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Authors: Ned Boulting
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the broadest of smiles. He seemed pleased with the joke, and enjoyed a little ripple of sympathetic laughter from some of the onlookers. Then heturned half away from me, a dismissive gesture designed to close the chapter. His smile appealed to the other guys to chip in with a different line of enquiry. I knew he didnât want to hear my voice again, but that if I hesitated for a fraction, he would take that as a sign of weakness and ride off.
âThere is a rumour that you asked Mario Cipollini that he shouldnât be selected . . .â
Heâd turned back to me now, and he didnât wait for me to finish my question. âThatâs absolutely not true.â
âNot true?â
Filming to my left, I found out when I reviewed the footage later, John had started a slow zoom, ever tightening into Armstrongâs taut features. âOne hundred per cent not true. Absolutely not true. How can I ask a team who to take? I can barely control that on my own team.â
Our encounter was finished. For once, I felt, it had been a score draw. In his long and winning Tour career, Armstrong had enjoyed many great days. This wasnât one of them. I rushed back to the truck, with the tape. My throat was dry.
Elsewhere, amidst the debris of the splintered peloton, Matthad cornered Simeoni.
âYes, itâs true. Cipollini did everything to keep me out of the Tour team.â He looked bruised, but coherent. âArmstrong showed what sort of person he is today.â
We ran both interviews in full. Gary Imlachâs carefully chosen words that closed the programme that night were among the best I have ever heard in a sports programme. He touched on Armstrongâs greatness before going on to say, âArmstrong needs grudges the way that the
Flying Scotsman
needs a steady supply of coal.â He continued, âWhat we saw on the road today was the most powerful cyclist in the world using his status to take revenge on a man who wonât make in his career what Lance is going to make this month.â
It was the tail end of only my second Tour, and I was now recognisable to Armstrong. Up to this point, I had really only had cause to celebrate the man. Now I had been brought face to face, literally, with something different: Armstrong continuing his battles off the bike. From that moment on itâs possible that he became more aware of me in the press pack. I certainly felt that the ground had shifted a little, and that our subsequent encounters were defined by the lines we had drawn that day. As a journalist, the taped encounter left me a little exhilarated, but, in equal measure, uncertain.
EN ROUTE
There is a misconception among my friends and family back at home that I spend every July stopping off to sketch a Roman viaduct, or perhaps to take in an open-air opera in some town square. Pure fallacy. There is nothing very charming about following the Tour de France. For the most part, getting around the route of the Tour de France involves sitting wordlessly in a hired car that belches diesel fumes into the atmosphere, while wondering which type of sandwich you might choose from the service station, if the traffic ever starts moving again.
At the beginning of each Tour the three of us, sometimes four, when Matt is in our car, have to confront the reality of thousands of miles in front of us. There are routines to observe, conversations to beget and forget, old jokes to be revisited, new ones to develop (although this is becoming a rarer occurrence).
July is made up of moments like this.
Matt is at the wheel, accelerating hard and missing gears with insouciant abandon. I am in the passenger seat beside him. A heap of photocopied A4 sheets detailing our itinerary spills uselessly across my knees. A week ago, they were all bound in a sensible folder, but chaos has consumed them. Woody is fully engaged in our hunt to find a bed for the night. He leans forward from the back seats, trying
âThere is a rumour that you asked Mario Cipollini that he shouldnât be selected . . .â
Heâd turned back to me now, and he didnât wait for me to finish my question. âThatâs absolutely not true.â
âNot true?â
Filming to my left, I found out when I reviewed the footage later, John had started a slow zoom, ever tightening into Armstrongâs taut features. âOne hundred per cent not true. Absolutely not true. How can I ask a team who to take? I can barely control that on my own team.â
Our encounter was finished. For once, I felt, it had been a score draw. In his long and winning Tour career, Armstrong had enjoyed many great days. This wasnât one of them. I rushed back to the truck, with the tape. My throat was dry.
Elsewhere, amidst the debris of the splintered peloton, Matthad cornered Simeoni.
âYes, itâs true. Cipollini did everything to keep me out of the Tour team.â He looked bruised, but coherent. âArmstrong showed what sort of person he is today.â
We ran both interviews in full. Gary Imlachâs carefully chosen words that closed the programme that night were among the best I have ever heard in a sports programme. He touched on Armstrongâs greatness before going on to say, âArmstrong needs grudges the way that the
Flying Scotsman
needs a steady supply of coal.â He continued, âWhat we saw on the road today was the most powerful cyclist in the world using his status to take revenge on a man who wonât make in his career what Lance is going to make this month.â
It was the tail end of only my second Tour, and I was now recognisable to Armstrong. Up to this point, I had really only had cause to celebrate the man. Now I had been brought face to face, literally, with something different: Armstrong continuing his battles off the bike. From that moment on itâs possible that he became more aware of me in the press pack. I certainly felt that the ground had shifted a little, and that our subsequent encounters were defined by the lines we had drawn that day. As a journalist, the taped encounter left me a little exhilarated, but, in equal measure, uncertain.
EN ROUTE
There is a misconception among my friends and family back at home that I spend every July stopping off to sketch a Roman viaduct, or perhaps to take in an open-air opera in some town square. Pure fallacy. There is nothing very charming about following the Tour de France. For the most part, getting around the route of the Tour de France involves sitting wordlessly in a hired car that belches diesel fumes into the atmosphere, while wondering which type of sandwich you might choose from the service station, if the traffic ever starts moving again.
At the beginning of each Tour the three of us, sometimes four, when Matt is in our car, have to confront the reality of thousands of miles in front of us. There are routines to observe, conversations to beget and forget, old jokes to be revisited, new ones to develop (although this is becoming a rarer occurrence).
July is made up of moments like this.
Matt is at the wheel, accelerating hard and missing gears with insouciant abandon. I am in the passenger seat beside him. A heap of photocopied A4 sheets detailing our itinerary spills uselessly across my knees. A week ago, they were all bound in a sensible folder, but chaos has consumed them. Woody is fully engaged in our hunt to find a bed for the night. He leans forward from the back seats, trying
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