My World

by Peter Sagan

  Maybe I’d rather lose a fantastic bike race than win a boring one. Maybe. I don’t know, but that sure was a fantastic bike race.

  To Belgium as reigning Flanders champion as well as World Champion. This was to be another great story of a day.

  It was warm and dry again with the spring’s first swallows swooping low across the Flemish grass and the perennial scent of chicken manure in the nostrils. Somebody told me the other day that Belgium produces so much manure that it is the only country in the world that has to exports it. Is that true? Hell, I don’t know, I’m a cyclist, not an agro-economist. Good fact, though, even if it’s nonsense. When you come down the Koppenberg, there is a left-hander at the bottom that tightens just when you think you’re round it, and beyond that bend is the biggest heap of manure in Belgium. Surely, at the rate the race comes down the hill, somebody has gone head first into it. Perhaps during the sportive the day before the race? Twenty thousand weekend warriors trying to beat their mates down the hill? All you’d see of those guys would be their shoe plates sticking out of the muck. Future archaeologists will be baffled.

  Another guy who understands the meaning of entertainment is Philippe Gilbert. He’s Belgian, but not Flandrian, he’s a Walloon from the other end of the country, but people love him everywhere because of the way he races. He had a year in the World Champion’s jersey too, so he understands that urge to please. For the last few years he’s been able to wear the very cool tricolour Belgian Champion’s kit as well, which is probably the second-best-looking cycling kit in the world. He was at Quick-Step after many years at BMC and they had a supremely powerful line-up for the Northern Classics. Like Fabian Cancellara a year before, Gilbert’s supposed team leader Tom Boonen was bowing out. If he could take this, his last Flanders, it would give him four victories in the race, which would sit very neatly alongside his four Paris–Roubaix winner’s cobbles. Sometimes you just have to shake your head and applaud.

  Those two animated the race early on, Boonen flying up the Muur and turning the years back gloriously. In 2006, Tom won this race in the World Champion’s jersey, the last man to do that before me. Imagine the crowd that day! The best Flandrian winning their favourite race in the rainbow stripes. That must have been some day to be a cycling fan.

  The Muur was the launchpad for many of his and other great wins back in the day, but it lost its place in the race when the finish was moved to Oudenaarde a few years back, much to the anger of the fans. It was back, though now with 90 kilometres to go instead of the old 20. Nevertheless, this was the point he picked to split the race, and split it he did. When we got to the Oude Kwaremont for the second of our three ascents, it was Gilbert’s time to lay down some power. The rest of us were spread out behind as he went on a solo break with 55 kilometres of hard hills and cobbles to go. Boonen gleefully sat watching me, Greg Van Avermaet, Kristoff and all the others, knowing that if we hauled Gilbert back it would be his turn to go. Quick-Step seemed as if they had all the answers. The next turning point in a day full of them was the Taaienberg. I knew that I was going to have to get rid of some people and drop the hammer from further out if I was going to catch Gilbert and have a chance of retaining the title of De Ronde winner. Waiting wasn’t an option. The Taaienberg is as good a place to start as any, a cobbled berg that would be the star of any race that didn’t feature the Muur, Kwaremont, Koppenberg or Paterberg. Tom’s bid that had been shaping up so sweetly flew out of the window like a rapidly deflating balloon when his chain jammed into the space between his chainset and frame, as he tried to drop it into the smaller chainring at the bottom of the climb. With the roads narrow and the race fast, quick service was impossible and his race ended in anticlimactic disappointment.

  I didn’t know he was screwed, I was just going up as hard as I could, hoping I’d dropped him. Over the top I had split the bunch down and the remaining guys worked with me to chase Gilbert. At the top of the Kwaremont for the final time, there were 17 kilometres left and less than a minute separating Gilbert from me, Greg and Oliver Naesen. We powered on to the long, draggy cobbled section, knowing it was all or nothing now. It was dry and dusty, and instead of my usual plan of heading down the crest of the cobbles, I went for the hard, dried-out muddy section in the left-hand gutter for maximum speed. This was the race, then and there, and I was mashing a big gear for all I was worth.

