Читать книгу My World - Peter Sagan - Страница 13

2015

SUMMER

With sunny miles in my legs and sunny smiles all over my face, I headed to Park City, Utah, for some altitude training as a new man.

Altitude training has proved itself to be a massive benefit for me over the last few years, but 2015 was when it took off. Patxi convinced me of its powers, and he has proved bang on. Plus, I get to hang out in places like Utah, Colorado, and the Sierra Nevada in Spain.

The trick to understanding altitude training and how it can help is to slightly tweak the title. It’s not really altitude training; it’s living at altitude while training. Hanging out and, most importantly, sleeping where the air is thin means you’re using less fuel (oxygen) to carry the load. On the one hand, you’re working your body harder to get through whatever you’re asking it to do, but you’re also teaching it to run more efficiently and make the most of the resources it has available. It’s teaching your engine to run leaner. You need to beware of overtraining, though. If you tip over the edge, it takes a long time to climb out of the drop on the other side. Altitude training with Patxi is safest for me because he is so knowledgeable and understands it better than most, but he also trusts me to tell him when I’ve had enough.

Lots of people say, “sleep high, train low,” but I think the second bit is less important. As long as it’s training, I don’t mind too much if it’s up at the top or down at the bottom. In Spain, we sleep high and train low most days as it’s bloody freezing up high with icy roads, and it gets pretty busy with skiing traffic on the roads at the weekends. The shape of the Sierra Nevada lends itself to it as well: It’s just a huge great lump rising out of the plain. So we hop in the cars in the morning and drive down to Granada to ride. We do a bit of team time trial training with new bikes too, so the quiet roads and warm weather are very handy as there is technical riding to be done, but a fair bit of hanging around too. If it’s a nice day, after the session we ride back up to get some climbing in the legs too. It’s a 30-kilometer drag, and the road can be pretty busy on Saturdays and Sundays. When you can be on the beach at Motril in 20 degrees Celsius and skiing in reliable powder within a couple of hours, that’s not surprising. When it’s grim in the mountains, we can usually persuade Patxi that the road along the beach would be the best place to head. As he’s a member of the new generation of DSs that like to ride with their teams rather than sit in the car barking out instructions, he’s very much up for that kind of training. A coffee. A beer. Why so serious?

There are no beaches in Utah, but I like America, and there is a cool West Coast vibe in Utah that chimes with my Tour of California experiences. I had a great time in Park City. Train hard. Kick back. Repeat.

Back in Europe in June, I went to the Tour of Switzerland, picked up a couple more stages and my fifth points jersey in five appearances there. I then had a brief visit home to Slovakia and got my fifth national road race championship, ensuring I’d have my own personal jersey for another year.

Whether I cared or not, it seemed I was ready for the Tour de France.

I would be riding the Tour de France alongside Alberto Contador at Tinkoff. We’d spoken together in the bunch ever since my very first European pro race, Paris–Nice in 2010, and had always got on well. There was no thought in my mind that we might have a problem racing a big event together. There was no need for me to be known as a co-leader or to have another kind of designation that other people might need to make them feel important. He was the leader. He had proved over many seasons that he was probably the best G.C. rider of his generation. He’d had his problems with the UCI and served a disputed ban, but he still had massive respect in the peloton and a massive point to prove, too. Going into that 2015 race, he had an amazing seven Grand Tour victories, plus two more that the UCI had scratched out for doping. As a result, he was looking for his third legitimate Tour de France win, going up against Sky’s Chris Froome, Astana’s Vincenzo Nibali, and the Movistar duo of Nairo Quintana and Alejandro Valverde.

In Bjarne Riis’s absence, Oleg had promoted Stefano Feltrin to general manager. Previously, Feltrin had been the guy looking after the contracts for the riders, sponsors, and such, and he had a very clear vision of how everything should work.

“You’re going to the Tour to work exclusively for Alberto,” Feltrin and Steven de Jongh, Tinkoff’s head DS, told me.

“No, I can’t do that. I have a green jersey to defend and stages to win.”

I couldn’t understand the logic. I was aware that there had been problems in the past in teams that had conflicting objectives, but I didn’t think that applied to me. I talked to Sean Yates, the British guy who was then one of our directeurs sportifs at Tinkoff about the issues he’d been through at Sky when Mark Cavendish and Bradley Wiggins were hunting the green and yellow jerseys respectively. We agreed that this was a different situation, as Mark rides as the spearhead of a team effort and expects assistance, lead-out trains, breaks being chased down, tows back to the main group, dedicated domestiques, all things that are difficult for a team to provide when they are protecting the interests of a genuine G.C. contender or race leader at the same time.

I didn’t want any help at all. I just wanted to be left alone to do my thing. I didn’t need anybody to help me. And that left seven other guys free to do anything Alberto wanted. It seemed to me that if we couldn’t win the Tour with seven highly paid handpicked domestiques, we weren’t likely to do much better with eight. It was hardly likely to be my fault.

“No,” said Feltrin, “We’ll need your strength in the first week to hold things together.”

