My World

by Peter Sagan

  His brain is incredible, constantly analysing, constantly asking, ‘what if?’ and floating a new idea every waking minute. Every one of these ideas is vocalised, whether it’s smart, outlandish or flat-out crazy. He doesn’t have that filter that most people have, the one that runs something through internally for us before delivering it to the outside world. As you can imagine, his capacity to offend is limitless, but he is also fantastic, engaging and provocative company.

  With Oleg, there is always something going on. His energy is unbelievable. He wants to ride with us all the time, then we’d all go to the best restaurants, drink the best wine, stay in the best hotels. He is a great example of somebody who is really trying to live life every day.

  Of course, on the flipside, differences of opinion with Oleg are inevitable. His whole ethos is to challenge and to find different ways of doing things, but it is hard to fall out with him too. He never once ‘played’ me. If he wanted to tell you some bad news he wouldn’t dress it up, get somebody else to do it or sweep it under the carpet. He’d just tell you. You were shit today, Peter. But you tried, so fuck it, let’s go eat. Do you fancy caviar?

  We worked hard every day but we had fun every day. It was the giddiest fairground ride at the carnival and I didn’t hear too many people complaining about it. He could argue with you, lose his temper with you and threaten you, but five minutes later he’d be topping your glass up and telling you some joke or funny anecdote from the day.

  He was good to us, recognising the value of Team Peter, and agreeing to take us all on board as a package despite the expense and the disruption to the other people already working on the team. He constantly wanted more from everyone, but you could see that it came from his own drive and restless spirit, not entitlement or disappointment.

  And when he got fed up with owning a cycling team, he binned it. Just like that.

  Will he be back? I wouldn’t bet against it. Ask him about the Tour de France and a gleam comes into his eye straight away. Without a win in the Tour, despite his best efforts, he clearly sees it as unfinished business.

  I’d be the first to welcome him back. He’s straight talking, totally transparent and unwaveringly straight. Sure, he’s hard to work for, but everybody is hard to work for in their own way. The best jobs are rarely the easiest jobs. Would I work for him again? I hope I never have to answer that question for real because in some ways I feel like I’ve done my Oleg time and I’ve earned a quieter life. But he has a way of making you feel like you need to be part of what he’s trying to do and that he can’t possibly do it without you.

  My own answer is to commit myself to BORA - hansgrohe for the rest of my career. It’s perfect for me and then I don’t have to even think about working for anybody else again ever.

  To that end, Giovanni has just agreed to another three years with them, which is a very long time in cycling, and I hope it doesn’t end there. I don’t want to move from somewhere that gives me so much trust, love, support and belief.

  But Oleg Tinkov sure was a lot of fun to be around.

  2016

  SPRING

  ‘Christmas Day in Belgium.’

  That’s how Fabian Cancellara described the Tour of Flanders, De Ronde van Vlaanderen, or if you’re Flemish, just De Ronde. I know exactly what he meant. A fixed day in the diary, the first Sunday in April, which divides the year into things that happen before De Ronde and things that happen after it. To indulge Fabian’s analogy a bit longer, there is an equally-eagerly anticipated race a week later, the heavily fêted Paris–Roubaix, standing in for New Year. Some people like Christmas, others prefer New Year, but most of us get a kick out of both and they each loom large in our headlights as we approach, and then recede wistfully in our rear-view mirrors when they’re gone.

  Most teams seriously targeting the northern classics will make the region their home for a couple of weeks. In the old days, Gent–Wevelgem (Roubaix’s little brother) used to take place on the Wednesday between them, but since I’ve been a professional rider Gent–Wevelgem takes place the weekend before, heaping even more prestige on what is known as ‘Cobbles Fortnight’, especially if you’re Flemish. The space between the big races has helped to nurture the popularity of the supporting events too, with midweek rendezvous like E3 Harelbeke or Dwars Door Vlaanderen now looking like hefty cornerstones on any cyclists’ palmarès.

  The most notable Spring of my early career was 2013, when I won my first Classic. I became Gent–Wevelgem champion by jumping away from the lead group with four kilometres remaining as everybody was eyeing up a sprint. What I remember most about that day was how unbelievably cold it was, with enough snow around that the organisers were forced to lop 50-odd kilometres off the distance.

