The night before
A story by Gareth George
The lights in the foyer of The Crowne Plaza Hotel had, unusually, been dimmed down from their customary brilliance. Friday 29th June 2012 was, after all, no ordinary evening. The City of Liege had paid enormous fees to host the ‘Grand Depart’ of the Worlds greatest professional bike race - the 99th edition of the Tour de France and this was scheduled to start just two blocks from here at 11am the following morning.
It was the cities second chance to welcome the great race in just eight years and nothing could be left to chance. The only five star hotel close to the course was proud to be accommodating three of the top competing teams, together with their huge entourage. The dimmed lighting had been requested to encourage the press and other guests to move quietly around the circulation areas to ensure that the athletes remained undisturbed.
Although ten o’clock in the evening had come and gone, all efforts to create a cathedral of sleep had failed. Many nervous competitors still lay awake wondering what was in store for them when Saturday 30th June finally dawned. I was one of them! Cledwyn my soigneur had advised an early night and to make sure had just entered my hotel room one last time to switch off the light.
He had wished me a good nights sleep and to promote this had, with my agreement, given me a strong sedative approved of course by the UCI. A drug that could, in no way enhance my performance the following morning in the greatest test of my life – the opening Time Trial, known as the prologue.
My name is Berwyn Lewis and I'm a Welsh professional racing cyclist, leader of the new Radioshack-Nissan-Trek Team. Tomorrow, my team expected me to win the short 6.1 kilometre Time Trial starting from Parc d'Avroy in Liege. A lung bursting effort of six to ten minutes duration to claim the first yellow jersey of the 2012 Tour de France. Piece of cakes- eh?
I am, after all the favourite.
In the earlier Criterium du Dauphine a warm up for the Tour, I had won the opening similar stage with consummate ease. From this launch pad I had gone on to win this vital prelude stage race to the Grande Boucle. So why wasn't I supremely confident? The top pundits writing for L'Equipe, Mirroir du Cyclisme and Le Cycle had all had no misgivings about labeling me as the favorite for tomorrow and for overall honours in Paris.
The Tour de France cannot be compared with any other race, however. Only a supreme athlete with an iron will can ever dominate this 3-week test of endurance to emerge triumphant. To do it just once put an athlete on such a pinnacle that they would always be remembered, in cycling circles feted for life. To stand any chance of achieving this I had to win tomorrow and claim the first yellow jersey. This was after all my acknowledged specialism. If I couldn't excel in the Prologue my chances of climbing onto the top rung of the podium in Paris would be severely hampered.
A racing cyclist at the top of his game has to get used to pressure. My coach had taught me to visualize the start and concentrate on success at the finish to claim the victory that should be mine by rights; I had to dismiss all negative thinking. All very well, but hey - this was the Tour de France we are talking about here. The ultimate goal for any serious professional rider, the largest annual sporting event in the World. There were, as usual, no shortage of excellent contenders. I was one of an elite dozen team leaders who alone stood a chance of overall victory among the 200 odd riders.
What would tomorrow bring? Would I live up to my team’s expectations? Why was so much resting on just a few minutes intense activity? My manager, my mechanic, my soigneur, in total a support group of some 20 individuals were all there to play a part to gain this ultimate prize, the last maillot jaune in Paris. I was expected to repay their faith in my ability by winning, not only tomorrow but to carry on and dominate the race and to lift the final accolade in three weeks time?
Could I face this pressure without buckling? Was I strong enough physically and mentally to weather the inevitable ups and downs of such a huge undertaking? The crowds baying from the sidelines, the weight of expectation, the intrusive media attention, the pain!
In my troubled state of mind, and to boost my confidence, I indulged in another ride around the prologue, this time in my head. To give me every chance I had ridden the course at least a dozen times during the day, perfecting my lines on corners, deciding my gear selection and agreeing the choice of equipment with Matt my mechanic. It was easy to mentally recall every detail.
