From a more human Pogačar to a Cavendish stage win, here are the top five things I want from the 2024 Tour de France.
1. Tadej Pogačar looking even vaguely human
Poggy’s extra-terrestrial Giro performance switched on my inner cynic and switched me off any tappa that looked like it might lean toward the GC ‘contest’. The Slovenian was untouchable, on a planet of his own, his ‘competitors’ impotent spectators to what we can only hope is generational greatness. At the Tour I’d most like to see him coming back down to earth a little, or for those below to rise toward his level – see number 2 below.
To each their own view of the mysterious cloud’s innumerable, shifting shades. For some it’s a brief distraction – snap, swipe, share – for others an excuse to party, a nuisance, an evil portent or an act of international terrorism. For an exclusive few the fog is an opportunity, a moment of enchantment and a chance to change. Continue reading “Polychrome People”→
At some point in their life every amateur cyclist dreams of riding the high roads of the Tour de France, discovering first-hand what it’s like to tackle Alpe D’Huez or the Tourmalet.
Not many cyclists ever get round to turning that notion into reality. Author Rolf Rae-Hansen and his best friend did just that, and to Alpe D and the Tourmalet they added another 33 of cycling’s most feared and revered mountain passes.
Just days into their adventure it became clear that these two distinctly amateur cyclists had bitten off more mountain than they could comfortably chew. As they ticked off the climbs one by one, their friendship was tested to, and then beyond, destruction. Continue reading “The Breakaway – Cycling the Mountains of the Tour de France”→
Being an old cycling cynic has ruined my enjoyment of Pogačar’s once-in-a-lifetime Giro d’Italia dominance.
It’s the final weekend of the 2024 Giro d’Italia and Tadej Pogačar owns the maglia rosa with a 10-minute lead on his nearest rival. He’s just won his sixth stage, and he did it at a canter that slowed to a trot.
Whilst the rivals he crushed looked alla frutta, as they say in Italy, he looked fresh as a bright pink daisy (a peony?). He rode up and down the line, casually chatting orders to teammates who were draped over the bars in abject suffering. He took a bidon from a soigneur and handed it to a child running roadside – what need for refreshment on an easy day out? The final few kilometres of the stage offered time to relax a little more, to wave and showboat for the adoring fans.
In the post-stage interview he was already thinking ahead to the Tour de France. For any other rider the Giro win would be the peak of the season, perhaps of the palmarès. For Pogačar it was a fun new way to prepare for July.
A season of unstoppable attacks
And it’s not just his Giro performance that dropped my jaw in disbelief. He’s been this way all season. At Strade Bianchi and Liege Bastogne Liege he announced in advance the exact points at which he would would launch his winning attacks. And when those attacks duly arrived, nobody could hold his wheel. Those that tried lasted barely 10 seconds before they blew, as if motor-pacing behind a throttle-happy soigneur who was late home for his dinner.
I should be enjoying this sporting spectacle. I should be like everyone else appears to be: entertained, in awe of this truly fantastical performance. Cycling has found a generational talent, a wunderkind turned superman. His Giro feat is cycling history, a ride for the ages, one we’ll look back on and ponder if we’ll ever see the likes again. I want to be part of the collective joy, and yet I can’t let myself go.
I’ve been burned and I’ve learned
I’ve been a cycling fan since the 1989 Tour de France. Over the decades I’ve been burnt and I’ve learned. Cycling has shown me enough that I don’t take it too seriously as a pure sporting event. It’s entertainment much as my other favourite, American football. I never let my sceptical guard down. I watch races mainly because I always have. It’s tradition, entertainment and, mostly, good fun. But it’s not real life.
Fignon was my first true, cycling love. I revelled in Riis’ toying with, and toppling of, Indurain. I was awed by the brute diesel power of the young East German Ullrich. I delighted in pure-climber Pantani’s poetic prowess. I cheered them on, each and every one, and each and every one either failed a doping test or later admitted their guilt. They weren’t the outliers either; they were dopers in a sport built on doping. By Tour win three of Armstrong’s seven I had come to accept that cycling was a case of ‘may the best doctor win’.
Mr 60 toys with Big Mig
But then, was it just me or did it not seem that cycling had reset? In recent years, despite increased speeds, the sport has somehow appeared a lot more believable. The relentless churn of scandal has certainly gone, the internet innuendo has died a death, and a new generation of fans cheer on their heroes with a clean conscience.
A racehorse among donkeys
So what is it about Pogačar and this year’s Giro that’s got me so vexed?
I realise the (still) young Slovenian has shown talent since he was a child. This is not some donkey turned racehorse, a la Froome. However, he’s a racehorse who’s just spent three weeks making 200 other professional athletes look like donkeys. He gave the impression of a pro who’s turned up to piss about at a local amateur race, showing off to the third-cats and juniors.
