Rolling thunder, A CYCLING TALE, part onze
Following is Part 11 of “rolling thunder”
Subject to copyright. Friends don’t let friends edit-copy-edit-paste.
ROLLING THUNDER (cont’d)
Chapter 23
Saturday rolled around, and the already star-crossed Tour got underway.
In the rider’s village, an area carved out by plastic tape signified that the public need come no closer, riders’ strained faces seemed to relax. After months of build-up, they were finally coming to the moment at which they would face the known pain and agony of the thousands of miles of ahead, but somehow the prospect of launching out enabled them to shed some of the gloom and anxiety of potentially career-ending investigations and allegations that seemed impossible to ignore whenever they weren’t riding.
In days prior, Shamus had encountered every possible conversation with many of these riders, including ones on other teams and some he’d never had reason to speak with before. He hadn’t sought them out, as they’d found their own vague but sufficient reasons to approach him.
The most common question had been about whether he thought there was another Operation Puerto in the making. In other words, was it likely that shortly in advance of the Tour start some government agency would announce it had amassed a thick dossier of materials about organized doping, naming or eluding to dozens of riders whose lives would thereafter be thrown into the worst kind of limbo.
Shamus had said that he didn’t know. Anything was possible.
The second most frequent question they’d asked was whether he was worried about such an investigation.
Since Shamus was already in top form and had amassed sufficient wins in the Spring Classics as to confirm he was rightly considered among the favorites for a Tour win, he assumed that others were under the preconceived notion that he’d gotten artificial assistance, and not a small dose of whatever potion he’d chosen.
Shamus said only that he had no more reason to worry than anyone else. If the sport suffered another major scandal, nobody would escape its repercussions entirely.
His answers relieved nobody’s anxiety.
The Tour’s opening stage would be one for the photographers and the sponsors, more so than for the riders. It was an eight kilometer prologue in the form of an individual time trial. At less than five miles, such a short outing provided little opportunity for any of the top contenders for the overall Tour win to gain enough time in the Prologue as to be a decisive factor in the race. However, psychologically, it was an opportunity to make one’s mark. For example, managing to pass the rider in front not only resulted in taking a minute of advantage into the rest of the race, but also stamped a message that one’s form was strong. For this reason, for the chance to put on the first Yellow Jersey of the Tour, and for pride, every rider would go out at maximum effort.
A painful downside to such formats, especially for riders high up in the rankings who would be launched later in the day, was that most of the day was spent nervously waiting for one’s turn simply to get on the road.
Shamus thought he’d much prefer to get on with the real race, but understood why Tour designers chose to include these fan-pleasing made-for-TV short-courses. However, until his turn to get out on the course got closer, he had to entertain himself to fight off the butterflies he’d get in his stomach if sat around thinking about it. One minor relief was that there was no change in weather expected throughout the afternoon. It wasn’t uncommon that the weather got either meaningfully better or worse as the day went on, leaving riders at one end of the clock in much better shape than those at the other. This day, it didn’t appear to be an issue.
He killed time wandering the rider’s area of the start village, signing autographs, shaking hands, and laughing at jokes told by other riders to belie their own anxiousness. People he knew and others he didn’t offered words of encouragement and support, and he was aware of the great number of eyes that seemed to follow him as he strolled about. Throughout the season, he’d gotten more and more attention as his results had gotten more and more press, but it felt entirely another matter to get such attention at the Tour. He wasn’t sure it felt bad, but more like something he’d have to get used to — like breaking in a new bike seat.
Eve dropped by and wished him well, and left him with a kiss, and that was another thing he found quite unusual but completely welcome. He’d often envied riders whose girlfriends or wives or even their parents had come out to see them race, as he’d seldom enjoyed that experience. But now he did, and it felt like one more reason to make a good showing. Eve didn’t linger, aware that he had official duties to be a famous bicycle racer for as long as history would permit, and aware that he needed to be doing whatever things best prepared him for the day’s work, and she wasn’t part of that. At least not yet, she thought wistfully.
He checked his watch too often, aware that he was nervous and maybe too cautious about time getting away from him and somehow finding he’d have to chase around in a panic to get to the start line on time. Every rider had that dream from time to time, because they’d each experienced it at some point due to bad weather, traffic, bad directions, the bus breaking down, or any number of other reasons.
He wandered to the mechanics truck, more out of boredom than anything else.
He found Wrench tuning bikes, which was like finding wind blowing. That’s just what it did.
“I’m just getting yours down now,” Wrench said. “Since you’re last to depart.”
