The Climb: The Autobiography

by Chris Froome

  I tried shoving him aside.

  ‘Sorry, Greg, can you just let me in here? Climbers’ day?’

  Greg turned towards me and got aggressive. ‘Why should I? You’re always in the middle of my train when it comes to the sprints.’

  I’d apparently caught Greg on a bad day; I never mix it with pure sprinters. Next thing I knew it felt like he was pulling right into me. I slammed on the brakes, just in time, but the deceleration cost me about fifteen places. It was the last thing I needed.

  It took a huge effort to move back up to my teammates. I could only pass one rider at a time, leapfrogging from one to another, then waiting for an opening and accelerating through it. We got over the top of the category three and I was still chasing, braking late on the corners on the descent, taking risks.

  If I didn’t get to them before the start of the climb, it would be a disaster. I took some more risks and finally I reached them. Phew.

  When Greg was in our team, I had listened to his harmonica-playing without complaint. I had defended him; told the lads he wasn’t a bad guy. For him to do this now?

  As soon as I got into our room later that evening, I would say to Richie, ‘Fucking Greg, now I see why you guys didn’t think that much of him.’

  Back in the race, there was the team plan for La Planche des Belles Filles. Then there was my plan, which took the team plan and added a little bit extra.

  The first part of the team plan was to make sure that Brad was well positioned when we hit the final climb. We did that. Then we controlled things all the way to the top. Eddie, Mick and Richie did the work in the early stages. I had never seen Eddie so lean and strong. Mick and then Richie did good turns at the front. I sit behind Richie, encouraging him to pull that extra few hundred metres further. The hurt is on; riders are dropping fast.

  My job was to stay with Brad, and to take him to the last kilometre. If I could take him inside that last kilometre, there was a 200-metre stretch that was really steep at the end. I couldn’t help Brad go any faster up that little ramp. It will be every man for himself and that can be my launchpad to go for the stage. So I try to keep the pace as high as possible until I get there. If I’m working, I want the guys behind me to feel the same load on their legs. This is the bit that’s not in the plan.

  Richie did a good pull but we were still slightly too far out. Then, at probably 4 kilometres from the finish, I thought, ‘Okay, I’ll take it on.’ It had been hard up until then and other guys had to be feeling it; Mick and Richie had burned off quite a few. This was how I liked it: not too many riders sitting on each other’s wheels, waiting for somebody to do something. We’ve done a good job of this so far.

  It was too fast for anyone to attack and when Richie handed over to me, my legs felt great. Riding on the front, I had one aim: no recovery for anyone behind me. So I kept the pace pretty uncomfortable. I still feel like I’m riding within myself.

  Just before the top, the climb flattened out through a car park before kicking up to the 200 metres of twenty per cent gradient. I didn’t want anyone to recover on the flat, so I shifted down a few gears and sped through the car park. Then we had a right-hand bend on to the really steep section. As we hit the corner, Cadel Evans surged past me.

  He knew I’d been on the front for more than 10 minutes and must have presumed that I would be too tired to react. I’d done my job for Brad. He also knew that Brad wasn’t going to like the steep ramp ahead. Once Cadel went by, I got a few seconds of recovery time, as if I were being pulled by him through the corner.

  Fantastic, I thought, he’s going for it. He was pushing on. Brad was behind me, then Nibali and then the Estonian Rein Taaramäe. Just five of us. Cadal’s attack was perfect; he was giving me a lead out. Brad came up my right to keep tabs on Cadel, and got on his wheel, but he was blocking me in for a second. He didn’t understand how I was feeling, and that I might still have something left.

  I slowed a little, to allow Brad to go past me, and then I swung round him so that now I had some space on the right. Head down. Go! From the right side of the road I looked across at Cadel, wanting to see what he was going to do next. Would he try to get on my wheel? Was he going to come after me again? Then I caught it: he looked across at me and his head dropped ever so slightly.

  This was exactly what I wanted to see. He came after me but he didn’t have the legs to get back to my rear wheel. I won, 2 seconds ahead of Cadel and Brad. It was a special moment because I knew I had also done my job for Brad. I saw him at the finish and he came and put his arm round me – he surprised me a bit with that.