  De Ronde that year was my third Classic. I came into it on the crest of that Gent–Wevelgem win and a second place in Milan–San Remo. When I found myself shoulder to shoulder with Fabian Cancellara on the race’s last obstacle, the Paterberg, I began to think that maybe my time had arrived.

  The Paterberg is just 400 metres long. Despite the cobbles and the gradient, anybody can ride up it. But coming as it does less than 15 kilometres from the finish line, it can be a springboard for success or a graveyard of ambitions. In 2013, it was the latter for me: 240 kilometres of racing had left indelible dents in my legs, and Fabian, by then a Monument winner four times over, dealt me a coup de grâce on the steepest stretch of pavé. A few short bike lengths out of reach at the top was a whopping 90 seconds by the time I reached the line in Oudenaarde. Second place at Flanders was a good result, but I was going to need to improve in the finale of the longest, hardest races if I was ever going to be a match for the likes of Fabian.

  Forward to 2016. What had changed for me during the three years since that lesson on the Paterberg? Well, on the plus side, I had won one of the events synonymous with endurance and the Worlds. Richmond was a 261 kilometre race and I had delivered the goods on the hardest stretch of the last lap. But in the debit column, there was a still a yawning gap next to the Monuments. Those second places back in 2013 had been as close as I’d come to a title. OK, I’d won a couple of big one-day races that might like to call themselves Classics – Gent–Wevelgem and E3 Harelbeke – but I was acutely aware that though they might be tough races with high-quality fields, both of them had been massively shorter than the Monument I craved. It was something that I needed to address.

  Milan–San Remo had looked good for me. I’d got over all the capi without any undue fuss and cleared the Poggio with the leaders. Into the final few hundred metres and with the remaining contenders stretched out enticingly, I was sat about five wheels from the front, where Edvald Boasson Hagen was looking over his shoulder and trying to decide whether he should go for broke or if somebody else would take on the sprint first. As we slowed momentarily, Fernando Gaviria got himself on the wrong side of the wheel in front; Greg Van Armamaet’s, I think. He slammed into the ground on his left hip, right under my front wheel. It was one of those crashes you can see coming, where it feels like you’re watching an action replay while it’s unfolding in front of you, so I was able to brake and dodge him to the left. Unsurprisingly, this didn’t do an awful lot for my sprint. All momentum gone, the line I’d been following scrubbed out, the gap to those behind instantly closed … I had a go but it was a lost cause and I was well back on the winner, Arnaud Démare.

  So that was another long race that I had been in contention for at the death, which was good, but it was hard to read too much into it. Milan–San Remo is a beautiful race, but you don’t take the same hard kicking you do at Flanders or Roubaix, and I hadn’t really had the chance to test my sprint at the end of 250 kilometres.

  Next stop was Gent–Wevelgem. This race is shaped by the weather more than any other. The long, flat exposed parts of the course are often battered by winds howling off the English Channel, and when that westerly blows it usually carries the promise of rain or sometimes snow. The 2016 race began splitting as so
on as we left the start in Deinze. I’m sure someone can tell you why it starts in Deinze and not in Gent. The same guy would probably advise you not to try walking to the start of Paris–Roubaix from Paris and may be able to explain why the Tour de France only starts in France every other year.

  After a couple of hours of trying to keep your nose out of the wind while staying near enough to the front that you don’t get caught on the wrong side of any splits, the race enters its tricky section. While not as nasty as De Ronde, there is no hiding place in Gent–Wevelgem, and some of the hills are longer and higher than those waiting for the peloton a week later.

  The key climb is the Kemmelberg, a ridge of such obvious strategic advantage in World War I that many, many young men lost their lives on its slopes in a tragic series of battles. In fact, those sorry dark days a century ago are rarely far from the action at Gent–Wevelgem: the race skirts countless immaculate cemeteries of all sizes and even passes under the Menin Gate, the unforgettable memorial to all those who were lost but whose final resting place remains unknown.