“I need to race from stage 1, or the green is gone,” I explained. The points competition is so loaded toward the rough and tumble of the first few days that anybody coming late to the party has no chance of leaving with the spoils. “I don’t need any help, Stefano; just let me get on with it. You’ve got seven other guys. OK, if Alberto and I are the only riders in the front group, of course I will help. But if seven guys can’t pace him back up after a puncture or a crash, eight guys won’t be able to do it either.”

“We can’t risk it. You might crash in a sprint.”

“Oh, Stefano, I know you’ve never ridden the Tour, but have you ever even seen one? I don’t need a sprint to crash. I can crash anywhere.”

To his credit, Alberto never put any pressure on me to be his bodyguard around France. As we were all preparing for the Dutch start in Utrecht, I found a moment to speak to him alone. There was a stage after the weekend that went through the Badlands south of Lille, hitting no fewer than seven secteurs of Paris–Roubaix cobbles. I knew it was somewhere that my experience could make a difference if he needed it.

“Listen, Alberto, stage 4, the pavé. I’ll be there with you. Don’t worry.”

“Thank you, Peter.”

That was it.

In more general terms, there is a much greater danger of internal team rivalry when you have two riders going for the same thing. It was before my time, but people still talk about the epic battle between Bernard Hinault and Greg LeMond when they were on the same La Vie Claire team at the 1986 Tour. Less obvious, but another problem for Yates to sort out in that Sky team of 2012 was the battle between Wiggins and Froome. Two riders trying to occupy the same space in the team, in the race, and even on the mountain, raises issues for even the strongest squads, and it’s nearly always when the climbing starts. I should point out that for all these so-called problems, both La Vie Claire and Sky won those races and gave the fans enough entertainment that we’re still talking about both races today. Why so serious?

I’m trying to tell you things in the order they happened, but sometimes everything happens at once.

We were in Utrecht getting ready for the Tour. It was the Wednesday before the kick-off on Saturday. Oleg phoned me up and said, “Peter, we need to talk about your contract.”

Still convinced I would be retiring at the first available opportunity, I was worried he was going to ask me to extend my contract on the back of my recent run of victories, or make sure I knew it was cast iron, as a lot of business gets discussed at the Tour de France and a lot of deals are done for new teams and transfers.

“OK, Oleg, what’s on your mind?” I answered nervously.

“We need to renegotiate it.”

“In what way?”

“We need to reduce it.”

This was a surprise. I didn’t think I could be surprised any more. My life has been full of surprises, and I thought I was fairly unshockable, but I admit my stomach flipped.

“Erm . . . why, Oleg?”

“Listen, Peter, I brought you to the team to win me some classics. I’ve got Tour riders, and that’s been great. But this year I’ve taken you on because I need Monument wins; that’s what I’m paying you for. And you were shit at the classics.”

I took a deep breath. I could see what he was saying, but in a race with one hundred different stories, anything can happen, and I don’t remember there being any suggestion of my salary being performance related. OK, sometimes a sponsor might give you a bonus if you did something extra special, but I haven’t heard of them withholding pay because you tried your best but didn’t cross the line first.

“Yes, I agree, I was shit. But everybody knows why: Bjarne, Bobby, overtraining, contract negotiations, virus . . . I’ve come back stronger. I’ve got 10 wins and jerseys for Team Tinkoff already.”

“Yes, they’re lovely, thanks, but I didn’t sign you because I wanted a points jersey in the Tour of fucking Switzerland. I want a Roubaix, a Flanders, a Primavera, or at the very least a Gent–Wevelgem or an Amstel Gold. So, basically, you owe me your March and April salary.”

“Oh, man. Seriously?”

“Look, I know you’re getting ready for the Tour de France, so I’ll leave you to prepare, I’ll think about it for a few days, then I’ll call Giovanni.”

“OK. Bye, Oleg.”

“Ciao, Peter, good to talk to you.”

Classic Oleg.

I called Giovanni, and we had a Team Peter powwow. Giovanni began to shuffle some legal arguments and go through the contract again just to make sure there were no loopholes for Oleg to exploit. We agreed that we should just keep our heads down and say nothing to anyone as it might just blow over. No reaction, no press, no response.

On the Saturday morning, with the first stage time trial that afternoon, Oleg came over and found me by the bus getting ready.

“Hi Peter, how are the legs?”

“Good, thanks, Boss.”

“Listen, that stuff the other day about the contract? Just forget about it OK; it’s all good.”

“Oh. OK. Thanks again. I won’t let you down.”

“I know, I know. And all this stuff about team instructions and riding like a domestique for Alberto? Fuck ’em. Fuck ’em all. Get me that green jersey.”

You had to laugh. Oleg Tinkov, what a character. But it did underline a serious point that never disappeared the whole time I was on the team: Who should I listen to? Who did I need to please?

That was the race of second places. After the time trial—it was too long to be called a prologue, they decided—there was a flat stage across the reclaimed lands that give the Netherlands its name, finishing on an island. I knew there would be crosswinds, and, bizarrely, the predictions about helping Alberto came true, as we were both alert enough to make sure we were in the front split. It was a good day for the team, who smashed it hard on the front in lashing rain and gale-force winds, and also for Sky, and we drove it between us for Alberto and Froome. By the finish, Quintana and Nibali had lost a minute, and I felt free to contest the sprint. It was a tight one, going to a photo, but Andre Greipel’s tire touched the line before mine, and I had my first second place.

