How Cav Won the Green Jersey by Ned Boulting Read Free Book Online

Charlie Chaplin, bowlegged and feet akimbo for his son’s amusement. He was running like he rode a bike: a bit strangely. In everything that Voeckler did on and off the bike, there was as much lateral movement as forward propulsion, defying all conventions of efficient technique. The ‘awkward’ gene was clearly very strong in his family. Back and forth and back and forth they went.
    A little while later, after kissing his family farewell, he checked out of the hotel and, with a cursory nod of the head in my direction, consented to granting me a very quick interview. We rushed to his side and he continued walking. We talked from the front door of reception to the team bus turning its engine over some fifty metres away in the car park. It was one of those ferociously complex interviews conducted on the hoof, which drew on all the skill of the cameraman. Liam had to get in front of us, and walk backwards, keeping the framing, focus and shot steady, whilst having no idea what he was about to bump into. All this as we went across a courtyard, up two flights of stone steps, and then sharp left.
    Voeckler was uncharacteristically grumpy that morning. I even felt, perhaps misguidedly, that there was a certain standoffishness between him and his unheralded teammates. They seemed to be keeping a little distance from the man who attracted all the attention. Perhaps they were simply horrified at the nauseating task of defending the jersey that awaited them. No longer could the team disappear in the pack. No longer would they, as single riders, be given licence to get in moves and look for individual honour. They would have to subjugate their efforts solely to protect their leader, a man who, let’s face it, had done all this before and had no need to repeat it all over again. I glanced at Anthony Charteau as he climbed on board the bus. He had been on the Brioches la Boulangère roster in 2004, and had once memorably obliged us by giving a revealing interview in which he admitted to being the lowest-paid rider on the Tour de France. I forget the exact figure, but you could comfortably have earned as much stacking shelves in the local branch of Hyper-U. But this morning he looked a little downcast, and I found myself wondering what kind of money he was on now.
    As the riders gazed through the rain-flecked glass at the few interested fans standing out in the rain to see off Team Europcar, they didn’t look particularly optimistic. You could read their thoughts, ‘Today a long flat stage. Then tomorrow to Luz-Ardiden. After that it really starts.’ No, this would not be fun, and nor would it last long. In short, as the bus pulled away over the wet tarmac, it wasn’t the same vibe. The glass-half-empty part of me mused gloomily that it was set to be a bitter little imitation of 2004, precarious, sapping and doomed to failure.
    How wrong I was. On Stage 12 they tackled the Tourmalet, on whose slopes Voeckler contrived to lose control of his bike and dent a campervan. Then on the first summit finish of the Tour, he held on by his fingertips to the big-name climbers, trundling in just behind Alberto Contador, and only forty seconds behind Andy Schleck. He was in agony as he dismounted, his thigh muscles bruised from the earlier collision. It was a brave ride, which hinted that he meant business.
    Two days later, though, we witnessed the extent of his reinvention. He finished in the group of favourites, without ever looking particularly troubled on the final climb to Plateau de Beille. This was no longer hanging on, this opened up the possibility that more was to come. My misgivings about his reign in yellow melted away. 2011 had returned to the scene of 2004’s heroics, and trounced them. This was, arguably, better. We sat up and started to believe.
    Voeckler, propelled by his splendid team, had already exceeded all expectations. His climbing, which had only ever been good enough for survival in a breakaway group of chancers at best,