Magic Spanner

by Carlton Kirby

  A place for the Trogs, then. And on this day at Giro 2013 it wasn’t just John Degenkolb who was a wild thing. The weather was too.

  It all started off nicely enough. The finish line was on a steep uphill ramp into the new town area of Matera, over the hill and out of sight of Mel Gibson’s camera angles. We sat at the top of the incline, our commentary position having been levelled with jacks and wooden blocks. It jutted out at an angle to the slope, making the climbing finish feel very real indeed.

  We began our commentary in full sunshine, but the pictures from out on course were very different. Bradley Wiggins, riding the Giro after coming out of the winter in poor shape for a Tour defence, crashed in the wet. He wasn’t alone.

  Slowly the sky darkened, the clouds looking as black as in the tropics. And then the sky burst. The rain fell like a sky ocean had simply flipped over. It was solid. You couldn’t see a metre in front. Our position was at the top of a slope with a gradient of perhaps 20%, there was no ground higher than us to funnel the rain. Even so, we were surrounded by sheets of water, rushing away downhill and replenished from the sky. It was mayhem.

  The crowds’ screams disappeared as they took cover and our screens flickered. We carried on.

  No pictures of the finish area could be shown at that moment because the cameras had not been protected from the rain and had to be switched off. We still had race pictures of the riders who, bizarrely, were still in sunshine. They were about to face something that until now only Noah had witnessed. We gamely soldiered on, until – cruuunk! The commentary position lurched over at an angle. One of the jacks had been washed away, along with its wooden foot. We were balancing at an angle.

  ‘Tirati fuori da lì!’ bellowed the director, and then in English: ‘Everybody out!’

  First away were the French from beIN SPORTS. Gone in a flash. Poufff! Amazing!

  Frankie and Davide from Rai Uno were a little more relaxed, packing up their stuff and ambling out grumbling.

  But Dan and I went into captain of the Titanic mode and stayed planted. The Brits were going to keep the world feed going, even if we went down with this baby. We carried on. After about 15 minutes, the rain stopped and the sun came out again. Miraculous. Back in came the Italians, soaked to the skin but grinning and saluting us with winks and slaps on the back. We were being jiggled back level as the jacks were reinstated on fresh blocks.

  I don’t remember the French coming back. Their production had ended with the commentators’ ‘escape’.

  For the record, John Degenkolb came up the hill to win. The changing tent had been washed away in the tempest, so he was guided to the rear of the podium by Valentina to await the call to the stage. Some fresh kit arrived and, without a thought, he stripped off completely to change. Valentina came into the commentary position in a state of shock.

  ‘You OK, Valentina? You look terrified. Did you have a bad time out there?’ I enquired.

  ‘No. It’s not the weather. And it is not a bad thing that I have seen. But yes, I am in shock. . .’

  ‘Why, what’s happened to you?’

  ‘I say this only to you. John Degenkolb. He is in my top . . . er . . . one!’

  Those calf muscles! I think he's smuggling frozen chickens!

  ‘And now we return to our live transmission with announcers Carol-Tone Kurby and Daniel Lloyd. And I can tell you that the contestants are just heading for a big action point of the day . . .’

  This was a genuine throw to us from Steve, the continuity guy, on an American cable network as they returned from an ad break. I am not joking.

  OK, this ‘announcer’ hasn’t heard riders called ‘contestants’ before or since, but it was indicative of how cycling is viewed stateside. It ain’t big bananas. Our American cousins are too infatuated with baseball, basketball and their version of football.

  They don’t really get cycling. Despite the fact that there are more cyclists in the US than just about anywhere, it’s not box office and it rates poorly.

  They can’t get their head round the idea that the overall winner of a race may not have even won a stage himself. I do have a bit of sympathy with this view. Anyway, when it comes to paying for the broadcasting rights of races like the Tour of California, Utah, or the now defunct US Pro Challenge in Colorado, the production gig usually goes out to tender. And the winner, who gets to bring the race to an international audience, has, in the past, been the lowest bidder. It’s a cost thing.

