GEORGE BENNETT
JUMBO-VISMA
The majority of my columns so far have been written at airports or on planes. This one is no different, as I’m heading to an altitude camp in Sierra Nevada for the most important five weeks of training in the whole year. Something about travel makes me reflective. The process is also punishingly boring and so it forces some productivity.
I left California with a weird feeling. Well, more without any real feeling at all. It wasn’t a bad result, but it just didn’t work out. I was a marked man and got out-raced by stronger teams. From there, trying to claw back 15 seconds forced me to race in a way I hadn’t planned on. I came home with fourth overall. It’s not good, it’s not bad, it just is. And now that we’re walking in the shadow of the Tour de France, it all seems a bit insignificant
At times, the Tour can feel like a black hole in the cycling calendar: everything gets sucked into it and other races pale in comparison. Three weeks in July can dictate the year’s success and for a team that will have races from January to late October, it sometimes seems that we can hide behind the Tour as an excuse for not performing in the first half of the year. After
a bad ride in the Tour de Romandie, it’s always good to throw out a classic, “It’s a long way to July” line to ease the pressure. It’s not just riders who hide behind the promise of a good July: clothing and product sponsors often drop a, “Don’t worry, we will have those ready for the Tour,” on you as you’re suffering through Paris-Nice with the wrong size handlebars or a rain jacket that won’t zip up.
I know the moment I step foot in Sierra Nevada that it begins. ‘It’ being lockdown. Everything becomes a bit more extreme. Guys who haven’t done a sit-up all year start throwing down daily core workouts and the Chimay Blue becomes a San Miguel 0.0 per cent. I knew this was coming so I spent the last week making sure I indulged and got my things in order. It’s as if the normal me was preparing to die or at least morph into an anti-social germaphobic monk until we get to Paris.
As grim as it can sound, it’s also maybe one of the most exciting things you can be part of as a pro cyclist. I mentioned last month that mountain camps can sometimes feel like prison (okay, maybe that was dramatic), but we are in Sierra Nevada with a pretty serious operation. Chefs, team trucks with mechanics, soigneurs and trainers. I was only sentenced to a week and I’ll do the rest of the build-up in Andorra or doing stage recon in the Alps, but there’s a real buzz around the team and everyone is ready to push themselves. Even wives, kids and parents are not exempt. It’s different knowing we have a real chance this year.
I will be riding in a helping capacity in the mountains. I like the thought of just riding as hard as I can and not holding back to try for a personal result. It’s a case of leaving the ego at home, but getting off the bus with the goal of leaving a mark on the Tour.
“I indulged and got my things in order. It’s as if the normal me was preparing to die or at least morph into an anti-social germaphobic monk until we get to Paris”