He’s won with an astonishing insouciance, clearly holding energy in reserve for the rest of the season. And he’s not the first rider to dominate his rivals, but at least Froome had the decency to look like he was turning himself inside out as he spun that silly oval chainring.
Not that Pogačar’s rivals seem to mind being so easily, breezily crushed. They all love him for it, and the more unbeatable he gets, the more they laugh in happy wonder. I’d say they love him in the way that puny kids laugh at the big bully’s jokes, but he seems genuinely likeable. “Poggy” they affectionately call him as they pick themselves up off the concrete, pick at scraps that have fallen from his table.
The men behind the man
But whilst he utterly dominates, there’s not even a hint of innuendo or suspicion – and I have none of my own to offer beyond a performance that fails the (non-WADA ratified) cynic’s eye test. Fans and the media alike accept that this is how it is, some kind of unnatural natural order. I might be able to accept it too if it didn’t look so utterly unbelievable.
Duval dream team
I might be able to if his team wasn’t run by Mauro Gianetti and Joxean ‘Matxin’ Fernandez – two men with a dark cycling history, responsible for bringing us the likes of Iban Mayo, Juan José Cobo, Leonardo Piepoli, and Riccardo Ricco. Doper, doper, doper, and doper.
Will the Tour be the cure?
Perhaps the Tour will settle my unease. Vinegaard, Roglic and Evenepoel will all be fully recovered. A four-way battle will ensue, Pogačar will show some signs of Giro fatigue and he’ll appear less of an outlier. Or, perhaps he’ll cruise through that one too, add yellow to pink and follow Contador’s advice and make a run (saunter) at La Vuelta’s maillot rojo.
Whatever happens next, it’s going to take me a long time to accept what I’ve seen at this year’s Giro. Perhaps I never will and that will mean missing out on enjoyment of this once-in-a-lifetime spectacle. I hope that’s the case.
Whilst cycling might have moved on from the bad old days, it’s undeniable that I’m still an old cynic. But it’s not my fault. Cycling made me this way.
Markus Stitz’ guide to the best gravel cycling in Britain captures the community spirit of the gravel scene and is sure to spark your sense of adventure.
After an initial period as a gravel sceptic, assuming that, “gravel bikes were simply another marketing move from the bike industry”, round-the-world cyclist and founder of Bikepacking Scotland, Markus Stitz, soon changed his mind. “Gravel riding was no longer defined by a certain type of bike, but much more by the opportunities it offered.”
And it’s those opportunities that his new book Great British Gravel Rides serves up on its 200-plus glossy pages.
“I wanted to write a book that portrays the huge variety of routes suitable for rough-stuffing in Britain,” he notes in the introduction. “I see this book as a source of ideas to embark upon your own journeys.”
An affectionate and insightful look at the current generation of Colombian professional cyclists and the country that made them.
From Rigoberto Uran and Nairo Quintana, to Fernando Gaviria and Egan Bernal, Colombia has of recent been a production line of gilt-edged cycling talent. Matt Rendell’s latest book is a detailed introduction to these, often enigmatic, stars. It’s also a great overview of their homeland’s chaotic modern history and its current political situation.
There’s more to Colombia than cocaine
Colombia is a complex nation that many non-natives have only a cartoon knowledge of through tales of Pablo Escobar and TV shows such as Narcos. Rendell’s affection for the country shines through in his writing and is a vital aspect of this book. These riders aren’t Colombian in the way that Froome is ‘British’, because that’s the designation on his racing license. These men are products of the place, forged by the land like the terra makes the wine, by their culture, their people and politics, a very real sense that if born in Europe they would not have become the cyclists they are.
Nairoman, enigmatic even in victory
And there’s a paradox here too, in that as much as their nation has undoubtedly shaped them, many of these riders made it to the heights of the World Tour despite their country’s best efforts, and especially in the case of Quintana, despite his national federation’s best efforts.
Theirs is a country that has battled poverty, drugs, paramilitary forces and political factions, that has recently used sport, and cycling in particular, to bolster its self-image and portray a softer, more positive vision of itself to the world.
These are young men who learned how to work hard (and had no choice but to work hard) from a very early age. As boys they used whatever bikes and equipment their limited resources allowed, the rest begged and borrowed. Training was squeezed in around school work and actual (poorly) paid work, their formative cycling miles most certainly not a hobby in which they were indulged.
“You are strong mentally because you come from below. Not having many resources is an advantage, because it brings out your mettle. It gives you one or two points on the others. You are brought up on hard knocks. If you want something, you have to put your back into it.” EF Pro Cycling’s Dani Martinez on how his upbringing shaped his sporting fortunes.