  Cycling is not cheap and globally often has government backing. Not in the USA. This means they don’t have enough helicopters, relay equipment or production skills and as a result the races are always losing pictures. On the US Pro Challenge we lost pictures so frequently that broadcasters pulled from the event. It died in 2015. I’m not surprised.

  In 2011, George Hincapie was the hero of the race launched by Lance Armstrong the year before. Although George was a doper he was a fully ’fessed-up doper, which, in the strange world of cycling, makes the fact he cheated kind of alright – with some at least. His misdemeanours were ignored in the daily stage reports. Incidentally, the only way to cure a varicose vein is to pull the whole thing out and he wanted to keep the blood supply there. So he and the bunch of grapes on his left calf rode on together. Fair enough.

  Hincapie is an all-American, square-jawed jock. On Stage 2 of the 2011 race, he was a striking physical presence as he pushed on towards Aspen. He flew down off a big escarpment heading into town, leading the race in an epic battle against several riders, including his compadres Tejay van Garderen and Tom Danielson along with two Colombians. Then – nothing. The pictures stopped and the director cut away to, you guessed it, the finish line and shots of spectators drinking microbrewery beer. We had the usual loop of images, this time about 15 minutes long. That is a long run of airtime without any action.

  My director at Eurosport told me, ‘Sorry, commentators, we have nothing to replace this programme – you have to keep going.’

  It’s at moments like this I actually thrive, partly because I find it amusing rather than stressful. Other commentators find it terrifying, but I’m happy to engage with whatever pictures I have to work with and talk about, in this case, microbreweries and hot dogs, for an hour or so if necessary. I have no fear of it because I feel the audience is with you at moments like this. And like a comedian on stage, confidence is king . . . so on we ploughed with a few gags here and a Twitter chat there as sketchy reports popped up on the web from the team cars themselves. Essentially we had nothing. So I began to create scenarios of what might be happening. The audience lapped it up. To avoid boredom, I started referring to George Hincapie as Gorgeous George, the name of a famous post-war American wrestler. I was busy shooting the breeze when bam! the pictures were back and George Hincapie emerged from the trees leading a five-up sprint. We snapped back into action with my previous comments locked in place: ‘ . . . and here comes Gorgeous George.’

  And so it went on to the line. George won.

  You’d think the American fans watching on hooky feeds might have appreciated my perhaps over-familiar tones towards one of their sons. Oooooh no! Twitter lit up:

  ‘Stop all this gay talk.’

  ‘Gay is not the way!’

  ‘Take your gayness way back to Europe, man!’

  Yep, we lost a few that day. No harm done.

  ‘He likes a boiled egg… Actually, I just made that up.’

  COMPLAINTS DEPARTMENT

  Like many pro riders, Dan Lloyd never really had a proper job until he stopped riding. By then he was 29. Since then, he’s got very grown-up and a bit more sensible. A bit. As with all riders, the clock stopped on his maturing self as soon as he signed up to ride professionally – at an age when he was still pretty juvenile. Cycling teams are full of teenage-style mischief. And the joy of this can prove addictive, drifting into the world of grown-ups later.

  Every day during a long tour, the French commentators from beIN were banging on about how one particular
sheet of information was being displayed. This useful page, the GC Par Dossard, is quite simply the entire field noted in numerical team order, with each rider’s time delay on the leader listed next to his name. It is a very useful tool in commentary because you can immediately see if, for example, a group of breakaway riders is a threat to the race leader. It is also a great reference when any rider pops up on screen from within the pack, giving you a steer as to whether or not his race is going well. The beef from our French friends was that for the first 10 days of the race this sheet of paper also had a thin black line drawn through the names of those riders who were out of the event. Now, though, this thin line was missing as a visual aid. Instead of a name crossed through, what you saw was a blank time next to the name. The press information officer clearly thought that was enough, but the French wanted their black lines back. They were very uppity about it.

