The Climb: The Autobiography

by Chris Froome

  The field had come past me at 60 kilometres per hour while I was cruising home happily at about 35 kilometres per hour.

  I lunged back into race mode but it was too late; I could only come 7th in the bunch sprint.

  I remember the absolute shame. All the press were there, including a TV camera, and even the lens seemed to be grinning. I felt so embarrassed.

  That was the Intaka Tech World’s View Challenge; it was mine to lose, and I lost.

  I couldn’t think like that any more.

  I had a sense that maybe the riders in 2nd, 3rd and 4th, and even down to 5th, 6th and 7th, were looking at each other now, as opposed to looking at me and how they would take three and a half minutes out of my lead. I would let them race among themselves; let them focus on their private battles for podium places.

  WINNER: TONY MARTIN

  OVERALL GC 1: CHRIS FROOME

  2: ALEJANDRO VALVERDE +3 MIN 25 SEC

  Stage Twelve: Thursday 11 July, Fougères to Tours, 218 kilometres

  A dull day; another one for the sprinters.

  In the mornings I would generally sit next to G at the table. Most of the time we discussed race-related stuff. Because today was going to be a sprint day, Cav’s Omega Pharma team needed to contribute to controlling the race. I said to G that maybe he could have a word with Cav about this.

  However, as it was, not a lot got said out on the road. There was a bit of swearing when the hammer went down in the final sprint, but that was it.

  Kittel went past Cav for his third stage win of the Tour, which killed Cav’s mood. It wasn’t a great day for us either: we lost Eddie in a crash, which fractured his shoulder. That killed our mood.

  I was also learning that for the race leader, the day didn’t end when you thought it had. In between the podium ceremony and the doping control, I had the media. Usually I had Chris Haynes from Team Sky with me, as well as the former rider Dario Cioni.

  Before the press conference I had to go to between ten and fifteen media outlets for one-on-one interviews. Dario said to each of them, ‘Two questions, just two questions.’ The first question was always, ‘How was it today?’ The second question was usually a very long sentence with five questions in it. Something like: ‘Are the rest of the team holding up – if so, what do you think about tomorrow – and of course, what about your own knee after that fall – are you now in the position you expected to be – would it be good to have Bradley Wiggins with his experience in the team at this point – you look fresh but how is your physical state?’

  Dario would catch my eye, and shake his head gravely. I would say, ‘Yes,’ and walk on to the next microphone. Two questions are not six questions.

  The length of the journey in the team car back to the hotel could vary greatly depending on traffic and distance. Nine times out of ten I would tuck into a bowl of rice and tuna and have a protein drink. We would chat about which journalists had been especially irritating or pushy. Who had asked that same stupid question again? It was a very different routine from being with my teammates on the bus.

  WINNER: MARCEL KITTEL

  OVERALL GC 1: CHRIS FROOME

  2: ALEJANDRO VALVERDE +3 MIN 25 SEC

  Stage Thirteen: Friday 12 July, Tours to Saint-Amand-Montrond, 173 kilometres

  Buried within the stage today was an interesting story:

  Valverde lost his Tour chance on the road to Saint-Amand-Montrond.

  Something had been on everyone’s minds from the start of the race; I imagine on every team bus the riders would have been talking about it, and each directeur sportif would have been telling his riders the same: ‘You’ve got to stay at the front today, today’s the day. We’re expecting crosswinds. Big crosswinds.’

  It was a nervous day, and once we set off, we hit the crosswinds relatively early on.

  Valverde punctured at a bad moment. At the time the pace wasn’t full on but it was decent and the crosswinds were blowing. We knew immediately that he would struggle to get back on; the race would almost have to wait for him.

  I was sitting close to the front with Yogi, G and the rest of Sky. Then, just at the point when Valverde hit trouble, the Belkin team started swapping off on the front.

  Belkin had something to gain. Valverde was still 2nd on GC and Belkin’s riders, Mollema and Ten Dam, were 3rd and 4th. Without Valverde, they would move up to 2nd and 3rd.

