At Speed: My Life in the Fast Lane (3 page)

Nine km to go and I’m already low on my bike, in my bike, with my hands on the drops. Usually at this point I’d still be on the brake hoods, head high, neck cocked, and eyes peeled, but we’re moving too fast to worry about whom and what I can see. As we catch the breakaway, I’m certain it’s the last we’ll see of Brad on the front, but his legs are still pumping, two pistons stabbing the pedals. Six km from home and he’s still there.

Five. Four and a half. Still Brad. Fucking incredible.

Finally, with 4 to go, Brad fades to the right and Ian Stannard is on the front and in the wind. Two seconds later it comes: a bolt of magnesium white, a flash in the far-right corner of my eye. The Aussie cavalry are galloping level and then past us on the right-hand side of the road. I don’t panic. I never panic.

This is one of the reasons—the main reason, I think—that I have a clear advantage over other sprinters, not just here in Copenhagen but in every race. A sprint isn’t a chaos bomb exploding in your sightline; it’s not bedlam on fast-forward—it’s a multiplication of problems to be solved quickly, usually instantaneously, but at the same time rationally. It’s also a contest of freshness, not brute pace, and I generally have more energy and move faster than anyone else because I’m staying calm and clinical. I would even bet that my heart rate is
10 beats per minute slower than that of a lot of my rivals in the closing kilometers, not because I have a more efficient cardiovascular engine—I don’t—but because I’m not getting flustered.

Part of staying cool is also, of course, staying focused on the process and not the outcome. When I know that I’m going to win, when that voice inside my head is telling me,
Cav, you’ve got this,
it’s also my subconscious warning to myself not to fuck up. That and a shot of confidence, not complacency—a last splash of the special tonic that quickens and gives high-definition and perspective to the film rolling in front of me.

Two km out, though, it’s a struggle to stay composed. On the far side of the road, in the shadows, riders of all different nationalities are pouring into the Aussie train’s slipstream. Behind five Australian jerseys come Italians, Russians, Spaniards, Americans, and French—the United Nations of fucking up my sprint train—and suddenly we’re engulfed. I tell myself to be patient and have faith—faith in Stannard and Gee, the only teammates I now have left, and faith in how I can read the movements of a bunch, like a weatherman reads the path of a storm. Do only what I always do: Stay not on the wheels but in them, not directly behind the rider in front but almost between two guys riding parallel to each other ahead of me to give myself the room to move forward or back, left or right in a split second. I don’t snap, although the urge is there, when riders and teams whom we haven’t seen all day while we’ve controlled the race, guys like the Spaniard Carlos Barredo, start butting in, jostling, and trying to barge us aside.

I’m lucid and alert, but inside the last 2 km and 20 wheels back, I know that I’m in a vulnerable position. If another train suddenly surges on the opposite side of the road, I could instantly drop 20
wheels and out of contention. Luckily, in Gee and Stannard I’ve got two guys who are both exceptionally strong and immensely loyal. From where I am now, you’ll get nowhere just following wheels; you have to go outside and into the wind, and to do that at 60 kph you need exceptional horsepower, which Gee and Stannard have. You—or I—also need that dedication, which I’d never question from this pair. The symbolism of me riding into the last 2 km of a world championships road race behind two guys whom I grew up with as a cyclist, with the British Federation and its Academy, will be something to reflect on and cherish later.

One point nine km and we’re still behind the Aussies, Italians, Germans, and Spaniards, tight to the barriers on the right-hand side. I can see Matt Goss five positions ahead of me, hunched over the bars, legs chopping. Muscles don’t bulge from his calves like they do from Andre Greipel’s, Marcel Kittel’s, or any other sprinter’s—Gossy looks awkward, ungainly, but on an uphill finish like this one, he could be the biggest threat.

One point eight and the arrowhead of the bunch sways toward the middle of the road. That movement opens a window of opportunity on the far right-hand side at one point seven: Stannard surges, makes it, Gee does the same, makes it, and suddenly they’re snapping at the Aussie’s heels, in second wheel and third. I also surge … but, maybe sensing I’m there or guessing that I’ll be following Gee, Gossy swings hard right and slams the window shut.