  There are so many things to get agitated about in working on the road and this was not one of them. Dan was getting annoyed. ‘What’s their problem, FFS? Why don’t they just draw on the black lines through the names themselves?’

  On and on the French ranted each day as they checked the information document to see if the black lines had been reinstated. A flamboyant ‘Boufff!!!’ meant they had not.

  About two weeks in, I found Dan early to the comms box, quietly working.

  ‘You alright?’ I ventured. I’d not seen such dedication before.

  ‘Yep… all good.’ He beavered on.

  I looked over his shoulder. ‘Oh, you filling in the black lines for the Chuckle Brothers, are you?’

  ‘Kind of,’ said Dan with his trademark staccato ‘Ha-ha-ha-ha’ (always bursts of four for some reason).

  Dan had very carefully filled in the black lines over the names of those out of the race. But he had also drawn a line through the main French guy in the race, Pierre Rolland.

  ‘You swine,’ I said, smiling.

  Dan was dedicated to his craft. He had to do this twice because both the lead commentator and his co-commentator would have their own. It took Dan ages.

  In came the French and began to change as they would soon be presenting their pre-show, VVV: Very Very Vélo… or something equally badly named that they were proud of.

  And right on cue, Alex picks up the dossier and flicks straight to GC Par Dossard. ‘Aaaaaah, at laaast!’ he shouted over to Dan. ‘They have done it! Good.’

  Dan smiled and said nothing.

  Off went the French to their outside pre-show live position in front of us.

  ‘This’ll be good,’ said Dan excitedly.

  ‘You’ve got to tell them, Dan. They’ll see it live on air and think Rolland is out. They’ll go nuts about it. He’s their big name.’

  Just then, we were counted in for our own, out of vision pre-show. There was no time to tell our French friends about the landmine that had been planted in their notes.

  A man in meltdown is not a pretty sight. But it is a funny one. Sadly, our own broadcast was also affected. As we tried to work, we saw, out of the corner of our eyes, our impeccably dressed French friends slamming down the paper on to their wobbly mock desk in a field. We soldiered on. About 10 minutes later, the French stormed the commentary position. ‘Who has done this!? Whooooo!????’

  We shrugged.

  ‘Sheep droppings make amazing hand grenades.’

  24

  How Do You Feel?

  ‘Mate, I’m . . . I’m knackered. . . Just . . . piss off . . . for a bit . . . will you?’

  Bradley Wiggins keeping it real after his fantastic time trial at the 2012 Dauphiné.

  Anyone would have sympathy with the panting, tortured, exhausted athlete in a situation like this. ‘Give the guy some space!’ you shout at the TV. But just as the Directeur Sportif has been screaming radio instructions to get the best out of the rider, so too do TV producers now spank the ears of the poor reporters: ‘Get to the front of that mosh-pit FFS. We need Wiggins nowww!’

  Getting a good interview from a rider after he’s just completed a gruelling time trial, or spent four hours hacking up a series of mountains, is not easy. It takes a bit of finessing – not easy in a competitive environment. The finish line reporter has rivals in the hunt for the first reaction. Getting a handle on those around you as well as the target interviewee is difficult.

  The reporters gather by the rider like a group of hyenas holding back from taking the first bite out of an exhausted wildebeest – partly because the first one in is likely to get a good kicking.

  Everyone knows the rider has just gone to the very limit of his physical, mental and emotional capabilities. To get the best response, many planets must be in line. It helps if:

  1. He knows you

  2. He likes or respects you

  3. It’s worth it – i.e. you are from a media company with clout.

  None of the above matters a jot if:

  1. You are not in the right place

  2. You are too pushy

  3. You ask a stupid question.

  So you get your moment. The rider, still panting, tips his forehead your way while being towelled down and swigging from a bottle. You’re on!!! At that moment, all the other schmucks in the press corps are now in your wake. It’s your micro-gig. So don’t blow it!