  In a split second, the world turned upside down.

  I think I’ve talked about crashes happening in slow motion sometimes. You see it coming and everything goes into Matrix speed. Not this time. One second, I’m thinking about whether we can catch Gilbert by the top of the Paterberg, the next I’m looking at the pale blue Flemish sky like an April fool. Greg hammered into me, Naesen into him and we all rolled across the cobbles. Greg was able to remount but Naesen and I needed bikes. On the Kwaremont, of all places, no wider than some baths I’ve been in, and our team cars way behind the disintegrating bunch.

  Help was on hand in the shape of the Shimano neutral service car. It shrieked to a halt in a cloud of dust, a mechanic was out in a flash plucking a bike off the roof and Naesen was on it and gone. Before I knew what was happening, the guy was back in his car and gone. Huh? What happened? Do you see me here, buddy? Maybe he thought I was just some guy in a stripy shirt trying to help Naesen back on to his bike.

  Shaking my head in stunned disbelief, I reached down into the dust to pick up my 100% sunglasses. God, I love those shades. I’ve never worn a rainbow jersey without them. They go together like dumplings and cheese for me (seriously, if you’re ever in Slovakia you must try our national dish, bryndzové halušky). As I reached out, there was a whirring of gears and Niki Terpstra rode straight over them. Brilliant. It was that kind of day. What fresh hell awaited next? If I’d fallen into a bucket of tits that day I’d have come out sucking my thumb.

  So, I know you want to ask, would we have caught Gilbert? Would I have won? Despite the crash, Greg was only 30 seconds back on the line. You’d have outsprinted him, wouldn’t you, Peter? It’s immaterial. Philippe Gilbert won the race. He was easing down when he knew it was won. He might have had something left in the tank if we’d closed on him. Greg and I might have refused to help each other chase. Greg might have outsprinted me – after all, Kwiato had done it a fortnight earlier. Tom might not have jammed his frame. Cancellara might not have retired a year before. Rik Van Looy might have found a time machine. I know I’m being flippant, but there is just no end of ‘what ifs?’ in bike racing. That’s why we love it. What if I’d trained a bit harder? What if I looked where I was going? Sorry, but it’s bullshit. Philippe Gilbert won a brilliant Tour of Flanders with an incredible solo break. Guess what? There were a hundred more of us with a hundred stories, but his was the only one worth telling.

  What had caused me to fall? Well, first and foremost, my inattentiveness and poor choice of line had caused it. Next, I was fairly sure I’d caught something on the barriers. Gabriele watched it a dozen times and he didn’t think so. Most people seemed to think that I’d clipped the foot of one of the crowd barriers lining the course. I couldn’t understand that, as I’d been looking down and watching the barriers, I’d been looking at one of those feet as I fell. It was fast, but I felt my bars had clipped something. Then Gabriele got sent a video from the phone of a spectator who was watching from the other side of the road. There it was, clear as day. Being warm, a spectator had removed his jacket and draped it over the barriers. That in itself probably wouldn’t have stopped me, but then, of course everybody was leaning on those barriers to get a better view and unconsciously leaning on that jacket, pinning it in place. My left-hand brake lever caught the jacket. It didn’t move, which yanked my bars sharply left, and then my front wheel hit the foot of the barrier.

  Bizarrely, this guy with the jacket turned out to be a teacher from Holland and was a distant acquaintance of Body! When we found this out, some time had passed and I thought it was funnier than if I’d found out there and then. Not fo
r one moment did I blame the guy, I should have been well clear of where he was standing. I had this funny idea that we could swap my tattered and filthy rainbow jersey for his old jacket and I could keep his jacket as a souvenir of a memorable day. He’d certainly have something in return and a story to dine out on for years to come.

  Gabri talked to him on the phone. Would he like to come to Paris–Roubaix next week as a guest of BORA - hansgrohe? Do a little presentation for the press where we swap the jacket and the jersey, watch the race with us and join us at the finish?