  The Kemmelberg is probably the best known and hardest climb in Flanders not to feature in De Ronde, situated far to the west from the crouching bergs that characterise it. For the first time in any of the current peloton’s lifetimes, we tackled this hill from the steeper ‘other’ side, where the cobbles rise up to a fearsome 23 per cent. It features twice: early on when the field is harrowed, then at a decisive point before the run back to the finish. I was feeling good when we hit the Kemmelberg for the second time and went hard, straight up the middle. The cobbles are neat and the road is broad, unlike, say, the Koppenberg, and there is less danger of getting caught up in traffic if you’re not right at the head of affairs. Over the top, it was me, Cancellara (of course), Sep Vanmarcke and Viacheslav Kuznetsov. We only had a few seconds, but with all four of us pulling, we held off the others for the remaining 34 kilometres to reach Wevelgem.

  We didn’t slow until the last few hundred metres, when Fabian found himself on the front. Both he and I tried exploratory moves to try to get the others to play their cards early, but nobody was fooled. The denouement began strangely, as Kuznetsov and Fabian began sprinting at the same moment on opposite sides of the wide road. I chose the Katusha rider’s wheel but his jump was a powerful one and it took a massive effort to get into his slipstream. All four of us came back together in the centre of the road with less than 200 metres to go and I had to go again, to get round Kuznetsov. Crossing the line it looked more comfortable than it had been. My second Gent–Wevelgem.

  It had been 240 kilometres with a hard sprint at the death. But it wasn’t a Monument. Was I where I needed to be? We’d find out in seven days.

  So. Christmas Day in Belgium, though it was more than that for Fabian Cancellara: it was his final Tour of Flanders. He was retiring after the most glittering career in the sport’s recent history. A time-trial specialist from one of cycling’s less storied nations, ‘Spartacus’ flat out refused to be pigeonholed and became one of the best Classics riders of this, or any, generation. He had ridden back-to-back Flanders and Roubaix victories twice! Nothing would make him happier than to finish with an eighth – yes, eighth – Monument victory.

  It was unseasonably warm in Belgium that weekend. Brought out by the April sunshine, the crowds were vast, half a dozen deep on the Oude Kwaremont, with not a corner of temporary decking or corporate marquee left to stand on or under. De Ronde goes up this climb three times now, making it a key strategic point in the race. The main part of the climb is narrow and cobbled, but not super steep, so it’s not the ideal springboard for a race-winning attack. What does make it tricky is the extra couple of kilometres of cobbled false flat that carries on after the nominal summit has been topped, so while it might not be the place to win the race, losing it here is easily done.

  The first two ascents of the Kwaremont had played their part in whittling things down and with 30-odd kilometres left to race, the favourites were in a group of 20 or so riders closing in on a break that had been away most of the day.

  The first time I raced against Michal Kwiato we were both about 14. Being the same age and riding out of the junior programmes in Poland and Slovakia respectively when we were kids means that we know each other well. Our styles have often been compared and I guess from the outside we do have similar attributes, mostly relating to our ability to contend in varying types of races and conditions. Maybe it was that familiarity that set my senses tingling when Kwiato clipped off the front of that group of favourites. We were on an apparently innocuous stretch of tarmacked road as it wiggled through some straggly houses somewhere round the back of Ronse, with all the team leaders marshalling any remaining teammates in preparation for the last climbs of the race. I pushed on the pedals a little harder and rode up to his wheel as he accelerated away from the remnants of the bunch and tucked into his slipstream.

  Unsurprisingly, he was keen for me to come through and give him a turn, but I wasn’t sure there was going to be anything in it for me. There are always plenty of tentative or abortive moves in these nervous late stages of big races and I didn’t want to waste an effort unnecessarily. However, when Sep Vanmarcke put in a big effort to bridge across to us a few moments later, the three of us looked at each other and agreed with a quick nod: we ride.

