The Climb: The Autobiography

by Chris Froome

  Brad has ridden very well through the first half of the season and shown that he’s capable of winning the Tour. He is Team Sky’s leader and what the team likes more than anything is clarity: one leader supported by every other rider. They know I can be one of Brad’s lieutenants, but I know I can be more than that.

  Better to not think about it too much and enjoy the Hotel Van Der Valk, which isn’t really your typical Tour de France hotel. It’s too nice. It has four stars, big bedrooms, a modern lobby and a feel that borders on luxurious. It’s a good place to spend our last night of freedom; from tomorrow we become prisoners of the road.

  Right now I’m in the bedroom and my legs are inside the lower part of the skinsuit I will use in tomorrow’s 6.4-kilometre prologue time trial around Liège. I’ve deliberately turned the skinsuit back to front and, using my legs to keep the upper section taut, I try to pin number 105 on to the lower back.

  Richie Porte, my teammate, room-mate and all-round mate, is close by doing the same. Over the last six months we have become good friends. At first I wasn’t sure about Richie but I’m like that with everyone; I give myself time to work them out. It didn’t take long with Richie. He’s chippy and what you see is what you get: there aren’t many thoughts that start in Richie’s mind and don’t end up coming out of his mouth. I like that.

  Pinning the number on to the skinsuit isn’t as straightforward as you’d imagine. It takes time. As well as stretching it upwards, you’ve also got to get it hip-width. I like the pinheads on the inside so they don’t catch the wind. Sure, they’ll scrape my skin but that’s better than seconds lost because of a fractionally higher drag coefficient. Richie has that smirk on his face.

  ‘Nice performance plan?’ he says, and then smiles. I know what he means.

  Sean Yates, Sky’s directeur sportif for the Tour, has come up with our battle plan. It details how Brad can win. It’s a good plan, and tactically it’s well thought out; Sean knows the ropes. Dave and Tim like it, but when I read it my heart sank. Brad is Plan A. There is no Plan B. Sean sees my role solely as one of Brad’s lieutenants in the mountains.

  Richie instinctively knows how I’m feeling. He smiles to let me know he’s on my side and that, come what may, he understands my predicament.

  I can’t let Sean lower my enthusiasm for the race. I’m in really good form and though I’ll support Brad and ride for the team, there will be opportunities. I keep telling myself Brad deserves to be team leader while another voice says, ‘Yeah, but the team promised you’d be able to ride for GC.’

  First things first. I need a good ride in tomorrow’s prologue. To show them I am ready.

  Next morning I speak with Gary Blem, who has prepared my time-trial bike. Gary talks me through the changes and they all seem good. At the bus I’ve got an hour and a half till my start time. I’ve planned this to the last detail so I don’t end up waiting at the start line, which is almost as bad as running late.

  I put on my skinsuit bottoms for the warm-up but don’t pull the upper section over my torso. That would make me too hot on the turbo trainer. I wear an undervest for collecting sweat, then a light mountain jersey with a pocket for my iPhone. During the warm-up I will turn on my music and shut out everything else.

  I check my time-trial helmet, fastening the strap to the right length so I won’t have to adjust it later. I lay it on my seat. Holding the visor up to the light, I look for any marks that need to be cleaned. Then I fiddle with the magnets to make sure they are where they should be to hold the visor in place. Gloves are placed on my seat. Shoe covers ready.

  I then soak two small pieces of cotton wool in Olbas Oil, stuff them up my nostrils, draw air through my nose and wait for the oil to start clearing my airways. A quick espresso and I’m ready for the turbo trainer. The team has set up the trainer on a specially built platform beside the bus; uneven ground can ruin a warm-up.

  This warm-up; I could do it in my sleep. To do it right demands concentration. Think, get it right. I start with 3 minutes of easy pedalling. Then an 8-minute progression to threshold. At threshold I’m producing a power I can sustain for up to an hour – over 400 watts. I dance to the numbers coming up on the display fixed to the handlebars.

  Two minutes of recovery are followed by a quicker 4-minute progression. As I start at 200 watts and need to get above 400, I increase my power output by 60 watts a minute until I hit 440.