“Makes sense.”
He watched Wrench lift the bike up onto the stand and secure it into a clamp at the end of an arm that extended out from the device, so he’d have easy access to all of its parts.
Wrench went methodically through a set of checks, checking, adjusting, pumping, lubricating, then running the brakes and shifters through their ranges of motion to ensure everything worked properly and nothing was out of alignment.
Once he completed this, he visually inspected the joints and other stress points on the frame and wheel assemblies, at the same time running his hands over the entire machine to feel for any anomalies the eye might miss.
Shamus and Wrench chatted amiably as the process went on. Wrench acknowledged that the rumor mill was humming along with tales of doping and investigations, cover-ups and mob ties, and threats and politics. In short, people were bathing in fear, drama, innuendo and accusations, as humans were prone to do.
Wrench put little import on all this. He considered it all an ugly boil on the butt of the sport, and one that would only continue to fester and grow until something occurred to lance it. It was ugly, and whether dealt with or left alone it would be getting uglier, but at least dealing with it would allow a healing process to start.
Wrench said he was considering taking a couple of years off the tour circuit until all this evilness was pressed out of the sport, and maybe then he’d sign on again. He wasn’t calling it quits yet, though, since he had become accustomed to this gypsy life, and feared what life might hold if he stayed put in one place too long.
He said he’d be surprised if the Tour ran to completion this year, as pregnant as it was with this evil seed of doping. He told Shamus to be especially careful, because nervous riders tended to have more accidents, and it appeared to him that there were more nervous riders starting the race than he’d ever seen before. He asked Shamus if he was nervous, too.
“Not so much. I mean, I’m clean and all, so I can visit Doping Controls without any worries.”
“Is that so?”
“Yeah. Did you think otherwise?”
“Not me. I don’t harbor such thoughts at all. But others, they talk about it a lot. You, that is. So much improvement. Almost unbeatable, they say. They’re looking for some reason to hope you’re not really just that strong of a rider.”
“What you see is what you get, I’d tell them.”
“I don’t think they’d be convinced. Nothing personal, mind. It’s just that nobody wants to know that another rider is simply better. How can you compete with that? It’s easier to chalk it up to chemistry and believe that the secret is to find out what’s in your papaya juice each morning, and get some of that for themselves.”
“We’ve been trained to think that way, I guess. We’re a bit of a lost generation in this sport.”
“Even if your blood is clean, unfortunately your minds are tainted,” Wrench concurred.
“So you think there’s a serious chance the Tour gets derailed, then?”
“Oh, from what I hear, it’s already coming off the tracks,” Wrench responded.
“Really, how so?”
“Well, I’ve got a friend who drives a lorry pulling around the trailer where they bring you boys into after your rides and ask you to kindly make your deposits into those little jars they send off to the labs, and he says they’ve made a change in practice this year that has some riders already pulling up stakes and heading out.”
“What kind of changes?”
“It’s simple, actually: on certain stages, they will test every rider. Today’s prologue, by the way, has been chosen to be one of those stages.”
Shamus couldn’t speak. His mind raced with the implications, if this were true. In past races, only the stage winners and a small number of randomly selected riders were tested each day. The odds of getting selected for doping controls were thus very low, especially if one hadn’t won any prizes on the day. Inserting a requirement to test all riders on certain unannounced days would inevitably frighten a great number of riders who otherwise could have remained safely ensconced in the middle of the pack, comfortable that their jobs and salaries were to continue with ninety five percent or better odds.
“When was this new policy announced?”
“It wasn’t. They just tell each rider to go get in line at Doping Controls. Apparently no grand announcements or forewarnings to the riders were deemed necessary.”
“Christ.”
“You can say that again.”
“Did your friend have any idea what brought this change about?”
“Well, Shamus, they don’t always bring the lorry drivers into their discussions about doping policies, Wrench started sarcastically, clearly enjoying this situation in which he possessed dramatic information and Shamus was left to plead for each bit of it.”
“But my friend and his associates have come to understand that WADA and the UCI decided to do this only in recent days. The technicians had to get an overnight shipment of sample vials sent out for all the extra work they hadn’t counted on.”
“The place will be abuzz tonight about it, you can bet. Wait till the news people get hold of it,” Shamus mused.
“I don’t think you’ll have to wait that long for the fireworks, actually.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Well, I don’t know if it’s come to your attention, but there’ve already been more than a half dozen riders who scratched their names off the starting list today. They’re out of the Tour without ever starting it.”
“You’ve gotta be joking!”
