Capturing lightning in a bottle
Plus Classic Tales: Lionel's unforgettable trip in a team car at Gent-Wevelgem
by Lionel Birnie
During Saturday’s episode of Arrivée, Daniel compared Tadej Pogačar’s quest to win Milan-Sanremo to the task of bottling lightning. It was the perfect analogy even though bottling lightning is, of course, impossible while Pogačar could, in theory, win La Primavera yet.
But I knew exactly what Daniel was getting at. Almost all the stars aligned for the Slovenian on Saturday and yet he still came up short, beaten by a stronger rider in the sprint. In Mathieu van der Poel he was up against a man who was able to think more clearly in the final two minutes after the previous six hours and twenty minutes had dulled the senses and blurred the focus.
On the face of it, Pogačar had barely put a foot wrong. What more could he possibly have done? He attacked repeatedly, and hard, in an effort to shake off Van der Poel and Filippo Ganna and it nearly worked. Daniel pointed out the crucial mistake, if we can call it that, in the Via Roma. Pogačar did the smart thing by laying off the wheel to give himself a run-up in the sprint. But, crucially, Van der Poel had moved to the other side of the road, nullifying Pogačar’s threat and the element of surprise.
We discussed all this, and much more, in Saturday evening’s episode of Arrivée, while Rose Manley and Olympic and world champion Jo Rowsell dissected the return of a women’s race at Milan-Sanremo for the first time in two decades.
Recording Arrivée was one of the things I missed most during my season away from the microphone last year and Saturday’s episode with Daniel reminded me why.
Covering the Classics feels very different to the grand tours, where the narrative unfolds episodically, day-by-day. Storylines develop more slowly and there’s a sense of going on a journey – whether you’re at the race or watching at home on television – but there’s also the knowledge that at any moment the element of suspense could be eliminated abruptly and the race could be done with days still to go.
The Classics are like little novellas. Self-contained stories that form part of a much wider series, calling on themes from last year, or the year before that, or from a slightly different part of Europe, all with echoes and images from history showing themselves in the plot. You know at the start of the day that there’ll be a definitive moment of some kind, a grand reveal, followed by a neat conclusion and a full stop.
In many ways, the best vantage point for the Classics is at home, watching on television, because you don’t miss a beat, you can take it all in, logging moments that might seem insignificant, or at least routine, at the time but which show themselves to have greater relevance when we look at the results afterwards. Take Silvan Dillier, for example, the Alpecin-Deceuninck rider who spent hour after hour setting the tempo on the front of the bunch, keeping the break at a comfortable distance, blocking out the boredom. The fact his teammate Van der Poel won at the end sprinkled stardust on Dillier’s ride, retrospectively investing additional meaning and a sense of sacrifice into every pedal stroke. If Van der Poel had not won, Dillier’s commitment to his role, though every bit as selfless, would have been consigned to the margins, a much less significant strand to the main plot.
Being at the Classics, on the roadside, is to immerse yourself in the race itself. Somehow the grit and grime clings to your skin even though you’re not a participant. You hear them coming, then you scan left and right, left and right trying to take in as much as you can and the images can live with you for years. And yet you come away with more questions than answers, even if you’ve managed to watch much of the race on television in a nearby bar or on a phone. You can be left with a sense of knowing broadly what happened but not how or why. But on some level, you feel more connected to the race despite the blanks you have to fill in later.
Perhaps that’s why I enjoy recording our Arrivée episodes equally whether I am away at the races or at home watching on TV. There’s not time to worry about how all the pieces of the jigsaw fitted together, all you can do is react to what you have witnessed and convey what seems significant.
On days like Saturday, much of what we experienced in the final 40 minutes of racing was visceral. We didn’t watch the race, we felt it. At least I did. When it was all over, I exhaled, and lolled back on the sofa, exhausted, as if I had attacked multiple times on the Poggio myself.
* * *
I remember in 2019, when Mathieu van der Poel won the Amstel Gold Race in a similarly jaw-dropping fashion. He rode the most extraordinary final couple of kilometres to catch the two riders who’d been away for much of the last hour – Julian Alaphilippe and Jakob Fuglsang – lead out half a dozen other riders who hoped to win before powering to the line ahead of everyone else. Rarely had we seen a rider complete the trio of chase, lead-out and sprint in immediate succession with such command. It was a performance that demanded superlatives.