  I begin another 3 minutes’ recovery, then I do three accelerations, which are almost sprints: two in the saddle, one out. Each lasts 10 seconds and is followed by 50 seconds of recovery. I then keep my legs turning for another 3 or 4 minutes. At 25 minutes I stop; warm-up complete. It is 10 minutes until I roll down the start ramp.

  Back on the bus I take off the top and the undershirt; I have a small towel ready to mop up the sweat. A soigneur will help get my torso into the skinsuit, making sure not to rip my race number. If it is pulled too high, the pins will snap; this is an art.

  I gulp down a hydromax gel, the one that tastes of pineapple juice, then I pick up my gloves and helmet. I’m ready.

  The starter counts me down: trois, deux, un, allez. Just 6.4 kilometres – too short for tactics but I still don’t want to set off too fast. Robbie Nilsen, from back in the day, has indoctrinated me: first ten per cent of a TT at ninety per cent capacity. I take one quick look at the SRM: 520 watts. That’s good but not crazy. I’m going fast and breathing really hard. Another glance at the SRM: my heart rate is up to 170, which is as high as mine goes. I can hear myself breathing.

  I don’t know why it’s so loud because I feel I’m going okay. Short, flat time trials don’t suit me but this is not too bad. I keep pushing.

  Right line into corners; nothing stupid. Fast and smooth; a kilometre to go. Empty it all now.

  I zip through the finish where Szrekkie is waiting for me. I’m gasping for breath, struggling, but I can’t think why. As I try to breathe deeply I feel like I’ve gone anaerobic; my body has seized up. I’ve never been so wasted. So helpless.

  ‘Hey, boy,’ Szrekkie says, ‘take the cotton wool from your nose.’

  Oh shit!

  I’d forgotten to take out the nose plugs before the start. I’d raced the whole prologue with them in, blocking my breathing. Thirty per cent of your breathing is done through your nose. I feel embarrassed. Really embarrassed. I’ve actually raced an okay prologue: 11th at 16 seconds down on Fabian Cancellara, a specialist in the short time trial. Brad is 2nd to Cancellara, 7 seconds down, and 9 seconds quicker than me.

  But what has the blocked nose cost me? A few seconds, perhaps a little more. It definitely hasn’t helped. Brad’s 2nd place means the team is happy. No one makes much of a fuss about my mistake. Except the boys at the dinner table.

  I’m one of the later ones to arrive for the meal. Bernie Eisel is sitting there with two paper napkins plugged into his nostrils. Funny. Genuinely funny. He looks at me.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he asks, all innocent, as if he’s unaware he’s got two tissues up his nose.

  Brilliant, I think, just brilliant. ‘Okay, guys, laugh it off …’ My Tour de France has got off to the start I didn’t want.

  I was treated differently after finishing 2nd in the Vuelta. My opinion was sought. ‘Froomey, what do you think about this?’ The kijana was moving up in the world. The team had a system of rider representatives and I was asked to liaise with and speak on behalf of the British guys in the team.

  This never really worked but at the time I was quite pleased with the new status. Perceptions changed on the outside too. People noticed the performance in Spain and towards the end of October 2011 I had run into Adam Blythe again. Adam is a British rider and someone whose company I enjoyed. He was about to the join the BMC team.

  There was a junket to Langkawi in Malaysia and Adam was due to go with his teammate Philippe Gilbert, the Belgian star who’d won more big races than any rider in 2011. Late in the day Philippe wasn’t able to make it and Adam asked if I w
anted to go in his place. He saw the look of surprise on my face.

  ‘Froomey, you were second in the Vuelta. They’d be delighted if you went. It’s basically an all-expenses-paid holiday. You do one little appearance for them and they’ll give you an attendance fee, as well as paying for everything.’

  This wasn’t a difficult decision. Between the beaches of Langkawi and time in Kuala Lumpur, we were away for ten days. It was a good trip and after returning to Monaco, where winter was kicking in, I was looking forward to a couple of months of the Johannesburg summer where I could begin my training for 2012.

