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Authors: Ned Boulting
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Carno.’
But it was the Doublet and Movico guys to whom he owed his Tour. They are the army of boys and girls who set out the miles of barriers each day, and install the endlessly long PA systems at each finish line, and other such unsung activities. They invited him in daily to share their largely cheese-and-pasta-based affairs, which fuelled them for their tasks. Carno was all over them like a rash. They even ensured that, every now and then, he washed.
On the final transfer from Grenoble to Paris (some 600 kilometres), he played his trump card. Or rather, we presented him with his trump card, since it was not in his nature ever to ask favours of our team. We had discussed it among ourselves, and had reached the conclusion that it might be mildly diverting to allow him into our Espace for that final drive. We had long since run out of new ways of insulting each other, and the presence of an eighteen-year-old force of nature might make the kilometres pass more quickly.
So he threw his by now absurdly distorted rucksack, along with the obligatory half-inched ‘Départ’ sign, into the back of our car, and hopped in. The journey proved pleasant enough. Carno chattered away about the people he’d met en route, emitted a curiously goat-like smell, insulted our music choices by knowing the songs ‘because it’s all the same stuff that my dad plays’, and then fell asleep.
When we reached the lovely little Hotel Alison in the Rue de Surène, it was the middle of the night. Carno had been awake as we’d hit the outskirts of Paris.
‘Where you going to sleep, Carno?’ Woody had asked him.
‘I dunno. Probably won’t. Think I’ll just head for the Champs-Elysées, and wait till it gets light.’
‘No, you won’t.’ It was nice to be able to trump his trump card. ‘There’s a spare room in our hotel. You have it. But don’t come down for breakfast without washing,’ I added. ‘In fact, don’t come down to breakfast at all.’
So it was that we checked him in under a pseudonym. ‘You’re Chris Boardman, if anyone asks, OK? You won the Prologue in 1994, and then again in ’97 and ’98. You run a multi-million-pound bike franchise.’
‘Cheers, guys.’
‘But don’t come down for breakfast.’
He’d made it to Paris. The following morning, the Monday after it was all over, just as we were heading off in our separate directions, Carno came down to breakfast. Or rather, he swayed down to breakfast. In fact, he stepped in off the Paris street from a hugely extended night out, straight into breakfast.
‘What the hell happened to you, Carno?’
He grinned, glassily. ‘Went to the Team Sky party thing. Had to buy some trousers specially. Then went on after that. Somewhere. I think.’ It transpired under interrogation that he’d ended up in some place of ill repute with a clutch of British cycling’s finest talents.
We told Chris Boardman about Carno’s final blag in Paris. He was deeply impressed, but also amused that he hadn’t received an invite to the Team Sky party. I could tell what he was thinking: ‘But I won the 1994 Prologue, and then again in ’97 and ’98. What’s Carno ever done?’
But, Simon, if you’re reading this, I take my hat off to you, my young friend! Just don’t do it again.
* * *
The same could very well be said for Sammy Sanchez, who won the stage to Luz-Ardiden. And well done to him. Genuinely, we were all chuffed to bits for the bony little Asturian with the Olympic rings pinned to his earlobe. Having said all that, it would have been more convenient for us if he chose never to do it again. His victory led to a regrettable moment of broadcast confusion, in three different languages.
Cycling is the very hardest sport to televise. It does not take place within the cosy confines of a stadium. The logistics of covering an event which is played out along a very thin line stretched out over 200 kilometres of public road is one thing. But trying to guess when the
But it was the Doublet and Movico guys to whom he owed his Tour. They are the army of boys and girls who set out the miles of barriers each day, and install the endlessly long PA systems at each finish line, and other such unsung activities. They invited him in daily to share their largely cheese-and-pasta-based affairs, which fuelled them for their tasks. Carno was all over them like a rash. They even ensured that, every now and then, he washed.
On the final transfer from Grenoble to Paris (some 600 kilometres), he played his trump card. Or rather, we presented him with his trump card, since it was not in his nature ever to ask favours of our team. We had discussed it among ourselves, and had reached the conclusion that it might be mildly diverting to allow him into our Espace for that final drive. We had long since run out of new ways of insulting each other, and the presence of an eighteen-year-old force of nature might make the kilometres pass more quickly.
So he threw his by now absurdly distorted rucksack, along with the obligatory half-inched ‘Départ’ sign, into the back of our car, and hopped in. The journey proved pleasant enough. Carno chattered away about the people he’d met en route, emitted a curiously goat-like smell, insulted our music choices by knowing the songs ‘because it’s all the same stuff that my dad plays’, and then fell asleep.
When we reached the lovely little Hotel Alison in the Rue de Surène, it was the middle of the night. Carno had been awake as we’d hit the outskirts of Paris.
‘Where you going to sleep, Carno?’ Woody had asked him.
‘I dunno. Probably won’t. Think I’ll just head for the Champs-Elysées, and wait till it gets light.’
‘No, you won’t.’ It was nice to be able to trump his trump card. ‘There’s a spare room in our hotel. You have it. But don’t come down for breakfast without washing,’ I added. ‘In fact, don’t come down to breakfast at all.’
So it was that we checked him in under a pseudonym. ‘You’re Chris Boardman, if anyone asks, OK? You won the Prologue in 1994, and then again in ’97 and ’98. You run a multi-million-pound bike franchise.’
‘Cheers, guys.’
‘But don’t come down for breakfast.’
He’d made it to Paris. The following morning, the Monday after it was all over, just as we were heading off in our separate directions, Carno came down to breakfast. Or rather, he swayed down to breakfast. In fact, he stepped in off the Paris street from a hugely extended night out, straight into breakfast.
‘What the hell happened to you, Carno?’
He grinned, glassily. ‘Went to the Team Sky party thing. Had to buy some trousers specially. Then went on after that. Somewhere. I think.’ It transpired under interrogation that he’d ended up in some place of ill repute with a clutch of British cycling’s finest talents.
We told Chris Boardman about Carno’s final blag in Paris. He was deeply impressed, but also amused that he hadn’t received an invite to the Team Sky party. I could tell what he was thinking: ‘But I won the 1994 Prologue, and then again in ’97 and ’98. What’s Carno ever done?’
But, Simon, if you’re reading this, I take my hat off to you, my young friend! Just don’t do it again.
* * *
The same could very well be said for Sammy Sanchez, who won the stage to Luz-Ardiden. And well done to him. Genuinely, we were all chuffed to bits for the bony little Asturian with the Olympic rings pinned to his earlobe. Having said all that, it would have been more convenient for us if he chose never to do it again. His victory led to a regrettable moment of broadcast confusion, in three different languages.
Cycling is the very hardest sport to televise. It does not take place within the cosy confines of a stadium. The logistics of covering an event which is played out along a very thin line stretched out over 200 kilometres of public road is one thing. But trying to guess when the
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