“And this is more unconfirmed rumor, but word among some of my colleagues is that more than one team’s Director Sportif has gone strangely absent from the scene. Team Ostereich Telekom, for one, hasn’t seen their coach since this morning, and the team doctor is said to be scarce as well, along with a support car. The team’s General Manager is still hereabouts, but apparently the team is in disarray at the moment. By the way, entirely separate topic, of course, but have you seen Mister Trusseau around lately?“ Wrench asked, then smiled up at Shamus to confirm that no answer was expected to this question.
Shamus couldn’t remember whether he’d bothered to say goodbye when he’d left Wrench. His head had spun to the point that he still couldn’t believe this might actually be happening: Riders abandoning the Tour to dodge drug tests, team managers and staff running off without a word, and if this was occurring, how long it would take before the news wires would get whiff of it and nasty conversations between teams and their financial sponsors would ensue.
He found a quiet area and rang Eve’s cell.
“Hello, Shamus,” she answered hurriedly.
“Have you heard about strange things going on this morning?”
“We have, and I don’t have much time to talk about it now, but we are moving forward now to arrest a large number of individuals who have been under investigation because we have word that there has been a leak about our ongoing investigation, and certain people are making plans to flee. We think evidence will be destroyed also if we do not move quickly.”
“I suppose so. Any idea how the information leaked out in the first place?”
“We suspect that WADA obtained certain information,” she answered. “They have people who have connections to friendly attorneys and investigators who might get access to certain documents from our case, and WADA has been working very hard to ensure that nothing comes to light that will cause political embarrassment for itself. It may be impossible to prove this, of course.”
“Do you know about the new testing protocol they implemented at the Tour, to test all athletes on certain dates, beginning with today?”
“We are aware of that. We think WADA wanted to act ahead of the news leak to show that it was taking complete control over doping matters, so that if the Tour were cancelled and lawsuits occurred, it would have the best possible record to show that it acted they way it should.”
“Even if the actions they took might turn out to cause the cancellation of the Tour and perhaps the eradication of the sport of professional cycling, if all the sponsors choose to flee?”
“WADA has bigger concerns, mostly having to do with its roles in the Olympics and other professional sports. If it is embarrassed by fallout from the Tour, it could lose all of its business with these other organizations.”
“So have you heard the rumors of riders and staff abandoning the Tour and going missing?” Shamus asked, caring little for further insight into the politics or potential misdeeds of WADA.
“Yes,” Eve responded. “We have a long list of individuals being picked up for questioning, and a number of criminal cases that will be filed with the courts today in Paris. We had to find a judge who would open the court to receive these cases over the weekend, and would issue the subpoenas and other documents entitling our agents need to make arrests. We are keeping track of any riders or staff who abandon the race, and if they are on the list of suspects in this case, we will arrest them before they get very far. However, we are not interested in collecting nervous dopers, so for some of these people who are running away we say bon soir.”
The conversation ended, and Shamus made his way briskly over to the sign-in tent, where riders were required to check in before the start of the race. Usually, it was a busy little operation, with officials under the tent ensuring that riders were accounted for, and if they weren’t, then placing phone calls to the rider and his team staff to gently prod them to get down to the tent for processing.
Scant were riders wanting to check in. What he found there instead was an unusual huddle of officials behind the folding tables, heatedly debating some issue. Shamus thought he had a good idea what that issue might be, along the lines of: What if we held a Tour de France, and nobody came?
One of the men glanced over his shoulder and shouted at Shamus in French, “what do you want?”
Shamus’ first thought was somewhat caustic and had to do with his perceptions about French hospitality, but he let that go, and said, “to check in, of course.”
The official looked at his circle of colleagues, as if he’d just been challenged to answer a difficult math problem and hoped to find the answer resting with one of the others. Shamus heard him mutter, “pardone moi,” and then he came toward Shamus and seemed to regain his ability to focus on how to check a rider into the race.
“Name?”
“McDonough, Shamus.”
The man leafed through a file containing the paperwork for almost two hundred riders, and finally found Shamus’.
“Is there a problem?”
The official muttered something quietly to himself, and then looked up at Shamus.
“No problem for you, please sign the papers if the information is correct.”
“Is there a problem with the race then?” Shamus pressed.
The official glanced up again, his ruddy round face reddened by the unexpected challenge of his job today. “Things are quite unusual today,” he said. “We are having trouble finding certain riders, and this has never happened. Quite confusing,” he added. “And the press, they are being quite aggressive. It is not a good day, I think.”