  It was an interesting move in terms of peloton etiquette. Were Belkin entitled to take advantage of Valverde’s bad luck? Did the unwritten law that protects the yellow jersey from this kind of attack apply to his closest challenger? A lot of people would have thought it did.

  Valverde’s Movistar teammates definitely thought it did. They were coming up and saying, ‘Listen, what are you doing? Valverde has punctured. This isn’t sporting.’

  One of the Belkin guys responded in an amazing way.

  ‘Oh, you’re asking us to be sporting? This is the guy who’s gone down for two years for his involvement in Operation Puerto. How sporting was that?’

  Basically, they were saying, ‘We’re not waiting for him. Why should we?’

  Obviously Belkin’s motivation wasn’t entirely to do with doping and Operation Puerto but I still thought it was a powerful thing to hear.

  The race got strung out. Everyone at the front had reason to ride, and Valverde’s race hopes were being killed by the General Classification teams and the sprinters’ teams, who were riding to keep Kittel behind. No one actually took the race by the horns and ripped it to pieces until we got to about 40 kilometres to go. Then Contador gave the order and his Saxo Bank boys accelerated. Yogi turned back to me and just said, ‘Go, Froomey!’

  He was looking at me, as if to say, ‘We’ve been caught out but now you need to get on to the back of Saxo Bank before any damage can happen.’

  At that point we were probably sitting in about 30th position in the bunch, not that far back. But it was too late. They had accelerated and opened a gap of 20–30 metres. I got out of the saddle and sprinted to try to get on to them. Cav was 10 metres in front of me but his acceleration was a lot quicker than mine. He managed to make it on to the back of Saxo Bank. I didn’t.

  As soon as I found myself in no-man’s-land I pulled over to the left-hand side of the road and cruised, waiting for the peloton to come back so I could find my teammates. I got everyone working. It took no longer than a minute or so, and then the Katusha team realized it was in their interests to help us and we got a decent chase going.

  We felt the loss of Eddie and Kiri through those final 40 kilometres.

  I was able to sit on the wheels until the final 2 kilometres when our chase began to flag. Then I went to the front and rode steadily to the finish. We were about a minute behind Contador’s group and I didn’t want it to get to a minute and a half.

  I realized that here, in the middle of this stage, which to all intents and purposes was a bad, bad day, I was dialling for help and drawing on the lessons that Tim Kerrison, Rod Ellingworth, Bobby Julich and others had been driving into me for years. Their notes of caution worked. I trundled in safely 1 minute 9 seconds behind the Saxo group, but it could have been much worse; Valverde had fallen out of the top ten.

  Elsewhere, Bauke Mollema and Contador closed the gap at the top of the GC and Cav came back into sprint glory. The day after tomorrow was the iconic Mont Ventoux, where we would settle some accounts. Roll on and don’t look back.

  WINNER: MARK CAVENDISH

  OVERALL GC 1: CHRIS FROOME

  2: BAUKE MOLLEMA +2 MIN 22 SEC

  Stage Fourteen: Saturday 13 July, Saint Pourçain-sur-Sioule to Lyon, 191 kilometres

  Back at the Dauphiné, before the Tour, I had raised the issue of the food we get on the bus after a stage. For as long as anybody could remember, it had always been tuna and rice. I wasn’t attacking this choice, but it would have been nice to have some variety every once and a while.

  The team listened, and after the Dauphiné we started getting di
fferent post-race dishes. Søren, our Danish chef, looked after us well. One day we had couscous with strips of chicken and the next we had fish and potato. It was a small change but I think it worked, and it carried on into the Tour.

  Usually I got to dinner later than the other riders. There was an understanding that you would eat when you could eat, you would get a massage only when your soigneur was free and you would fit into the Tour, not the other way round.

  The norm in pro cycling is that riders sit at one table and the staff sit at another. This was private time to spend by ourselves, but I think it would have been more relaxed if we were all together. I understand the counter-argument, especially if the soigneurs experience long, stressful days on the Tour; they may need the space to unwind away from the riders. But I would still prefer a system where we all just go and sit down wherever is free.

  Another argument is that because the riders are fed with Soren’s healthier and more nutritious food, it’s better to seat us at a separate table. The rest of the team eat hotel food, and although our food was ‘better’ for us, theirs were covered in tasty sauces and gravies. A man could crack.