Time and distance dulls those feelings. We recorded our regular episode two days later, on the Tuesday afternoon, by which time the hype machine had worn itself out. Richard, Daniel and I recorded the episode and we called it Van der Poel and the Greatest Race of All-Time? – with the question mark conveying a sense of doubt. By the time we recorded, I’d considered the caveats – Amstel Gold is not as prestigious as the Tour of Flanders of Liège-Bastogne-Liège and the hesitation of the front two played into Van der Poel’s hands.
When we reflected on that episode I think we all felt we’d underplayed Van der Poel’s ride to a degree. Too much time had passed and the excitement and adrenaline had faded. The narrative was already shifting – had everyone got a little bit carried away?
Richard and I talked about this later and agreed that one of the strengths of our grand tour coverage was that recording within an hour or two of the riders crossing the line gave our episodes a sense of immediacy. We could always add context later but by recording two or three days after the biggest Classics we were missing an opportunity to react when the race was still hot and our reactions were just that, reactions.
So we discussed the idea of doing rapid post-race episodes for the biggest one-day races and would probably have introduced that element to our coverage in 2020 had it not been for Covid. By the time the Classics were rescheduled in the summer and autumn the calendar was jam-packed and in 2021 we hesitated again because we were in the middle of a search for a title sponsor.
And so, the first episode of Arrivée was recorded on a bright spring early evening after Matej Mohorič had won the 2022 edition of Milan-Sanremo with that breathtaking descent made possible by a combination of his fearlessness and the dropper seat-post.
Just over a week later, the morning after Gent-Wevelgem, Richard died suddenly, leaving us stunned and grief-stricken. We returned to podcasting, still unsure what the longer term would bring, a couple of weeks later, at Paris-Roubaix. I had booked my travel to northern France months earlier and had planned to spend the weekend covering the races with Richard.
Instead, I sat on the benches in the grandstand of a deserted Andre Pétrieux velodrome overlooking the finish line and dialled up Lizzy Banks to record the women’s race episode, then Daniel after the men’s race the following day. There was something quite therapeutic about recording these two episodes. The simplicity of reacting to what we’d just witnessed – me out on the course and in the velodrome, Lizzy and Daniel watching more closely on television – somehow recreated the essence of the podcast’s early episodes.
Arrivée will return for the Tour of Flanders and Paris-Roubaix when I plan to be out in the wild, on the roadside, experiencing the atmosphere before calling Daniel to try to make sense of what we’ve just witnessed.
Our coverage is supported by Laka, who are returning to The Cycling Podcast as title sponsor having first advertised as a very young start-up back in 2018.
This week’s episode of The Cycling Podcast, featuring Daniel Friebe, Lionel Birnie and Brian Nygaard will drop later today (Wednesday). Subscribe to The Cycling Podcast for free in your preferred podcast player to ensure you never miss an episode.
If you are watching Gent-Wevelgem on Sunday, look out for Charlotte Elton’s tribute to Richard Moore, painted on the road near the Baneberg climb which the men’s and women’s races each tackle twice. Having covered the cost of the paint, Charlotte is raising money for Chris Hoy’s Tour de 4 charity. You can donate here if you wish.
Best Seat In The House
Classic Tales, part two: I wrote this feature in 2009 after spending the day in the Columbia-Highroad team car at Gent-Wevelgem. It was the last edition of the race to be held on the Wednesday between the Tour of Flanders and Paris-Roubaix, before it moved to the current Sunday slot on the calendar a week before De Ronde. The conditions were appalling, especially early on, and I got to witness a fantastic race that was chaos right from the start. The premise for my trip in the Columbia-High Road car, sitting in the back seat behind sports directors Brian Holm and Erik Zabel, was to witness first-hand the influence race radios could have on the outcome on a Classic. At the time, there was much debate about the influence communication between the managers in the team cars and the riders was having on the sport, with some leading figures claiming a ban would make the racing less predictable, more open and more exciting. That was a view I had some sympathy for at the time but my experience of seeing first-hand just how difficult it was to communicate effectively changed my mind. This was also at a time when it was very rare for races to be broadcast from start to finish, with coverage of even the biggest classics usually starting in the early afternoon.
