The late show
Ned is infuriated when the pros agree not to race during a race
Stage six of the Giro d’Italia was one of the longest days of my life. It wasn’t simply that my hotel room overlooked the car park in which both AG2R Citroën and Jumbo Visma had parked their flotilla of team vehicles, though that was challenging enough given that their hardworking team of soigneurs and mechanics were clattering around seemingly all night. Neither was it simply because I had no idea how to manipulate the cord to lower the shutters, which meant that bright Calabrian sunlight filled my room at 5.30am. Nor was it because, after breakfast, we had to find a petrol station with an air pump and nurse the flat tyre we had accrued in Sicily back to life ahead of our two-hour drive to the finish line. All these things added to the length of the day, but they didn’t define its sheer endless horizon. The race did that.
Confronted with a warm, coastal wind that had mysteriously switched, without telling anyone, from the supportive tailwind that had been widely forecast to a naggingly hostile headwind along the length of a 200km, one-directional slog north, the peloton simply decided to down tools.
When the flag dropped at kilometre zero, and only after an astonishingly superfluous 9km neutral zone, the sum total of ABSOLUTELY NOTHING happened. Thomas de Gendt, on policing duty for his Lotto Soudal team leader Caleb Ewan looked at Pieter Serry, who was performing the same role for Mark Cavendish’s Quick Step Alpha Vinyl, and they both grinned. There was not a single attack: no Drone Hoppers, nor Bardianis. No Eolos, nor anyone else for that matter. Nada.
Now, when this happens, there is a generalised wave of euphoria that ripples through the peloton. It is matched only by a wave of fear and loathing that crashes through the commentary booths of the world’s TV networks as mugs like me grapple with the new reality that where we thought there would be a race, there was now simply a sportive.
The relief in the bunch expresses itself in a variety of ways. Suddenly, everyone changes places. Where once team order prevailed, now suddenly the constituent parts of the bunch are organised in strict nationality clusters: Germans from different teams have a natter, the Spanish group around JJ Rojas and the Dutch distribute themselves in orderly pairs down the length of the line. The only exception to this rule pertains to Mark Cavendish and Caleb Ewan, who ride side by side talking about expensive watches and Netflix.
Then come the fake attacks. On stage six, we were treated to a surprisingly jocular move of the front from the otherwise fairly stoical Magnus Cort. Following his mirthful dart from the bunch, there was a Netherlandian two-up attack of great hilarity from Bauke Mollema and Pascal Eenkhoorn. It was all only mildly amusing at best, but enlivened a day that threatened to be such a wipeout that the only thing I would have taken away from stage six was my newfound knowledge that Eenkhoorn’s nickname is ‘The Heron’ despite the fact that his name directly translates as ‘squirrel’.
At some point, Diego Rosa did everyone a favour and shot off the front, where he remained for the next five hours. The most futile move in world cycling at least gave the race the semblance of a conventional shape and allowed Thomas de Gendt to string out the bunch and at least make the front end of the peloton look like it was chasing (whereas in reality they were moving at 33km/h – the kind of speed the pros normally don’t know exists).
I started to make the calculation about when they might reach the finish line, and realised that it would be around an hour late. This obviously had a knock-on effect that reached far beyond our two-hour transfer to the hotel that night, dinner, and a late, late bed. My gloom magnified.
Somehow the race reached its furious conclusion (well done Arnaud Démare), but I was left trying to explain/ justify this curious sport to a British TV producer colleague new to road racing. She normally covers tennis. We decided that it was like Federer and Nadal softly spooning the ball underarm over the net at one another for six hours before finally one of them loses patience and smashes the winner. And then that’s it. The calendar states 21 June is the longest day. Not true: it’s 12 May 2022.