  Brad got the yellow jersey and had to do lots of interviews. I heard him say something like, ‘A fantastic day for the team. Chris winning the stage; I’m in the yellow jersey. Great.’ Then he added, ‘Now he’s got his stage win, he’s going to be an integral part of helping me to try to win the Tour.’ I thought it was such an arrogant thing to say: Chris has had his little moment, now he can concentrate on his real job.

  WINNER: CHRIS FROOME

  OVERALL GC 1: BRADLEY WIGGINS

  9: CHRIS FROOME +1 MIN 32 SEC

  We rolled on. The waters would get muddier and the hills would become steeper. At the same time the cycling media began questioning the team’s employment of Geert Leinders, the doctor who had been employed on a contract basis the previous year. Allegations about his past were hissing out like air from a punctured inner tube. Within the team, the mood wasn’t as good as it should have been: Brad wasn’t always happy, I wasn’t happy and Cav wasn’t happy. It should have been better than this.

  One day on the bus Cav slipped me a note. He just leaned back and gave it to me, like we were in school.

  Be not afraid of greatness. Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and others have greatness thrust upon them.

  Shakespeare, Cav? Underneath, there was another quote, this time from Ralph Waldo Emerson.

  No great man ever complains of want of opportunity.

  I’m not sure what Cav reads between stages, or if the note had been given to him and then he had passed it on to me. It made a deep impression though and I still have the piece of paper.

  There was something interesting to be said about people having greatness thrust upon them within the context of the team. Cav was unhappy about the peripheral consideration given to sprinting. He definitely gave me the impression he thought Brad was being given everything as the golden boy of the team. In fairness to Cav, and to Brad, I think we would all have felt that this was a role that Brad was being shoehorned into. The team’s obsession with The Big Plan was making character actors out of all of us.

  The quote from Emerson was more stirring. At that point I hadn’t complained to anybody or expressed what was going through my head, but Cav was perceptive in seeing that down the road complaining would be a poor substitute for seizing the day.

  I felt Cav was saying, ‘Don’t get to the end and say you didn’t have the opportunity.’ This was powerful; tough but powerful. I wasn’t going to dandle grandchildren on my knee in years to come and explain that, ‘Yeah, I had the chance to win a Tour de France but I passed it up for a quiet life on the team bus.’

  Stage Nine: Monday 9 July, Arc-et-Senans to Besançon, 41.5 kilometres

  Brad and I finished 1st and 2nd on the individual time trial to Besançon; the work with Bobby J and with Tim on the art of time trialling was starting to pay off. When the starter said ‘Allez’ I also went, as I always did, with a bit of Robbie Nilson inside my head. The time trial left me in 3rd place on GC, 16 seconds behind Cadel Evans.

  It continued to bug me that the 1 minute 25 seconds I had loss right at the beginning of the Tour had been so unnecessary. It just shouldn’t have been there. As much as anything else, I was driven by the need to take that time back. Whatever I would achieve on this Tour I wanted it to be an honest and accurate reflection of where I was at.

  I felt by now that the team didn’t understand or weren’t prepared to recognize that I
was a potential winner of this Tour and if I wasn’t allowed to try, accepting that would involve a very significant sacrifice on my part; they hadn’t treated me in the way that had been promised.

  I was in 3rd place now and I had my reservations as to how Brad was going to cope when we got to the real mountains, the real crucible of the race. If he popped in the mountains and I got to the stage where I had pulled and pulled and he was just dropping, maybe I would have to push on. Maybe then the team would have to go with me in the final week, as they did in the previous year’s Vuelta.

  That was hard but this was also pro sport. It is a hard world. I was not going to rule anything out at that moment.

  I needed to be as close to Brad as possible in case I had to take over as our main GC competitor. That didn’t mean that I had a rifle pointed at Brad’s head. It meant that in terms of my own ambitions, and in terms of what had been promised, I was taking a bullet for the team but still doing my job.