by Lionel Birnie
WITHIN five minutes of leaving the neutralised zone, there is total chaos at the back of the race. Many riders are already off the back of the bunch, battling on in ones and twos, their day over before it’s even begun. A few are wrestling with their rain capes, paying the price for getting their decision on clothing wrong. Up ahead, the pressure is on at the front of the peloton, and those who have lost contact so early, like the Bouygues Telecom rider alongside us who is breathing heavily, hands on the drops in full race position, are already out of contention for this year’s Gent-Wevelgem. I look out of the rear window and there are two or three riders close to the bumper, taking some shelter before moving out into the wind again and hoping to move up enough to regain the back of the bunch. We’re only just out of Deinze’s suburbs, the pre-race commentator’s words still echoing in our ears but the race is already a battle for survival back here. Pained expressions and panic. It’s a real eye-opener. This is the part of bike racing you don’t see on television.
I’m in the Columbia-Highroad team car, squeezed into the back seat behind the driver, Brian Holm, wedged in among the expensive carbon-fibre wheels and lunch bags. Erik Zabel is in the front passenger seat, to my right is Nick, the mechanic. The laughter and light-hearted atmosphere of a few moments ago has given way to one of serious-minded concentration. They’re at work now. This is their office.
The radio cracks and hisses, but it is not the feedback that sparks Holm into life, but news of a puncture for the team leader, Mark Cavendish.
Holm accelerates, moves out into the left-hand side of the road, passes the other team cars, honks his horn at the riders who are spread in desperation across the road, weaves between them. It’s an impressive manoeuvre, particularly when you realise he’s driving with one hand on the steering wheel, the other on the radio handset.
His Scandinavian-accented English is calm, precise. ‘Okay Mark, don’t panic, we be with you soon.’ A pause, then: ‘Who’s with Mark?’
A voice comes over the radio. An indistinguishable buzz of feedback, the wind blowing a gale into the microphone, nothing more than a noise, but Holm somehow understands from the crackle that Mark Renshaw is with Cavendish, donating his wheel.
‘The rest of you, stay in the front. Mark, don’t panic, stay on the right.’
We see two figures on the right-hand side of the road, their yellow, white and black Columbia jerseys instantly recognisable. Much as you want to criticise its lack of sartorial charm, there’s no denying it stands out now, when it needs to. The wind is howling, the rain is spitting. Before we’ve even slowed to walking pace, Nick has the rear door open and is out, with wheels in hand. The change is swift and Nick pushes Cavendish on his way, then replaces Renshaw’s wheel and gives him a running shove before hopping back into the car.
Back in the car, Holm accelerates, glances in the rear view mirror, pausing only to let Renshaw get a little shelter on the rear bumper, then we move back up the convoy to our position in line, number four. From there, Renshaw pushes on, left to his own devices.
The radio bursts into life again, with the commissaire reporting that the bunch has split. Thirty or so riders have a 30-second lead, behind is another group of 40 or so, after that it’s a series of echelons. I crane my neck to look through the window of the car and up ahead I can see the echelons, groups of a dozen or so riders spread all across the road, an invisible barrier separating them from the next group. For all but the front group, the race is over. They’ve been racing for less than 20 minutes.
Zabel and the mechanic, Nick, note down the numbers as they’re read out. Columbia-Highroad has four in the front group, but not Cavendish, who made contact with the back part of the peloton just as it split at the front under sustained pressure from the Cervélo team.
* * *
Although I’d secured an invitation to travel in the Columbia-Highroad team car for Gent-Wevelgem and had confirmation the previous day from Brian Holm that I still had my place, I was nervous about being bumped to make way for one of Rolf Aldag’s relatives, or a minor marketing exec from one of the team’s sponsors. Arriving in Deinze a good hour and a half before the start, I said hello to Brian, bracing myself for the words: ‘Oh, there’s been a change of plan…’
Fortunately, there is no change of plan. I’m in. So, mindful of a previous near-disastrous journey in a team car when I thought my bladder was going to explode, I visit the lavatory for the umpteenth time this morning just in case.