Fuck
.

One point five and I’ve lost my lead-out man. One point four and I’m boxed. One point three and Stannard’s on the front, Gee’s looking around to see where I am but is dazzled and blinded by Italian
blue, Australian and German white. Gossy lets me past, but I’m not looking for Gee anymore. I know Gossy will come under me before the last corner, then I’ll swing onto his wheel. It’s risky, but if I pull it off. If I pull it off …

One point two. One point one. Then we’re under the blue banner for the last kilometer. Nine hundred. The last, right-angle righthander. Stannard slants his body and bike into the bend and is the first man to see the finish line; Gee, in second, tilts into the same arc. I’m 10 positions back, Gossy’s gone under me like I knew he would, and I’m fine here, I’m thinking now—
I’m golden, this is good, real good
. For days before the race we’ve debated whether to use the more aerodynamic, mid-section carbon wheels or the lower-section, lighter and zippier model, and finally I’ve gone for the latter because of the acceleration needed out of this last turn.

As Gossy hugs the corner, an Italian rider tries to cut in. I kick, my bike fizzes in front of him, and I know I’ve made the right choice.

Stannard’s laboring now, about to pull off, and Gee’s still turning to look for me. I shout, “Gee, I’m okay!” Gee is in the perfect spot to go for himself here, at 800 to go, and a lot of riders would, but not Gee. Gee would never do that. Loyal to a fault, Gee is. Would ride the cranks off his bike for you, Gee. Absolute legend.

Seven hundred and fifty. Three hundred more meters and then the road starts to ramp up. I stick to Gossy, like his shadow, or closer. I’m just waiting now.

Seven hundred. I see Gee drifting back on my right, level, and then behind me.

Six fifty. Now I’m just waiting. Waiting, waiting. Five fifty.

Five hundred. The wind’s coming from the right. I’ve felt it in training—laps and laps, practice sprints, testing gears, lines,
leadouts—and I’ve felt it on every circuit today. It’ll blow and the group will drift, drift to the left, leaving clear air on the right-hand side of the road, where I am now.

Four fifty. Four thirty and the road starts rising.

Four hundred and they’re drifting now. Just tiny amounts, but they’re moving. Heinrich Haussler’s on the front, driving for Gossy, and he’s veering, veering left, and the whole group’s swinging like a dragon’s tail behind him.

Three seventy-five. Three fifty. It’s going now. Haussler’s dying and everyone’s drifting, drifting left, and the window’s creaking open. I’ve got an Italian, Daniele Bennati, on my right and a Dutchman, Lars Boom, on my left. I’m on Gossy, but here it fucking comes, earlier than I think. The gap’s coming.

Three hundred and it’s creaking ajar. Two seventy-five and it’s halfway there. Two fifty … come on. Two twenty … a bit more.

Two hundred and it’s open, waiting, yawning—a gateway to paradise running up the barriers. I think I’ll have a moment, a second in the eye of the hurricane, but no, I have to go: Fabian Cancellara, in red, sends a flare up the other side of the road and it’s now or no chance.

Ten pedal revs and I’m past Gossy. Fourteen and I’m past Bennati. Fifteen and I’m past Cancellara and leading the worlds.

But there’s still 100 meters to the finish and the lactic acid and the adrenaline are waging a chemical war in my thighs and calves and even my arms and this road’s still going up at 75, 70, 60, 55 meters to go. At 50 it starts flattening, but that breaks the rhythm and I’ve gone early and I’ve not got much left …

I look left, see Cancellara going backward and no one else making ground. Forty-five to go and it’s coming, it’s coming, coming.
You’re going to be world champion, Cav, it’s fucking coming
.

Thirty-five, 30, 25.
Sixty-five more revs and it’s over, Cav
. Gossy’s closing, I know he’s closing, but he’s left it late and now I’m riding over the sponsors’ logos and it’s 10, it’s 9, it’s 8, and it’s 5 meters. I’m raising my fucking arms and the next thing on the road is the finish line and I’m the fucking world champion.