The departure from the ramp on Avenue Rogier, the first right hander, the bad camber on the second immediate swing to the left on to Boulevard de la Sauveniere. The cobbles, remember they could be wet tomorrow, the slight gradient into the narrow Quai Roosevelt, my gear selection crucial here as I try to maintain momentum. The long straight, which way would the wind be blowing along this exposed section adjacent to the River Meuse?
The descent back into narrow streets and the 90 degree bend at the bottom of the hill? Must not over egg this - too easy to take a poor line and clip the protection bales on exit. The immediate wind up for the finish in Boulevard d’Avroy. Will I be able to keep my cool and concentrate on my tuck position while going all out for the finish line? The mental re-run, instead of steadying my nerves and enabling me to relax and focus on the sleep I so badly needed, had merely got my adrenaline going. I now found myself more alert than ever. I needed a drink.
Leaning over the sink to refresh my glass, my thoughts switched to Anthea. My girl, the love of my life. She does still think the world of me doesn't she? Her reassurances on the phone earlier had seemed genuine enough but she did seem distant. Was this life of long absences and fond reunions finally getting to her? How could I expect her to keep this up? I needed further reassurance. A quick call perhaps? Would she understand? Perhaps a call at that time of night could just sow the seeds of the very uncertainty I was trying to avoid? No I must be strong. This is something I needed to do alone, I must survive without her much needed encouragement. Sleep is what I really needed.
I had read that Bernard Hinault, legendary French five times winner of the Tour de France, had managed to sleep soundly no matter what the pressure. In fact he had seemed to revel in his position as the Peloton's established patron. Even when his physical ability no longer matched his reputation he had succeeded in dominating the race with an iron will.
Insomnia was totally foreign to his nature and he had managed to unnerve his many opponents with his supreme confidence aided no doubt by 8 hours of sound sleep each night. Oh for just a spoonful of his bedtime ability. Already well after 11 pm and I was no closer to the land of nod than an hour ago!
I must stop my mind racing from topic to topic, but how? Another dangerous thread was beginning to emerge - I might be too ill to start. My temperature had been up two days ago after all and I was already beginning to feel a little feverish. My withdrawal from the race before the start would be fully understood by all concerned if I was diagnosed with flu or something. Nobody could expect an athlete to compete in such a grueling competition when sick.
My reputation would emerge unscathed and I would 'live' to fight another day. Of course there would be regrets, the racing fraternity would, however, be largely sympathetic. My great chance of glory snatched from me by a chance chill. I could just climb into a warm team track suit and watch my team mates from the side lines, no doubt encouraging them to make up for my 'enforced' absence from he race. Could I live with myself, though, if I feigned such a situation? If discovered it would finish my career. No, if only sleep would come, I could wake up refreshed and ready to face anything.
That 56 tooth chain ring I had instructed Matt to fit earlier after my second ride round the course, was it too high a gear to push? My much-admired fast smooth cadence might be undermined by this unfamiliarly large gear. Would I be able to maintain my momentum? He would still be in the basement now working on the team bikes. Perhaps I should get him to swop it back to my customary 53.
Was I fretting unnecessarily? I had after all ridden successfully with the larger ring and my Manager had approved the change to suit the particularly flat course. It will not take moment and reassured I could jump back into bed and get to sleep. On the other hand they would all know I was worried.
I would undermine the confidence of everyone if I rushed around the hotel now seeking these last minute adjustments. The decision had been made after lots of testing and discussion. This was just pandering to my nerves and uncertainty. I would live with my earlier choice. Oh, if only I could sleep. The oblivion I sought, however, seemed more distant than ever before.
Perhaps another sleeping pill might help? My soigneur, Cledwyn had been with me from my earliest days. As part of the Welsh Junior Squad he had always been around for me. His calm reassurance was what I needed now. Why hadn't he popped his head round the door to check on me? His unmistakable Welsh valley accent breathing comfort as I tossed and turned. Struggling, as I was, with my inner demons. I had felt cross and abandoned.