  He said he could, but there was the cost of his travel from the Netherlands. And that jacket wasn’t cheap. If we paid him his expenses and the cost of replacing the jacket, he’d check his diary. Gabriele decided against it.

  The press all wanted to know the same thing. I’d been run out of the first two Monuments. Was I going to win Paris–Roubaix? I don’t think like that. A hundred stories. I race, I try to win. There are just far too many variables in races like these to predict how they will pan out. I’d won races where other people were stronger than me and I’d lost races to people whom I’d expected to beat. Everybody wants to win. Most of us will go home disappointed.

  I certainly went home disappointed from Roubaix.

  I found myself in my most-preferred situation. I had forced a split with my teammate Maciej Bodnar and we had two other great engines with us, Daniel Oss and Jasper Stuyven. Just as he’d been the week before, Greg Van Avermaet was really strong, but he wouldn’t chase us because his teammate Oss was in our move and was a genuine threat. I’m pleased that Daniel has joined BORA - hansgrohe now. The man is a thoroughbred racehorse and an ox rolled into one. In that group, even if Daniel sat on and refused to work to improve Greg’s chances of catching us, there were three of us to pull and the other teams would find it difficult to close the gap, especially on the pavé. Body was pulling like a Trojan and the race formed and re-formed countless times with the damage we were doing. Then bang! A flat. Body waited with me, I got a wheel, chased back on and still we were at the head of the main group, with just Oss and Stuyven ahead.

  On the long, hard stretch of cobbles at Mons-en-Pévèle about 60 kilometres out from the velodrome, I put my head down and smashed it as hard as I could. It’s always better to be on the front on the pavé. You can pick your line, there is less dust in your face, you aren’t at risk from other people’s mistakes and you’re in a position to dictate the race. Oss and Stuyven were caught and the race splintered into twos and threes for a while. Greg was with me and felt really strong. I pictured the two of us splintering the race between us in the closing stages and thought that we could whittle the list of contenders down a bit more. Stybar was at the front and I managed to bridge across to his group alone on the Templeuve section. Just saying these place names conjures up the dust, the flat scenery, those French road signs, the banners announcing each secteur. This is the time when the race is won or lost, I told myself. Greg was in the group behind, as was Tom Boonen, making his bid for a record-breaking fifth Roubaix cobblestone trophy in his final race. The front group was tiring, it was the perfect time to drive home my advantage and go it alone, with the pivotal Carrefour de l’Arbre section still to come. As we hit the next section of cobbles I drove at 99 per cent to try and split it … and punctured.

  Greg passed me as I waited for a wheel. He caught Stybar’s group and went on to win alone. Chapeau, sir … you are a survivor and a performer, and cycling needs more like you. Personally, you could make my life easier by not beating me so often, but you are undoubtedly one of the good guys.

  Twice I got away with attacks. Twice I punctured and was caught. It’s been the story of Roubaix for me over the years: ride hard, get flats at bad times.

  My first DS at Liquigas, Stefano Zanatta, had always held the belief that I’d never win Paris–Roubaix. According to him, it was all a matter of technique. ‘Some riders just float over the top of the cobbles without really hitting them,’ he said. ‘Boonen, Museeuw, Tchmil. Peter? He just hits them too hard. He’ll always puncture.’

  I agreed with him in some ways. Punctures aren’t much to do with luck, they’re a lot more to do with technique, as yours truly has proven at the Olympics. But if I hadn’t thought I could win there, I’d have stopped trying. I’d take a week off, go to Amstel Gold the following week, fresh, and kick ass. Or just put my feet up with Katarina and Marlon and let everybody else get their teeth kicked in for hours on end.

  On Team Peter

  It’s really important to me to always thank my team, win or lose. I might be the final nail banged in to the finish line, but there are an awful lot of hammers, screwdrivers, toolboxes and trips to the hardware store before I get anywhere near the win.

  It’s a curious anomaly about cycling: an individual sport played by teams.