Back at the car, I clear a little space and wedge myself in, then wait for Brian, Erik Zabel and Nick the mechanic to get in. The space around my feet is filled with bags containing their lunches. Damn, I forgot to bring any lunch. The arm rest has the start list taped to it, then Nick and his wheels get in and the quick release skewer from a rear wheel is wedged under my elbow.
‘Okay? Comfortable back there?’ asks Brian.
‘Sure,’ I lie.
Nick shoots me a glance and suddenly I realise that I’m sitting in the space where his wheels should be, and were it not for me, he’d be stretching out in relative luxury. Instead, he’s packed in tightly too.
As we roll towards the start line, a few riders knock on the window to say hello to Brian. These pre-race chats are always brief, full of nerves, but are a merciful few seconds in which to divert the brain away from task ahead. The wind has got up and the rain, though light, is piercing, like being pelted with handfuls of uncooked rice.
‘Don’t you just wish you were racing today?’ Holm asks Zabel.
‘No way,’ he laughs. ‘I hated it when it was like this. It’s gonna be a hard day.’
‘It’s gonna split up very early, I told the guys,’ says Holm.
‘I hope you’re right, or you’ll have zero credibility,’ replies Zabel.
‘They gotta be near the front, but not on the front, for the first hour,’ adds the Dane.
We sit and wait at the start line for a while, windows up tight to keep out the rain and the drone of the commentator. Holm fiddles with the air-conditioning, settling on an agreeable 21 degrees Celsius, then he checks the radios are working.
‘Okay gentlemen, can you let me know you can hear me,’ he says. In quick succession the team’s eight riders call out their names. It’s working.
Holm says: ‘I remember a couple of years ago in this race the radio didn’t work for the first hundred kilometres but we didn’t know. I told Roger [Hammond] it was too early to attack and he should sit up, but he never heard the message. Good thing too, because he was in the early break and he ended up second that day,’ says Holm. ‘After 100 kilometres we realised the radio was on the wrong channel and [Tristan] Hoffman [the other sports director] said, totally deadpan “Okay, guys, just to recap, the first 100 kilometres, the wind was from the right, there was a roundabout…”’
Zabel adds another anecdote. ‘In the Tour of Majorca the riders don’t have to ride every day, you can sit out a stage and then come back the next day. One day we were trying to set up the sprint and we said on the radio “Okay Sieby [Marcel Sieberg] go to the front, wind it up, prepare the sprint for Edvald [Boasson Hagen]’.
‘After a few kilometres, I was like “Good job Sieby, nice work Sieby”. Little did we realise Sieby didn’t start that day. He was back in the hotel.’
We drive out of Deinze and head out on the main road. Zabel glances at the treetops and realises the wind is coming from the right. He draws an arrow on the route map. It means the riders will have a crosswind for the first 50 kilometres, before turning into it. Crucially, there will be a long tailwind section from Koksijde until they get to the hills near Poperinge.
Holm just about has time to give the riders some brief information before Cavendish punctures. By the time Cavendish is back in the bunch, it has splintered. Holm’s reaction is measured and delivered in an extremely reassuring tone. ‘Gentlemen, we have four riders in the front. Don’t do too much, just go through, don’t do any work because we have Mark behind in case it comes back together. Keep eating and drinking, it’s gonna be a hard day.’
I’d expected the instructions to be a lot more detailed, but in fact Holm never gave anything other than the sort of basic information the riders needed to make their own decisions, such as the distance to the next section of cobbles or the next hill, or the time gap.
He told the riders where the team car was in relation to them, so they’d know whether to wait for him or whether to use the neutral service vehicle in the event of a mechanical problem. There was no detailed tactical plan, those strategies were decided in advance in the team meeting and left to the riders to make among themselves on the road.
‘Five kilometres to the first section of cobblestones,’ says Holm over the radio. ‘We’re gonna do a left turn onto the cobblestones.’
‘Are you sure it’s not a right turn?’ Zabel says.
‘No, it’s definitely a left,’ says Holm.