Shamus pressed no further. The man was under great stress and Shamus didn’t want to be the one who goaded him into a heart attack. He signed and returned the document and was given a sheet of race numbers to be attached to his jersey, and wished a good ride. If there is any ride at all, Shamus thought.
He left and made directly for the tent reserved for news media. Normally, he wouldn’t risk going there before a race and being bombarded with questions and given the chance to get misquoted into words then spun around in such a way as to be insulting and highly controversial.
The media tent was largely unoccupied. Even the free food and open bar failed to attract members of the press today, which told Shamus a lot. Something better must be on offer elsewhere. He’d almost made his way out again unscathed when he heard, “Pardone moi, Monsieur McDonough.” It had been a tall order to hope to achieve anonymity at the Tour decked out in a team cycling outfit in the media tent.
He turned and answered, “yes?”
“I am Gideon Damant from Le Monde, the young man said, holding out his press pass for Shamus to inspect. I wonder if you could spare a few words?”
“Possibly, what would you like to ask?”
“Do you know what is going on today?”
“I believe,” Shamus said with a hint of a smile, “it’s a big bicycle race.”
“Yes, of course there is that,” young Gideon said, apparently unfazed by, or unaware of the silly joke Shamus attempted. The young man seemed to have difficulty keeping eye contact. Shamus thought that he had toughening up to do before he’d make it in the news business where one seemed to need strong shoulders and sharp elbows every bit as much as good intellect and a press pass to get access to people who otherwise hadn’t set out to subject their thoughts to public scrutiny.
Shamus decided he would prod with his own questions instead.
“Why, what have you heard?” He asked.
“So many things, I don’t know where to start. There is some report from Interpol that has been leaked with names of important people involved in distributing drugs to athletes. I suppose you have not heard about this?”
“Interpol hasn’t called me about it, thankfully,” Shamus deflected.
“Of course not,” said the young man, apparently afraid he might have said something inappropriate. “I didn’t mean to say it like that.”
“It’s okay, what else have you heard?” Shamus continued his own little interview.
“I’m sorry to say, but apparently the report alleges that your team’s general manager, Monsieur Trusseau, has been implicated with money he received from the pharmaceutical company Amgen. His name is apparently listed in such records along with the general managers for Kingbridge United soccer club, the New York Yankees, and others. A U.S. congressman from Oklahoma was already on CNN today saying there will be an investigation by the Ways and Means committee of the relationship between sports organizations and these drug companies. Apparently the head of WADA also is being questioned by legal authorities about alleged kickbacks for providing drug testing results to pharmaceutical companies and for taking bribes for changing the lab results for certain athletes. Fox news in the US reports that the WADA director is linked to betting by organized crime.”
Shamus glanced at his watch. It was approximately one hour before his scheduled departure time to ride the prologue. Given what seemed to be unfolding, he wondered if it would be worth the effort.
Chapter 24
Shamus returned to the area where the team truck was parked, beside it a stand holding several expensive time-trial style bicycles, with their flat handlebars and huge carbon discs covering the spokes of their rear tires to squeeze out further aerodynamic benefit, and nearby was a row of trainer devices one could insert the back tire of a bike into, and pedal in place to warm up. His bike was already mounted, courtesy of the mechanics. He planned to spin for three quarters of an hour before disengaging the bike and heading for the start platform.
Riders typically employed IPods and music to drown out distractions as they spun their warm-ups, getting into a racing state-of-mind. Shamus didn’t bother trying to get his mind off of the unfolding mess; he knew it would be futile.
He’d sat through ceremonies in previous days in which teams were presented to the media and the tour staff celebrated in advance of the impending successful running of the world’s most watched sports event. He’d heard the stats, and they’d registered little to him. He’d been focused only on what the Tour meant to him, and expected of him, and what he expected from himself during the course of it.
Now, the implications to other parties were becoming more tangible.
In all, there were twenty one teams and a hundred and eighty nine riders, all of whom shared a common goal in life, which was to ride in the Tour, preferably winning it in the end. For every rider, there were two more ‘accompanying people’ whose lives were, at least for the month of July, completely blocked and dedicated to fulfilling the riders’ needs.
That made six hundred people who had for the past year planned their lives around this journey. Then there were a hundred permanent staff of the Tour organization, and two hundred more that came on as the event neared, to ensure every conceivable logistical issue was addressed.
That made roughly a thousand people whose lives were devoted to the success of the Tour.