After guiding Alberto over the pavé as promised with plenty of effort but no real incident, I finished second in the sprint again, this time to John Degenkolb, who was having an incredible season, winning both Milan–San Remo and then Paris–Roubaix on these same cobbles. Unfortunately for both of us, we were only sprinting for second place on the stage, as Tony Martin had clipped off the front of the hard-core group that remained in contention with a few kilometers to go, and we just couldn’t catch him. He took the stage and the yellow jersey with it. Another near miss for me, but I wasn’t worried. The chances would come.

Like the next day, when I was second to Andre Greipel again.

And the next day, when I was second to Zdeněk Štybar.

Actually, that one really hurt. Well, it didn’t hurt me as badly as it hurt Tony Martin, who was in a crash within sight of the line. The yellow jersey has no more padding than any other, and it couldn’t prevent his collarbone from cracking, leaving his heart as broken as his clavicle. Of course, I didn’t know he was hurt at the time; there was just a mess of riders everywhere and a chance to win a stage. But first we had to catch Štybar, who’d jumped himself into a handy lead just as the Lycra hit the tarmac. Well before that day and continuing to this, whenever there’s chasing to be done, it seems everybody looks at me. Seriously? I still don’t really get it. It had already been demonstrated on a few painful occasions in this race that there were other sprinters capable of beating me, and they had powerful teams to help them. But no, let’s wait and let Sagan chase. I was beginning to get a bit fed up, so I sat up and invited somebody else to chase Štybar. There were only a few hundred meters to go: If we didn’t get together and chase together, he would win. We didn’t. He did. And guess what? Yes, I was second. I was thinking of getting a new jersey made. Most second places. The brown jersey, maybe.

I wasn’t second the next day. I was third. Second loser, I suppose. To make up for it, I found myself second in the G.C., so I could keep my imaginary brown jersey.

Second in the sprint again the next day, stage 8, to Alejandro Valverde on the slopes of the Mur-de-Bretagne, but we were both outdone by two late attackers anyway. At least I was consistent, I suppose, but it was getting pretty frustrating. By consolation, that consistency meant that I wouldn’t have to wear my notional brown jersey the following day, as I’d nicked enough points off Greipel to get my favorite Robin Hood–colored jersey back. Rob the rich to give to the poor? The way things were going, I bet if I ran the Sheriff of Nottingham’s coach off the road, I’d get to the treasure chest and find Greipel or Cav had already helped themselves.

A week went past. We did a team time trial. We climbed the Pyrenees. I slipped out of the top 10, unsurprisingly, but I still had the green jersey. For a while, I’d also held the white jersey of best young rider overall. Some people found it hard to believe that I still qualified for this, and sometimes I felt like one of them. It was hard to believe that I was still only 25. Still, I was all burnt out and washed up, wasn’t I? So that white jersey must have been mystifying. Thankfully, I didn’t have to wear it seeing as I had the green one or people would have been mightily confused. When we got into the mountains, I lost it to Nairo Quintana, which must have been even more mind-blowing for the public, as he looks much older than 25.

Alberto lost some time. Rafal Majka won a stage for us, but we were all in shock. Feeling unwell for the first week of the race, our universally loved and respected captain, Ivan Basso, went for some tests on the rest day. He was hit with the completely paralyzing news that he had testicular cancer and needed immediate treatment. Within days, he was having surgery in Italy.

Ivan had been a part of my life since turning pro, as my team leader and a double Giro d’Italia winner at Liquigas, and now as a hugely experienced skipper for Alberto here at Tinkoff. We didn’t often ride the same races, but his relentless positivity, smile, and time for everyone he meets had a huge effect on me, as I’m sure they have for all his former teammates. Off the bike, we shared Giovanni as an agent, so I had come to know him and look up to him more than most. Nobody knew what to say as the news came through, and the team felt that weight of events bigger than cycling begin to descend upon us.

As a postscript, Ivan made a full recovery from his illness but, at 37, he felt it was time to wrap up his long career. He is not lost to the world of cycling, however, and it is a racing certainty that he will continue to play major roles in the future of our sport.

At the time though, you can imagine the news was devastating, and it was hard to focus. All any of us could do was to concentrate on our own internal commitments to the race and do the best we could without him, and for him.

After a week of being in the bunch, I was beginning to think about taking the green jersey to Paris and maybe winning a stage in it at last. So it was almost comforting to come second again on stage 13, this time to Greg Van Avermaet.

On stage 16, fed up with losing sprint stages, I tried my luck on a mountain stage. There were two second-category climbs on it. Second? That sounded like my kind of category, and it had a downhill plunge to the finish in gap in the Alps, which I thought would suit me.

I came in second.

There was one stage for sprinters left, the glorious pageant of a gallop up the Champs-Elysées and a hero’s welcome in Paris for the winner. I was determined not to come second. I didn’t. I came in seventh.