They disagree for a moment, but it’s light-hearted. ‘Hey, I rode this race two years ago, I think it’s a right turn,’ says the German.
‘Definitely left.’
A few kilometres on and we turn left onto the cobbles. Holm turns and grins at Zabel.
‘Well, I think there’s a right-turn coming up soon,’ says the German.
‘Sure, Erik, I think at some point today we’re gonna do a right turn,’ Holm deadpans.
* * *
After a frenetic opening hour, during which the peloton was sliced to ribbons by the wind, the Columbia-Highroad car dealt with three mechanical problems and we passed group after group of riders who’d all but been eliminated, the race settled down into a pursuit between two sizeable groups.
There were 30 or so riders up front, with a similar number about a minute and a half back. Tom Boonen had been the only Quick Step rider in the first group, until he punctured. ‘Quick Step’s gonna chase now, so gentlemen in the front group, don’t work at all in case it comes back,’ says Holm.
After almost an hour of chasing, Quick Step had failed to make any significant inroads as Cervélo kept the pressure on at the front. In fact, the gap is up to two minutes. Even with 130 kilometres to go, Zabel has decided the race is done.
With this lull, lunch is declared. Brian takes pity on me and offers me a team issue ham and salad baguette. Then we stop to answer the call of nature, but I don’t need to go, before racing at breakneck speed to regain our position as fourth car in the convoy.
Shortly after that, we hit a bump in the road and one of the bikes on the roof slips out of its clamp. The front wheel slides down over the windscreen, so we stop and Nick fixes it again.
When we again regain our place behind the front group there’s been a crash. Two Rabobank riders, Mat Hayman and Graeme Brown, are down, as is Bradley Wiggins of Garmin. As we inch past, there are bikes and bodies in the mud at the side of the road. Wiggins looks hurt, trapped beneath his own Felt bike and one of the Rabobank Giants.
Now we’re with the front group, the Columbia riders take turns to drop back to the team car to take bottles, energy gels, a fresh, dry jacket, and have a brief chat about how things are going.
We round a left-hand corner and there’s the slap of a hand on the back of the car’s boot. It’s Wiggins, letting us know he’s there, after his chase back to the leaders.
* * *
At two o’clock the television coverage begins on the Belgian station Sporza. Brian turns on the television set mounted on the dashboard and tunes in. To the viewer, just joining the action now, it looks an ordinary race. There’s no hint of the drama and chaos that’s gone before. The front group now has a lead of almost four minutes, the second group containing Cavendish and Boonen is just going through the motions, with no chance to get back in contention. All the racing happened in the first hour, when there were no cameras to witness the carnage.
For Columbia-Highroad, Marcus Burghardt looks very strong as they go over the Kemmelberg for the first time. ‘Nice, Boogie, nice. Very nice work,’ Holm says over the radio. After the climb the front group splits in two and for 20 kilometres there is a pursuit match going on. As they approach the Kemmelberg for the second time it is about to come back together when the Belarussian Aleksandr Kuschynski of the Liquigas team attacks.
‘This is a good move,’ says Zabel. ‘Edvald could go with this. Kuschynski’s a good rider to be with. Super-strong but not that clever.’ He means in a tactical sense.
Holm speaks over the radio. ‘If you feel like it, Eddie, go now.’
Boasson Hagen attacks from the group and rides across to Kuschynski. ‘Nice work Eddie, very nice work. Okay gentlemen, we have a rider in the front, so don’t do anything now.’
Once the gap is over a minute, we get permission from the commissaire to overtake the chasing group and settle in behind the two leaders.
As we go past the group, Holm slows to have a word with Burghardt and Hincapie. He offers them each a bottle. The gap is now one minute 20.
Wiggins is setting the pace at the front, trying to drag it back together for his Garmin team-mate Chris Sutton, who wants a sprint finish. Holm can’t resist the chance to plant a seed of doubt. ‘Two minutes, Wiggo, two minutes,’ he says mischievously before winding up the window and haring ahead to join Boasson Hagen, Kuschynski and the Liquigas team car.