But that’s not to say that there is any sense that these riders are telling their truths in order to seek sympathy. They come across as immensely proud of where they are from, what they and their families have been through, and where they are presently at.
“We have all been eating food we have grown ourselves, and drinking the milk from our own cows. It is very healthy, very natural. As kids, we always had to be doing something practical, learning new things, not lying around playing video games or watching television. All this makes us different from the other riders.” Astana pro, Miguel Angel Lopez, on what makes him.
Whilst British riders of the same generation were in receipt of lottery-funded support, Colombians were making tough decisions, such as deciding whether or not to sell the cow which was their only source of income, in order that they might be able to afford a half-decent racing bike.
There are no indulged rich kids amongst the Colombian crop. These are riders who chased a dream and an escape, who overcame seemingly insurmountable odds, whose cycling successes transformed not only their own lives but the lives of their families back home, whose salaries have improved the lot of generations.
Every story Rendell tells here is a variation on that theme, of upbringings that involved hard work and very real poverty the likes of which Western Europe hasn’t known for generations. I was reminded of books I’d read on the very early Tours de France, boys from peasant roots, steeled by the ardour of the lives from which they sought refuge.
An illustrative example comes from Egan Bernal’s recalling that his father couldn’t afford to give him the entrance fee for his first race. The sum in question? 50 pence.
Tour-winner Bernal has more than 50p to spare these days.
Pick any chapter and it could be the basis of a heart-warming, tear-jerking Hollywood script. These real-life stories are humbling and inspiring, and if reading them doesn’t turn you into a fan of Colombian cycling it can only be because you already were a fan or because your heart is made of stone.
It’s safe to say that when the next Grand Tour rolls around I will be rooting for the Colombians, each and every one.
Colombia Es Pasión – the Generation of Racing Cyclists Who Changed Their Nation and the Tour de France is out now on hardback.
We Rode All Day is a fictionalised account of the 1919 Tour de France, told from the riders’ perspective.
We Rode All Day is a work of fiction based on the historical fact of the 1919 Tour de France. Gareth Cartman has used historical archives, and sometimes artistic license, to conjure a ‘voice’ for each of the featured riders and then set their stories around the events of that year’s race.
The Yellow Jersey by Peter Cossins is a fitting commemoration of the 100th anniversary of one of sport’s most iconic prizes.
Conceived, and first worn, in 1919 as a means of helping spectators at the roadside more easily identify the Tour’s leading cyclist, the maillot jaune is one of the most coveted prizes in the sport of cycling, only rivalled by the World Champ’s rainbow bands.
The bicycle is the perfect mode of transport for a post-apocalyptic world, so why are there no bikes in the movies?
It’s not strictly true to say I’m always thinking about cycling but it is on my mind a lot. Take the other evening, when I was watching one of those end-of-the-world movies that are all the (literal) rage.
Two of the story’s heroes were about to head off in their car in search of supplies, burning some of the finite supply of precious petrol, with no guarantee of a return.
“Why don’t any of these idiots ever ride a bike?” I asked my wife.
“Eh?” She said, trying to concentrate on the movie.
I kept quiet and thought the rest.
The bicycle would be the ideal means of transport in such a scenario:
no fossil fuels required
no engine noise to attract the worst of the evil dead and the evil still-living.
the rider could travel whilst avoiding roads, which would undoubtedly be blocked by traffic jams of burnt-out and zombie-infested wrecks.
it would give the rider an endorphin boost to help counter the misery and crushing lack of hope.
My motivations for considering bicycles at such moments aren’t all purely practical. I’ve often considered what it would be like to loot the nearby branch of Evans whilst all my fellow survivors were busying themselves scrabbling around for food, medicines and other such fripperies.
Right troops, let’s get down to Evans
Imagine having all those brand-new bikes to choose from* and not knowing where to begin – delicious.
Roll on the end of the world!
*I’d probably opt for something gravel-ish, to cope with the newly uncivilised conditions.
I was recently explaining to a friend what had led me to buy a gravel* bike (actually, I was gushing enthusiastically about how great my new bike is and why he should get one too), and the reasons why I think the gravel thing has really taken off. It’s more than a passing fad, I gush-explained. Here’s why…
Prior to picking up this book I hadn’t heard of The Tour of the Battlefields (Circuit des Champs de Bataille in its native French), and given that it took place only once, back in 1919, I’m probably not the only one. Enter Tom Isitt, photojournalist and cycling enthusiast to provide enlightenment.
To each their own view of the mysterious cloud’s innumerable, shifting shades. For some it’s a brief distraction – snap, swipe, share – for others an excuse to party, a nuisance, an evil portent or an act of international terrorism. For an exclusive few the fog is an opportunity, a moment of enchantment and a chance to change. 
Rolf Rae-Hansen 