  However, in Langkawi, the rash that had started in the Vuelta had progressively gotten worse. My face was bloated, especially under the eyes, and it was very uncomfortable. In the middle of the night I would wake up and realize I had been itching the sores and making them worse. Then I wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep.

  Worried about using a medication that could produce a positive test, I was scared to do anything about it in Langkawi. I applied Nivea cream to the affected areas. If anything, it made things worse: the rash sapped my energy and disturbed my sleep.

  Back in South Africa, I saw a dermatologist. Eczema, he said. Hydrocortisone creams were prescribed. They calmed the inflammation but after the next training ride, the symptoms returned. Bigger tubs of stronger cortisone-based cream brought more temporary relief but the underlying problem remained.

  I’m not one for agonizing over how I look but at this time I could have done without the disfigured face. This was my time to impress Michelle Cound, a Welsh-born, South African-raised girl who I’d known for a few years and with whom I’d been friends in a long-distance sort of way.

  She took photographs at races I’d ridden in South Africa and it was Daryl Impey who initially introduced us. We hit it off and once in a while I’d send her a text, she’d reply and we’d be mildly flirtatious. With 8,000 kilometres separating Europe and Johannesburg, nothing much happened other than the infrequent texts.

  Towards the end of my second year with Barloworld, when the team had neither the money nor the enthusiasm to send us to a lot of races, I went down to Johannesburg on a short visit and asked Michelle out. We both lived in Midrand: me still with Noz and Jen, while Michelle had her own house. Though we were coming from the same suburb, we travelled in separate cars to Sandton, near the centre of Johannesburg.

  We’d planned to see a film but instead went to Baglios Italian restaurant in Nelson Mandela Square at Sandton City. Knowing I would be riding with Sky the following season meant I was full of enthusiasm and confident about the future. Michelle was a bit further on in her career as an IT systems developer and was working for an insurance company called Momentum.

  She drove an Audi S3, a car I really liked but only now, after joining Sky and moving on to a better salary, could I consider buying. Well, maybe I slightly exaggerated my interest in the car because I was hoping to kiss Michelle goodnight.

  ‘Could I walk you to your car? I’d like to see the S3.’

  ‘Why not?’ Michelle said.

  I checked over the car and thought about kissing Michelle goodnight. I thought about it and let the moment pass. ‘My car is in the other car park. Would you mind dropping me round to it?’ Inside her car, I’d be braver. As we said goodnight, Michelle gave me a hug. Like I was her brother.

  Two years passed. I’d been involved in a relationship that didn’t work out and a few months before I was due back in South Africa, Michelle and I set up a date for when I returned. It was not the time to get a horrible rash. But that didn’t stop me and soon after I’d landed in Johannesburg we met for lunch at News Cafe, which was just down the road. For dessert, I invited her to come house-hunting that afternoon.

  My new contract with Team Sky had also made buying a house possible, and as I’d been using Johannesburg as my out-of-season training base, it made sense to look there. Noz’s conference business was growing and there were always people floating around at his place; I needed somewhere quieter. The roads around Midrand were becoming busier and busier too and more dangerous to train on.

  I rented a cottage that my friend Matt Beckett’s parents owned, and though that was better than my dad’s in terms of access to training routes I still wanted my own space. Jono agreed to loan me what I needed until my new salary kicked in and I could pay him back.

  Michelle didn’t realize what she was getting into. That afternoon we looked at a house in Parkhurst, a northern suburb that has retained a village-like feel. Its 4th Avenue has cafes and restaurants that people walk to, and because I went to school not far from Parkhurst I knew I could head west or south and, after about half an hour of busy roads, I’d be on routes that were good for training.

  Parkhurst is an affluent area. Although that first place wasn’t right I soon found one that was. It was a lovely house, with a separate flat that was ideal for renting or having a friend stay to keep an eye on the main house when I was in Europe. It was the kind of home I never imagined myself owning or living in.