  Stage Eleven: Thursday 12 July, Albertville to La Toussuire-Les Sybelles, 148 kilometres

  This was short, sharp and shocking: 148 kilometres of drama. We would race up La Toussuire to the line; the stage was made for me. In a different way, it was also made for Brad. One arrow he doesn’t have in his quiver is the ability to accelerate away at the top of a climb and take a stage like that. He has the ability though to beat out a steady time-trial tempo and he had a team around him who would pull him up the mountain to a point where he would be safe on GC.

  The plan was to scorch the earth again, just as we had done a few days ago on La Planche des Belles Filles to put Bradley in yellow. Still thinking of the 1 minute 25 seconds I wanted to get back, I suggested that maybe it might be possible for me to attack towards the end of the stage, after I had shepherded Brad almost to the top.

  The response was a frown and a slight unease that the question had been asked. I was used to this hypersensitivity towards Brad’s feelings but Brad was basically 2 minutes ahead on GC. Today was a day when we could kill off Evans and Nibali for him and take another stage for the team.

  I wasn’t putting my hand up and asking if I could help myself to Brad’s Tour or have a weekend away with his wife. I was asking could I go for a stage win, and get myself in a slightly better position? I had ridden in Brad’s service, as I was employed to do in the Vuelta the year before, and had sacrificed an outstanding chance to win a Grand Tour myself for the good of the team. I accepted that.

  But my status in the team changed after that. I saw myself as a GC rider now and the team had agreed that this was how I would be seen by them too. Here I was still riding in Brad’s service and I accepted my unchanged role, but I thought allowances would be made, and there would be some recognition of my personal ambitions.

  The day unspooled oddly. Cadel Evans surprised everybody by launching an attack on the Col du Glandon with nearly 60 kilometres still to race. It was both an attack and a suicide mission. Cadel didn’t believe he could win, otherwise he wouldn’t have gone from so far out. Upon seeing Cadel take off up the road, I turned to Richie, no longer able to contain my excitement. ‘Today, I’m going to rip his legs off in the final!’ We worked well and we controlled well. There was no panic. We pulled him back on Croix de Fer and from there onwards his chance of winning the Tour was more or less over.

  Richie led us into the climb of La Toussuire. Our group had thirteen riders in it, full of colourful fish, but the only fin sticking out of the water was Nibali. Twelve kilometres from the top, Nibali made his move.

  As if shot from a gun he was up the road before we even heard the gunfire.

  I looked at Brad. Richie looked at Brad. Richie looked at me.

  ‘Froomey, you need to go. I’m done.’

  This was a game for GC riders now. I was feeling good; better than good. Again there was no panic and I brought Nibali back with about 10 kilometres to go. Brad clamped on to my wheel. All was well; all was calm.

  Nibali is pesky though. Always. He went again. Tsk tsk, Vincenzo. Now I could either put the foot down to go after him again. Or I could play smart.

  I knew the climb was going to get even harder quite soon and I wanted Cadel Evans to expose himself. Maybe even attack again. He was hanging on the back. Was he recovering, saving up for another attack, or was he on life support after his effort earlier?

  So I began displaying a few signs of weakness.

  Look, Cadel, here, I’m struggling a little. My head is rolling, I’m flapping a bit, lurching off a straight line. This is hurting.

  I wanted Cadel and Frank Schleck, who had also been having a free ride up the mountain, to think they had me on the ropes. Let them think they could get rid of me.

  In my mind, the second they had made their move I was going to drive back on to the front. It was a case of control, control, control. Let them waste their energy and then burn the picture of me going past them on to their brains.

  If I just kept riding at the front, they would have another free ride back to Nibali.

  Now we started going downhill for a bit.

  Okay, Cadel, how dead do I need to look? I really needed him to take the bait.

  Please, Cadel. Come on. Attack. Take me. Let me see your jersey streaking past me. Look at my shoulders. I’m dying here. I’m swaying. Show me no mercy.

  He didn’t bite. Mainly because he had no teeth left, but I didn’t know that yet.

  Aw, look Cadel. I’m almost done. Stick a fork in me, man.

  Hmmm. Nothing.

  This was getting silly. I dropped back to get a good look at Cadel. I wanted to look as if I was struggling and at the same to time see if he was struggling too. I put on my best grimace.