World champion. I’m the world champion.

y
ou think as a professional cyclist that you’re used to pain. I’ve always said that it’s a weird, twisted line of work that treats physical suffering as part of the job description, like clocking in at an office. At least it comes with the benefit of desensitization; a wasp sting, a cramp, something that might have normal folk squealing in agony barely registers on our pain radar.

We’re harder, braver, more resilient than ordinary people.

At least that was what I thought until one night in a Majorca hotel room in January 2010, 18 months before my greatest day in Copenhagen.

I wasn’t just squealing; I was crying and howling like a 5-year-old girl. It was razor blades, acid on an open wound, induced labor, five climbs up the most infamous of all major tour climbs, the Mortirolo in Italy, all of them at the same time.

I couldn’t take it anymore, so I shuffled my body out of the bed-sheets and alongside the wall. I cocked my head in the opposite direction, then held it there as I paused to ask myself if this was really such a bright idea. Then I felt it again—a hot poker on my gums—and
that made up my mind. Like a center forward leaping to meet the perfect cross for a header, I lunged and flicked my head at the wall and waited for the thud.

Then it came. Ahhhh, more pain. And relief.

My logic, you’ll have to admit, was pretty ingenuous: disperse or dilute the pain in my mouth by creating another one in my skull. It was the kind of thing that only I could have come up with. Had it worked? Depends what you meant by “worked”; I was definitely in pain in two places. What I didn’t realize at the time was that in those moments, on that bed in that hotel room in Majorca, the opening credits of a six-month waking nightmare were just beginning to roll.

It was my own fault, my own vanity that had done it. My bottom front teeth had always been crooked, and over the previous few months I had finally decided to do something about it. Even now it strikes me as so superficial that I find myself wincing as I write, but it’s one of those things that happen when you become more successful and, consequently, more intensely scrutinized.

Ever since my debut pro season with T-Mobile, I’d been seeing photographs or videos of myself almost on a daily basis, in magazines and on TV, and over time it had made me more and more self-conscious about my looks. In those dark, thankfully long-gone days, whether in vanity or just insecurity, I would scour Internet forums for comments about myself and come across the odd unflattering reference to my teeth. One of the worst was a suggestion for a look-alike: Bingo, a gorilla from the old kids’ TV series
The Banana Splits,
whose most distinctive trait was, you guessed it, his massive gnashers. There was no one remark or piss-take that did it, but over the last few months of 2009 I’d finally made up my mind: I’d get them straightened, or whatever it was that they needed, and be done with it.

And so I went to Paraguay. That’s right, Paraguay. I was there for reasons other than my teeth—a holiday—but yes, that was also where I’d decided to have the operation. When I told people this over the months that followed, they reacted as though I’d gone and done it up a tree, hanging from a branch, or down some back alley. They clearly weren’t aware that South America leads the world in cosmetic surgery. The clinic, which in fact was more like a hospital, was reputable and clean. Not cheap, either.

It wasn’t there that the problems started, or even the next day when I went out training, but on the plane on the way to my HTC-Columbia team’s second training camp of the winter in Majorca. I’ve had strict rules on airplane food ever since my time at the British Cycling Academy, before I turned pro. One of the British Federation coaches, John Herety, who had trained at catering college in a former life, had some horror stories and two incontrovertible, inviolable rules: avoid seafood, and avoid ice cream that may have melted and been refrozen.

Now, though, thanks to my new braces and a hole in my gums where a tooth had been extracted, ice cream was all I could eat. It was a recipe for disaster: I spent almost the entire second half of the flight in the toilet cubicle switching ends, shall we say. It was food poisoning, or a stomach bug, something totally unrelated to the surgery on my mouth. What didn’t occur to me at the time was that I was vomiting over the open wound in my mouth. In doing so, I was setting in motion a sequence of events that, five months later, would take me to my lowest ebb, an emotional and professional macrocosm of the agony I experienced in Majorca.