  That first day with Michelle started with lunch, spilt over into house-hunting and ended at Luca’s Italian restaurant in Sunninghill that evening. We got on really well. Michelle didn’t seem to mind the miniature volcanoes on my face and arms. And there wasn’t anything about her that I didn’t like. We had plenty to talk about.

  Michelle now had her own IT consultancy but had just been recruited by the banking and wealth management company Investec to be a systems architect for their operation in Mauritius. She could do this out of their South African headquarters in Sandton and was hugely excited by the chance to work for a big and progressive company. I told her about my hopes for the coming season and how I believed I could do well in the Tour de France.

  After that first day we wanted to see each other again, and pretty soon. For the following two months, we were close to inseparable. I’d stay at her house, and she’d stay at the new house in Parkhurst. It helped that Michelle knew cycling. She had cycled with an amateur club in Johannesburg and even did a few stints as a team manager for some of the small local teams (she could have come in handy in Salzburg in 2007). Michelle ended up travelling to a lot of races and taking a camera with her. Her photos soon caught the eye of the local cycling publications and in the end she enjoyed taking photographs more than riding races. Understandable.

  The new house was unfurnished but, fortunately for me, Michelle had decided to take December off before starting with Investec in January. The cutlery, crockery, cooker, washing machine, curtains, furniture and light fittings all became her responsibility. I thought electric shutters on the windows would be nice but hadn’t worked out how we’d hook up the shutters to our power. Michelle sorted that out, too.

  All the time my skin problem ebbed and flowed. Hydrocortisone helped with the inflammation but the underlying problem persisted. We talked about it a lot and Michelle wondered if maybe it wasn’t actually eczema. The rubber in my shorts, for instance, irritated my skin. We were using Adidas gear and their famous three-stripe logo produced a three-stripe rash on my legs. Wanting to know more about skin conditions, Michelle trawled the internet in search of information that might provide a clue to the precise nature of my problem.

  I went to another dermatologist in Johannesburg and spoke on the telephone with the Sky doctor Richard Freeman but nothing changed until Michelle stumbled across a photograph on the internet of someone with welts on their arms that looked the same as I had. She discovered it wasn’t eczema but hives and treatable with antihistamine medication. I began taking one tablet a day and suddenly the problem was more or less under control.

  Bobby called me a lot, asking how I was and how training was going. It felt like he was checking up on me. I don’t believe this was coming from Bobby but from concern being expressed within the team. They were probably wondering if being put on a big salary would change me. Then they hear I’ve got a new house, and a new girlfriend …

  And they worried that I mi
ght not have the same hunger. So without anyone ever accusing me of slacking, Bobby was making more calls than normal. That was fine. I liked Bobby and knew that he realized what kind of person I was too. I was two years into the team at this point and it was interesting that people still didn’t know me. That was probably as much down to me as them. Either way, I wasn’t going to become less dedicated.

  One of the reasons Michelle and I hit it off was the fact that she had so much going on in her life. She had a great career, was close to her family, had a lot of friends and, basically, she had her own independent existence. She wasn’t at all needy and, given my love for being on the bike, that was important. The last thing Michelle wanted was for me to lose focus.

  Returning to Europe in mid January for the beginning of our 2012 campaign, I knew what I had to do: start well in training, use the early-season races to sharpen up and then produce the form that would show everyone I was ready to ride GC in the Tour de France. Our first race was the Tour of the Algarve, where Richie, who was in really good shape, was allowed to lead the team.

  There was a mountaintop finish that was going to be decisive. We made sure it was. Though we didn’t have the leader’s jersey, we rode like we did, which was the typical Team Sky approach: try to control the race from the start, make it hard for everyone and trust that, at the end, your leader will be stronger than everyone else’s.

  I rode well on that stage as did almost everyone on the team. Richie finished it off easily, and went on to win the race. It was a good start for the team, but in the end, not that brilliant for me. Next day was a harder, lumpy day and I woke feeling terrible. Without an appetite or any energy, the moment I got out of bed I knew it was going to be a struggle. So I did what I always did at these times, I kidded myself: ‘Let me just get into the stage and I’ll ride through it.’