  The personalities of those around you are just as important as the physical skills they bring to the party. You need to trust every teammate, mechanic, DS, coach and soigneur, and you need to predict how an individual will react in any given situation as there probably won’t be time to communicate. For instance, I don’t need to ask Burghardt or Bodnar to go on the front and lift the pace of the leader’s group with 30 kilometres to go in a Monument if we’re all still there. They know that’s the best way to keep the race together and they’ve got the ability to do it.

  Since I was very young, I’ve come to trust and rely on a select bunch of guys that are as crucial to getting results as, I don’t know, training, or having a bike that works. Thanks to the patience and willingness of Willi and Ralph at BORA - hansgrohe, we’re all together under the same banner and long may it continue. With Willi and Ralph, it’s not a case of negotiation, they don’t just allow the presence of Team Peter guys within the set-up to indulge me, they recognise the worth that each and every individual brings to the whole operation.

  Teammates aren’t really what I mean when I talk about Team Peter. It’s a team within a team, and as lucky as I am to have had the likes of Marcus Burghardt, Maciej Bodnar and Daniel Oss at my side at varying times throughout my career, they’re professional cyclists who will always bury themselves for their leader. Yes, OK, we’re good friends, but when Daniel was at BMC he rightly gave Greg Van Avermaet every last drop of sweat, just as he did for me at Cannondale or now does for me again at BORA - hansgrohe.

  The point of Team Peter is that it’s a little hardcore group of dedicated people whose joint goal is to make wins for me. And that’s why thanking them is so important. They’ll often have sacrificed personal goals and ambitions for the good of Team Peter, and when I’m on a podium, it may sound cheesy but I really am taking a bow for all of us.

  The original member of Team Peter was there long before anybody conceived the idea. In fact, he was there before I was conceived. Take a bow, Juraj Sagan. Being the middle brother is never going to be easy, and when your kid brother, totally spoilt by every member of the family, turns out to be a loudmouth who’s good at cycling, that’s not going to help. Especially when you’re the prominent cycling fan. I can remember coming into the house on long, hot school holiday afternoons to see Juraj crouched in front of the telly, excitedly telling me, ‘Pantani’s put two minutes into Ullrich on Plateau de Beille!’ to which I’d go, ‘Whatever,’ and shoot out the door with a rope ladder and a catapult. Pantani was the bald one. That was as far as it went for me. It was Juraj who took our races seriously, laying out his kit the night before, cleaning his chain, polishing his shoes and talking through strategy, while I’d turn up in plimsolls on our sister’s bike and attack from the start. I must have been rather irritating, but he was only ever proud of me. And then we’ve been able to ride together our whole professional careers! How many brothers can say something as cool as that? I can’t begin to tell you what it means to win the UCI World Championship and be able to celebrate on the line with somebody else who truly understands what it means to a Sagan or a Slovakian, and somebody who has done more than anybody to help
you reach that goal. It’s special.

  Of course, Juraj has been our National Champion in his own right too. The best thing about Juraj as a cyclist, beyond his dedication and loyalty, which go without saying, is that at the age of 29 he is demonstrably improving. He’s there in the closing stages at the big races and riding with a confidence and authority that puts a huge extra weapon in the arsenal for BORA - hansgrohe.

  The other great advantage for me in having Juraj around is that he is so hilariously, impossibly, illogically unlucky when it comes to all the stupid daily bets and challenges we foist upon each other. If Team Peter is going out for a meal, I basically don’t want to go unless Juraj is going. My chances of having to pick up the tab are halved the second he walks through the door.

  Now, let me tell you about the captain of Team Peter and the man who first planted the seed and nurtured it into the self-supporting behemoth it is today. He’s a bit of a behemoth himself. Of course I’m talking about the greatest agent in cycling, Giovanni Lombardi. When I was first introduced to Lomba, I was a new professional at Liquigas and he wasn’t long packed up as a rider. He had started out as a very rapid and smooth sprinter, with a nice set of Giro d’Italia stage victories to his name, but it wasn’t long before his greatest skill was brought to bear on his cycling career: his nose for the best course of action. This man always knows the right path. If I find myself with a problem, I’ll always ask myself: ‘What would Lomba do?’