* * *
Suddenly the tension in the car is palpable. This is a great opportunity, but Boasson Hagen is young, still quite inexperienced. He’s won several races but none as big as this. We’re absolutely flying on the flat thanks to the tailwind. The digital display on the dashboard says 62 kilometres an hour. Holm and Zabel give Boasson Hagen a little bit of information over the radio. ‘It’s flat from now on, stay on the left to make the most of the wind.’
Holm is fidgety for the first time today. Zabel and Nick the mechanic lean forwards to watch the TV. Inside the final five kilometres, the commissaire pulls us over as three chasers, Hayman, Andreas Klier and Matt Goss try to close the gap.
Under the kilometre-to-go kite and the car is silent. Holm is driving on autopilot, eyes fixed on the screen. Boasson Hagen opens up the sprint early, very early. It seems Holm and Zabel hold their breath for the final 500 metres.
Then the Norwegian begins to pull away and it’s clear he’s got it, sending the pair into raptures. The car rocks, the cheers ring out, there are high-fives all round, even for me.
‘I think he went a little early there,’ says Zabel. ‘But he was so strong. It’s becoming a problem for Bob [Stapleton]. All his riders are becoming expensive!’
Holm gets on the radio. ‘Gentlemen, we won the bike race with Edvald. Good job everyone, good job.’
* * *
We pull up next to the team’s huge bus and the other cars. Soigneurs and other team staff congratulate Holm. They’re all smiles. Holm looks shattered. ‘The level of concentration all day…’ he says softly, almost unable to finish the sentence. ‘When I was a rider, I used to think “How hard can it be, just driving a car,” you know? But it’s a long day. You have to think of the riders, make sure they get everything they need, every bottle…’
With that, he is interrupted by a number of journalists, all wanting to be put in the picture. They’ve seen the race on television but will struggle to understand the significance of that opening hour, when the race was lost by three-quarters of the peloton as the wind ripped across them.
Holm explains how the day panned out, but it’s difficult to convey the importance of that first hour in the context of the race. The truth is that Boasson Hagen’s win owed just as much to being alert and in the right place right at the start as it did to chasing down Kuschynski later in the afternoon. The front group opened a gap, worked hard to maintain it and force the chasers into submission. The tactical point of the day was that might does not always equal right. Cervélo had almost their entire team in the first group, but lost out because the onus always fell on their shoulders. They had to do the bulk of the work to keep the group away, then had nothing left to give when the attacks started. Columbia and a couple of other teams had strength in depth without the same responsibility.
As I walked away, I saw a fellow journalist. ‘Pretty dull race in the end, wasn’t it,’ he said.
‘Hmmm, yeah,’ I said. I wanted to explain the scale of the fight that took place in the second half of the bunch right at the start. I wanted to pay tribute to the poor souls who found themselves on the wrong side of that invisible line created by a savage wind. I wanted to describe the anguish written on the faces of those who found themselves engaged in a pointless, demoralising, almost demeaning chase right from the off. There they were, seeking a pitiful shelter in among the team cars, probably already thinking about how far they’d have to ride before it would be acceptable to stop and climb off, formulating their excuses.
I wanted to explain that often there’s a lot more to a day’s racing than the bit you see on the TV. I wanted to talk about the level of trust and respect that exists between the riders and their team managers, a subtle relationship in which the manager has the experience and authority, but is also at the riders’ beck and call, fetching drinks and jackets and food, offering support, advice and understanding. I wanted to explain how reassuring Holm’s management style must be. Hands-off, yet decisive. Laid back, but professional. In management speak, they’d describe it as ‘facilitating’. He did everything he could to enable Columbia to win the bike race, without issuing orders or ultimatums, without once raising his voice or losing his calm.
‘I was in the Columbia team car,’ I said.
‘Really? Cool. Did you have a good day?’
‘Yeah. I pinched this Columbia hat.’
Our spring coverage is supported by Laka
A big welcome back to Laka, who supported The Cycling Podcast from 2018 to 2021 and have returned as title sponsors of our spring Classics coverage.
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Loved this and so good to have Lionel back on the podcast regularly, especially capturing the immediate thoughts on Arrivee. We have missed you and hope to hear much more from you!
That was a great story, told well