  Brad was at the front now and he wasn’t panicking. He wasn’t going super deep but setting a steady tempo. When I dropped to the back I got the car on the radio just to reassure them.

  ‘I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m good.’

  They would pass that on to Brad. When the climb ramped up again in about half a kilometre he could expect me to be there again. For now we were on a fairly gentle stretch and I was still taking Cadel’s pulse.

  But there was no pulse. He wasn’t pedalling well and unless he was a better actor than I was, his body language was screaming out that his day was done. It was time to go and bring Brad back up to Nibali. I was enjoying this now.

  Nibali was now the last threat, about 15 seconds up the road. There was plenty of road left to catch him and break him; it would be job done.

  I rejoined Brad and went past, assuming he had latched on. I could hear him though. He was saying to me, ‘Easy, easy, go easy.’

  And I was saying, ‘C’mon, Brad, we’re almost up to Nibali.’

  I could see Nibali just 20 or 30 metres ahead; he couldn’t have much left.

  ‘We’re almost there. Then you can relax. Stay on my wheel.’

  When I looked back at Brad though I could see he was suffering. Shit. If he could just hold on till we caught Nibali it would get easier from there. Once Nibali surrendered, the train would slow down.

  Evans was already gone and now Frank Schleck fell back down the mountain. One minute he was clinging on, the next minute he was a tiny figure receding into the road behind.

  This road was steep now. It was hard work but we almost had Nibali.

  ‘Hang on, Brad. We have him.’

  Nibali had latched on to a couple of guys ahead of him, Thibaut Pinot and Jurgen Van den Broek. This was good as they weren’t going anywhere and there were five of us now.

  Me – feeling good.

  Nibali – spent.

  Pinot – spent.

  Van den Broek – spent.

  Brad – spent but with a teammate to pull him along.

  We were coming to a tiny village, Le Corbier. I said to Brad, ‘Okay, get on to those wheels and just stay on them.’

  Nibali was pulling the group at this moment. I would let him. He had made two attacks already and we had dealt with both. He was in trouble.
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  Brad wasn’t saying anything at this point.

  I decided to go, right then and there. I swung left and pushed past Nibali. Okay, Vincenzo. What have you got now?

  The road was getting steeper. We rode from out of a shadow, round a bend back into sunshine. The crowds on the climb were spilling on to the road. It felt electric; pure racing.

  Brad could sit on their wheels while they chased me. I’ll be damned if they’re going to catch me, though! Brad and I were going to be 1 and 2 on GC tonight. Behind me, though, Brad had been dropped by Nibali straight away. Either Nibali had more left than I had thought or Brad had less.

  Sean Yates was in my ear on the radio.

  ‘Froomey, Froomey, Froomey. I’m hoping you’ve got the okay from Bradley for that?’

  He was telling me that unless Brad explicitly said I could go, I would be having a spell in the naughty corner. I kept pushing. Then I heard Brad’s voice on the radio.

  ‘NOOOO, NOOOO, NOOOO.’

  He sounded like a man who had just dropped his oxygen tank near the top of Everest.

  I could hear that he was in trouble; my plan hadn’t worked. I slowed immediately. Brad was panicking; I could hear his desperation.

  This was all wrong. He was folding physically and mentally, and quicker than I had thought possible. I got the feeling that he would literally just get off his bike were I to carry on pushing. What was a simple and perfect plan to me seemed to translate for Brad into a public humiliation.

  This was an extraordinary moment for the team. We were the people of marginal gains. We controlled the controllables. But where was the margin now? Where was the gain? Where was the control?

  This was sport. This was life. It was as hard as it gets, and if it breaks you, there was no shame. You get knocked down, you get back up again.

  These were the questions these mountains and this race were supposed to ask. This was the moment when the team decided. Stick with the plan? Seize the day? Big moment, Chris.

  I slowed and waited for Brad, who had almost sat up by now. Two minutes ago we were riding at a faster pace and Brad was fine. He hadn’t just cracked; I think he felt betrayed. By the time he was back in touch with me, Pinot had gone again and Nibali and Van den Broek were dawdling, waiting for the free ride they’d get when Brad docked once more with the mother ship.