  Over the undulating roads that remained between us and the bottom of the final ascent of the Oude Kwaremont, we pushed hard, each of us spending no more than a few seconds on the front on any turn. The shared effort was enough to hold off an increasingly concerned main race group. As we passed the last of the houses in Kluisbergen – there are always two old ladies here, in folding chairs listening to a transistor radio at ear-splitting volume, you can’t miss them – we had a handful of seconds over our competitors. I led on to the Kwaremont and charged up the crest of the pavé, trying to tread that tightrope between riding as hard as I could without entirely emptying the tank.

  There were actually eight of us at the front of the race, which at this point had only 18 kilometres remaining. In effect, though, Kwiato and Vanmarcke were the only two with me, as the other five were survivors of the day-long break that we had just caught and were hanging on gamely for high finishing positions.

  It can be difficult for fans at the side of the road to appreciate the race position. Cyclists move fast, the peloton can be a swarm of changing colours and personalities with individuals hard to pick out. The popularity of certain helmets and sunglasses have made quick recognition of the riders involved in the action even more difficult. It was this that led to the early innovation of coloured jerseys for the leaders of Grand Tours and, in turn, the honour of wearing the Rainbow Jersey as reigning World Champion. As my three seasons of holding that jersey have unfolded, I’ve begun to understand and feel the expectation that comes with wearing a badge that lets people know who you are. But I think, looking back, that it was on this final ascent of the Kwaremont in 2016 when I first realised what the Rainbow Jersey can do. The noise was just immense, a roaring corridor of sustained sound. At the time I was just concentrating on driving as hard as I could to hold off the chasers, but looking at it on the video now, I can see it from the spectators’ point of view: the Rainbow Jersey charging up one of the most atmospheric climbs in the sport trying to win their treasured race. The identity of the wearer was secondary. For them, it was the World Champion bouncing off the cobbles below them, not Peter Sagan or another Tinkoff, Quick-Step or Trek rider. Halfway up the Kwaremont, something unexpected happened. Kwiato, who had been so forceful and sharp in creating this opportunity began to falter. I sensed that he was going through the pain that I had suffered here three years previously – 240 kilometres? No problem. But 255 might as well be 355 when that moment strikes.

  As Vanmarcke and I rode through the square at the top of the climb and on to the false flat, an even bigger roar chased us on from behind. Fabian Cancellara had ridden up the Oude Kwaremont for the final time in his career, and surely th
is was the quickest of all his ascents of the famous old stretch of cobbles. He had passed Kwiato and everybody else who had been with us at the bottom of the short climb and now he was breathing down our necks.

  Off the pounding of the cobbles at last, Vanmarcke gave me a turn on the main road. He was born a short ride from here, a Flandrian through and through, and I know how much strength that can give a rival. We were now at that strange sporting conundrum that only cycling delivers: each of you is forced to rely on the other to give you both the best chance of winning, while simultaneously being acutely aware that you are also each other’s biggest rival for that same victory.

  The Paterberg is a funny little road. No matter how many times you ride it, it still comes as a surprise when you turn right on to it, because there really shouldn’t be a road there. In fact, there didn’t used to be a road there. The story is that the guy who owned the field that the Paterberg climbs over was such a cycling fan that he actually built the road to attract the race to come past his front door. Whatever the truth of the tale, it is a nasty little berg with a horribly steep passage at the top.

  When Vanmarcke and I hit the pavé there was no time for hanging around or tactics. Cancellara had won this race three times and he had us in his crosshairs. The last climb of the Tour of Flanders, the last cobbles of De Ronde, just a couple of hundred metres of pain then only 13 kilometres to the line.

  As we approached the steepest part of the climb shoulder to shoulder, I could picture myself in this self-same spot 36 months ago, in a two-man break with a slender advantage at the end of a crushingly hard race. On that occasion, I had been asked searching questions and I’d come up short of answers. Had I changed?

  As the cobbles reared up to 20 per cent, I locked the upper part of my body, sat solid in the saddle and tried to imagine my legs as pistons driving the engine. Beside me, Vanmarcke stood on his pedals and tried to dance over the pavé. Beside me, then no longer beside me. He dropped away in those last few yards and I swung round the 90-degree bend at the summit on my own. Cancellara came around the corner just 15 seconds behind me, the same gap I’d had on him at the bottom, but he had caught Vanmarcke in that time.