  Today’s stage was settled by a break. It was a break of guys enjoying their day in the sun, and not a GC day; the peloton and the overall challengers rolled in 7 minutes later.

  Mont Ventoux was on my mind.

  I told myself that it was better to coast to the finish today. Yes, I had lost a minute yesterday but I knew that the mountains were beckoning once more. This was where I was going to need all my energy.

  WINNER: MATTEO TRENTIN

  OVERALL GC 1: CHRIS FROOME

  2: BAUKE MOLLEMA +2 MIN 28 SEC

  Stage Fifteen: Sunday 14 July, Givors to Mont Ventoux, 242.5 kilometres

  The ‘Giant of Provence’. The ‘Bald Mountain’. One of the Tour de France’s most famous climbs.

  Before the Tour, I spoke to Contador about Ventoux. I’d watched a video of him racing up it, against Andy Schleck. I said to him: ‘It’s going to be a big day for us in the Tour.’

  He nodded, and had a little think.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, it’s a tough climb, but in the final [section] it’s always headwind and it’s difficult to make a selection. [It’s] because you’re riding into a headwind. So you can’t …’

  In a headwind it’s very hard to get away from another rider. You’re pushing against a huge amount of wind, and in turn you’re making a fine slipstream for anybody behind you. They just stick to your wheel as you suffer.

  That conversation lodged in my brain until I was two-thirds of the way up Ventoux on stage fifteen.

  Alberto, I don’t want you having that pleasure if we get round Chalet Reynard, and there you are looking for my slipstream.

  But here we were, nearing the end of this punishing but iconic 242.5-kilometre stage. Richie had done the work and had laid it all out. I could launch myself now to the top of Ventoux.

  It was the perfect ambush, as Contador hadn’t expected anything here. The road flattened just before Chalet Reynard, which was 6 kilometres from the finish. This was recovery territory before the last skirmish. I had to be smart; I didn’t want to get up out of the saddle and sprint; I didn’t want to look hell-for-leather desperate, splurging all my energy with such a long way to go. If I got out of the saddle here, he would let me go and surely later pass my empty husk on the road up ahead.

  I took over the pace, but stayed low in my saddle, spinning my gears.

  I sowed more confusion than I had hoped for. I hadn’t actually been able to change gear fast enough because the road had been flat and I was accelerating. I was spinning very fast; far faster than it was efficient to spin. I was actually in the wrong gear. But this now was my attack.

  Come after me, Alberto. If you want to be with me to the top, you’re going to have to forget any recovery time. Accelerate now. If not, we might not see each other again till the podium. What’s it to be?

  I couldn’t resist any more. About 30 seconds into my acceleration I turned to check on him. He wasn’t there; he’s wasn’t on my wheel any more.

  One down.

  My focus shifted to Quintana, who was 30 metres in front of me, but coming back. ‘Not too quick now, Nairo,’ I thought. I needed some recovery time myself.

  I wasn’t going to race up to him all puppy-dog keen, Hey, I’m back! When it came to taking him I wanted to go straight past him; I wanted to be a couple of bike lengths in front before his brain had registered me at all.

  I got to him. I attacked immediately. Too soon. He followed me very easily, or so it seemed.

  Okay, this isn’t going to be easy. This can’t become a poker game where we ponder our hands till Alberto and the boys catch up on us.

  I was looking for the headwinds but there weren’t any. Not today; nothing. I rode steadily for a bit, mulling this over. I asked Quintana to come through. He declined.

  One more shot at dropping him.

  I got up and accelerated again; another good hard acceleration. But I went nowhere. He closed me down, again.

  Okay, that’s fine. I’m basically going to have to put winning the stage out of my mind, and I’m going to have to ride to the top with you, Nairo. You are going to let me do most of the pulling and you’ll have the legs over me in the last few hundred metres. You’ll win the stage and take a few seconds from me. But I can live with that. I have to.

  I settled in, ready to do the lion’s share of the work. Any time he came through, he pulled at a slower rate.

