he’d have overreacted, “thrown all the toys out of the pram”. Commendable cool. We drive on, absorbing our own dose of pressure. Another dark side street, another hotel, 11.30pm, back on the road at 5.30am. An inveterate long-distance car rally man, your photographer finds this sort of thing altogether run of the mill. Not mountain but assuredly not fromage either. Graeme Fife
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ESSENTIAL CYCLING BOOKS FROM BLOOMSBURY
For further information and a full list of all our titles, visit: www.bloomsbury.com
Credits Editor: Guy Andrews Assistant Editor: Ian Cleverly Design: Jonathan Briggs and Jonathan Bacon Photography Assistant: Jordan Gibbons Publisher: Bruce Sandell Advertising: Andy Hill Marketing: Sam Butler Wholesale manager: Mike Conway
Contributors to this annual include: Words: Michael Barry – former professional cyclist and author Colin O’Brien – freelance sports writer and Rouleur contributor Ian Cleverly – managing editor of Rouleur Graeme Fife – author and playwright Ben Greenwood – former under-23 British road race champion Jo McRae – fitness expert Tom Southam – writer and former professional cyclist James Stout – former racing cyclist and writer Herbie Sykes – author and Rouleur contributor Richard Williams – Guardian chief sports writer Pictures: Guy Andrews – rouleur.cc Gerard Brown – gerardbrown.co.uk Paolo Ciaberta Taz Darling – tazdarling.com Olaf Unverzart – unverzart.de Daniel Sharp – danielsharpphoto.com Marthein Smit – martheinsmit.com Geoff Waugh – waughphotos.com Wig Worland – wigworland.com Special thanks go to: Peter Guest at Image Laboratory, Edwin Ingram at Tapestry, Brian and Chris at BDI and to all the race organisers, team managers and riders who allow us to get closer to the sport. Printed and bound in Spain by Cayfosa Published by Rouleur Books An imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 50 Bedford Square London WC1B 3DP Rouleur magazine is published eight times per year ISSN 1752-962X Rouleur Publishing Limited 1 Luke Street London EC2A 4PX (+44) 207 199 3810 WWW.ROULEUR.CC © 2013 Rouleur Limited ISBN 978-1-4081-8165-2 Copyright remains with the Publisher (Rouleur Ltd) so no part of this book may be copied or reproduced without the written consent of both the publisher and the contributor.
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