  Stress hits peak and your eyeballs start to throb a little as your blood pressure rockets. You can hear your own heartbeat echoing in the little cave of your open mouth. Your mind stalls, time for a lifebelt. Here it comes! Oh no, not that stupid line. There must be another one in there somewhere?! . . . Nope. Nothing. So you go with the laziest, most banal, unresearched bollocks question from page one of Dumb Reporting for Dummies: ‘How do you feel?’

  Before the rider answers into the jostling multicoloured microphones, there’s a muffled chorus of ‘Oh, FFS . . .’ from all the other reporters who have made the scene.

  If it’s Mark Cavendish in front of you, and he’s in the mood for mischief, you get the bullet: ‘Using me hands. Next question.’ He points at another more capable reporter and you’re done.

  ‘How do you feel?’ is a question excusable only for those for whom English is not a first language. For the rest, this is a question that falls from the mouths of only those at the lame end of the broadcast journo spectrum. Yes, it may well be an open-ended question that can’t be answered with a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’. But asking it means you’ll be found out as either green or lazy. It’s too common. Pack it in.

  Win, and you talk. Lose, and you walk

  Some riders really resent the media and PR part of their job. It is an inconvenient by-product of success. As a stage winner, or race leader, there is a press conference to attend. Everyone else can go.

  Cycling is not a stadium event, so there is usually a journey to be getting on with at the end of a long day’s racing in order to get into position for the following stage in the morning. This inevitably means that time spent talking with the press is a nibble at the precious rest and preparation schedule of the big name cyclist.

  Yes, you can remind riders – and their own team manager will do – that public relations is indeed part of a tidy contract that brings them, if they are good, great rewards. Cycling is a sport that relies almost entirely on private sponsorship. And the sugar daddy team owners and race organisers need to see the stars wearing their kit and talking nicely about their day. It’s a brand management thing. And to keep the wheels from coming off the bandwagon, the stars are expected to play along.

  So sorry, superstar, the contract clearly states: ‘You must suck it up and engage with the press and public . . . even when you are physically and mentally shot to bits.’ (Obviously, they put this in lawyer speak.)

  What the contract does not say, however, is that they have to like it. And often they don’t. This can make for a stressful time in front of mikes and cameras. The way this is handled often reflects on the personality of the rider – or ‘victim’, as they sometimes see themselves.

 
The Tough Guy

  Mark Cavendish’s twitching jaw muscle has become legendary in the world of cycling journalism. Once that starts to go, you know you’re in for a rough ride.

  Meet Tim: BBC trainee. Nervous, overawed and underqualified. He’s been parachuted in to have a go at a sport that is frankly way down the pecking order at the Beeb, what with the distractions of Wimbledon and Match of the Day.

  Tim has all the badges. Tim, therefore, has all the access. Tim is now standing in front of a man who has sized Tim up. Cav is ready. Tim is not. Let battle commence:

  Tim: ‘Hi! I’m Tim.’

  Cav: Silence. Jaw twitching. Eyes narrow.

  Tim [perspiring]: ‘Right, let’s start off with today, shall we?’

  Cav: ‘No, let’s end with today. One question!’

  Tim: ‘Your people said five minutes.’

  Cav: ‘One question. Or none, if you like. There’s a queue behind you.’

  Tim has now dropped his notes: ‘Er . . . how do you feel?’

  Cav: ‘Alright, thanks for askin’. See ya.’

  Cav is now addressing Daniel Friebe’s microphone. Daniel is a known and trusted ITV reporter who immediately settles the nerves with a well-judged, insightful question. Meanwhile, Tim is busy pushing through the crowd with apparently very little blood left in his face.

  Later, at the bar, he’s talking to BBC’s cycling lead Simon Brotherton, a kindly man. Simon has the look of a counsellor about him. Tim is venting, in spitting whispers, at the sheer injustice of it all: ‘Frankly, I find Mister Cavendish simply impenetrable.’

  ‘Here’s to Cav’ was the giggling toast at the Eurosport table.