Hard on the heels of this disappointment I knocked over the glass with the remains of the water I had not finished. This soaked my sheet and forced me to get up again and seek a replacement. At least now I had the excuse to legitimately summon Cledwyn. I was pleased to note that he seemed quite concerned when he appeared and suggested a short walk around the hotel while he changed my bed. It suddenly struck me that he might think I had a weak bladder and that in my anxiety I had wet the bed. My reassurances on that score sounded pathetic, even to me!
Quickly donning my team tracksuit, without thinking, I furiously shot out into the hotel corridor muttering that I would be back in ten minutes. A brisk walk was what I needed to clear my head from all these unhelpful threads of thought and return suitably ready for the sleep I must get. After only turning one corner I was stopped short by a number of cycling journalists seated in a quiet alcove. Why hadn’t I remembered that they must me hovering nearby like vultures ready to pounce on highly-strung team leaders needing rest! Too late, they had spotted me.
With a delighted shout they surrounded me - ‘Berwyn’ – ‘What do you think your chances are tomorrow?’ This was no time for a press conference – but to escape without comment was unfortunately not really an option. ‘Do you think the course will suit you better than Cancellara?’
They were naming the one rider that might pip me for victory tomorrow – or was it now today! ‘Oh look lads I’ve only popped out for a quick fag!’ ‘Give me a break.’
For the first time that night I got something right, my Welsh valley humour for once providing me with breathing space. I was able to make my excuses and quickly slip back to my room. This encounter had further un-nerved me, however. Like it or not the sleep that I craved, the oblivion I needed was clearly not going to be possible. I would just have to give in. On my instructions, Cledwyn, after many protests, made me as comfortable as possible in the bedroom settee and left me again.
Perversely, having given up any chance of sleep that Friday night / Saturday morning, I then dropped off. Exhausted with my efforts to rest I at last managed to sleep fitfully dreaming that I was a rabbit with a burrow too small for true comfort. Perhaps the restrictions of the settee subconsciously gave me the impression that I did not have enough room to freely move.
After such a poor night, I now had difficulty waking up. Cledwyn had allowed me to sleep on and was now anxious to get me down to a late breakfast in sufficient time to fit in a massage and warm up before my allocated start time of 13:05. My dreadful night had left me with no energy or enthusiasm – as for the time trial of my life – forget it! He had to resort to undignified scolding to get me as far as the shower. Being the Crowne Plaza this was the ‘wet corner’ of a huge en-suite bathroom.
Breakfast, massage and warm-up all follow in quick succession and I only began to sufficiently wake up to the enormity of the task ahead of me while on the Team exercise bike alongside our sumptuous team bus with just half an hour to go to my start. Protected from the crowds I sat going through my routines like clockwork but once again doubts started to creep into my head. Focus on victory – you are going to win today.
You’re the best rider in the field! I rehearsed this mantra time after time but with each rendering my self-belief faded. I had caught just one sight of Cancellara as he had made his way, no strutted, to the starting ramp. His body glistening with baby oil, his whole bearing exuding confidence. I was allowing him to undermine me. Come on – I admonished myself, I had beaten him once – so why not again?
Cledwyn wiped me down, final preparations were now over. A fresh skin suit, my pointed helmet, and my shiny wind resistant overshoes. My time had come. My soigneur walked me in a daze towards the starting ramp, its 12:50. 15 minutes to go to the race of truth, 15 minutes and I will know if I’m up to the task, 15 minutes before the pain engulfs me. The sound of the crowd around the ramp, the craning faces, screams, the noise of the overhead helicopter. The Ramp itself taking on the persona of The Scaffold.
Facing my Executioner seemed at this moment preferable to the longer agony of the race itself with so much depending on the outcome. For some obscure reason I suddenly recalled Charles Darnley’s words on his way to execution in the Tale of Two Cities classic by Charles Dickens – ‘It’s a far far better thing that I do now than I have ever done before…’
Sick to the pit of my stomach I’m now on the start line myself, staring at the departure slope, awaiting my own descent into pain.
I’m held up from behind – The timekeeper droned - Cinq, Quatre, Trois, Deux, Un - Aller…