  Listen, don’t play games with me here. I’ve stopped attacking you. I’m not going to keep attacking. Just pull! Pull with me. Because you can move up on GC too, you’re 5th, or whatever, right now. Just do some work.

  I was telling him this in my broken Spanish with a splash of Italian. It might as well have been Swahili. I assumed he was just thinking about the final showdown. How he would weaken me. How he would ‘kill’ me.

  A kilometre to go. I had worked out where the Tom Simpson memorial was, even though it wasn’t visible with so many people on the mountain. It was a stark reminder of the mountain’s mercilessness; the British rider had tragically died there on 13 July 1967.

  Quintana would be sucking in the air now, getting ready for the end.

  I rode with my head down most of the time. It meant that I could see down between my legs, and behind my seat post. I could see where Quintana’s front wheel should be, and if he was on my wheel.

  I glimpsed down.

  He wasn’t there! Not where he should have been.

  I didn’t have much left. I wasn’t going to get up out of my saddle and attack right here, and take the chance that he would close me down again. So I pushed on a little bit harder. If he really was on the limit, this would be it. If he wasn’t, his wheel would reappear.

  I upped the pace by 30 watts or so; I looked down. There was nothing but road …

  It took me a few minutes to ride the last kilometre. I was light now though. One moment I had been surrendering the stage tactically; now I was winning it. With every pedal stroke I was taking more and more time from my rivals. It wasn’t because I was going that fast but because Quintana had run out of fuel.

  I was in yellow riding to a stage win on the hardest climb there would be in the Tour this year. It was an amazing feeling. Now I was going up that last bend. Photographers were swarming the outside of the corner, with the towering meteorological station above them at the top of Ventoux.

  I was riding to the finish line now.

  This was the day. The biggest win of my life. Say it again. This was the biggest win of my life.

  I was 29 seconds clear at the summit.

  In the yellow jersey.

  On Ventoux! It was dreamtime.

  Michelle was here. I went through the crowd and around the barrier. We wrapped ourselves around each other. I couldn’t speak; I didn’t know if she could either. All the rides, all the years, all the pain, was for this. Pain and joy, inextricably linked.
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  I could hardly breathe. I began coughing and couldn’t stop. Somebody led me to a camper van and a race doctor planted an oxygen mask on my face. A few minutes later the euphoria returned.

  At the team hotel in Orange that night we forgot about being Team Sky for a while, and did something spontaneous. Dave ordered champagne and made a short speech; the mechanics Igor and Richard poured the bubbly.

  We had a couple of toasts and a bash at our low guttural victory chant before the food came. ‘OoooooOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHH!’ Everybody joined in. Michelle had made a massive milk tart, a South African pudding, for the team. Tomorrow was a rest day and we were relaxed, happy and loose.

  I was just putting a fork into my starter when there was a tap on my shoulder.

  Sorry. Anti-dopage.

  I scoffed some food while the man watched and then I headed off to give a blood and urine sample; the same thing I had done this morning before the race. I had also given another urine sample after the stage end.

  Three tests in one day. If this is the price we pay to restore our damaged sport, it is a small one.

  My early cycling idols tended to test positive and die in my affections. I never want any kid to look at Ventoux today and wonder if it was all an illusion created by chemicals and cheating.

  WINNER: CHRIS FROOME

  OVERALL GC 1: CHRIS FROOME

  2: BAUKE MOLLEMA +4 MIN 14 SEC

  Monday 15 July, Rest Day

  Jeremy and three old friends, the Jethwa brothers – Kiran, Sam and Jaimin – were all here. They turned up today at the team hotel in Orange and I had no idea they were coming. They had travelled from Kenya, on a marathon journey that began for Jeremy with a flight from the Nandi Hills to Nairobi, from there to Abu Dhabi, then Paris, a TGV to Marseilles and, now, a camper van to Orange.

  Greater love hath no man than this …

  Jeremy was wearing a Kenyan rugby jersey. My bike had a little Kenyan sticker placed discreetly on its frame. I am Chris Froome (GB), I have always felt British and I live in Monaco. But today, with Jeremy and the guys here, home seemed both closer and further away.