Over a thousand members of the press would be on site, plus an additional thousand of their technicians and support staff to lug cameras and microphones and satellite transmitters so that daily updates could be dispatched across almost four hundred press agencies and communicated around the world.
A publicity caravan stretching twenty kilometers long with over two hundred vehicles in tow preceded the riders along the course. Among them were over forty vehicles in all manner of decoration promoting companies who helped sponsor the tour. As they drove by, the occupants tossed gifts to roadside spectators; over the twenty-three days of the Tour, they’d give out more than eleven million trinkets.
Shamus tallied in his mind that five thousand people were directly involved in running the event, and had tied their careers to it being a good one. Each day, it took sixteen hundred automobiles to convey all these people from town to town.
Beyond that were almost a hundred radio stations and seventy five TV channels blocking extensive amounts for live coverage of the event throughout the month.
Bigger yet was the potential impact to the hordes of spectators.
Up to fifteen million people were expected to line the roads, and they’d arrive days in advance and often stay for weeks at a time, using their precious vacation time to follow the race and dispense of great amounts of money. Among the fray, were over twenty thousand law enforcement officers to ensure the crowd behaved reasonably.
Hotels, motels, and B&Bs within fifty miles of any start/finish town booked solid almost a year in advance. Restaurants, shops, and stores anywhere within driving distance of the race route swarmed with customers whenever the race passed nearby, and flocks of kiosks followed the entire route with vendors offering food and wares to the masses.
For those who couldn’t experience it in person, or simply couldn’t get enough of the event when they did, over two thousand hours of television programming was generated, in turn generating two billion viewings, while seven million visitors tapped in via the Internet.
All in all, no other sports event came close to the immensity of the Tour de France, nor its economic impact.
Shamus had soon broken into a sweat from the exertion of pedaling, and when he looked down at the tiny computer mounted to its handlebars, his heart-rate was five beats per minute higher than it normally would be with the effort he was putting out. That extra tempo was nerves, reflecting that he was minutes away from racing in view of the eyes of the world, and it was also the stress of knowing the entire affair was under grave threat, but not knowing what might happen next.
He put his head down and pushed the legs harder, focusing only on his breathing and waiting for feedback from his body that it was adequately warmed to the task ahead. As his core temperature escalated, sweat drained down his face and dripped in a steady procession from his chin and the tip of his nose, bouncing off the frame bar and creating a small pool on the mat beneath the bike.
He wanted some degree of comfort that could be gotten by hearing what was going on. He could get some of that from Eve, but he couldn’t get it now, so he shut his mind to the situation as best he could and focused on doing his job.
Shamus looked up to find Philip Olivier standing in front of his bike, tapping his watch with a finger.
“Time to go.”
Shamus unscrewed the clamp that held his bike to the trainer device, gently lifted the rear tire out of the brace, being careful not to bump the gears or derailleur as he extricated it, then walked with the sports director toward the start house. He walked the bike into position. There was another rider already up the ramp and clipped into his pedals, being held upright by a race official as the start clock clicked down to zero, and then he would be released down the ramp out the front for his charge through the streets of Bruges.
Olivier made no attempt to talk to Shamus.
Nothing further could be said about anything that would make a difference during the next ten minutes. Destiny was in control. Hands were being dealt, but cards remained face-down. Shamus made every effort to exclude from his mind the times other riders had achieved, and who had achieved them, and who was on the course ahead of him, and who had already finished. In this day’s race, the only performance and the only time that mattered would be his own. If he fell behind early, there would be no opportunity to recapture what he’d lost. If he made a strong ride, even if he won, the time benefit would not be great enough to tilt the outcome of the overall race. This one was symbolic, it was entertainment, it was psychologically important, it was a chance not to fall and become injured, and it was a chance to win a stage of the Tour de France, and for a day, to wear the leader’s yellow jersey, and that would be the enough to fulfill many riders’ most unreachable and impossible dream.
He didn’t recall being led up the ramp, or mounting his bike, or waiting while the clock ticked down, but he was there and there were five, now four seconds and counting, and his heart rate was already over one hundred and fifty, juiced on adrenaline and nerves, and his legs suddenly felt cold and questionable, and his body jittery, and now, after what seemed an eternity of introspection and self doubt, the clock clicked down to three seconds.
Shamus looked up at the crowds and beamed a strong and steady smile at them, knowing countless eyes were upon him, every one expecting a great athletic event, and every one of them hoping for something even better than that. Shamus thought, if this is the last hour of the last Tour of my career, I hope someone will notice I was happy they came to watch me ride in it.
The starter’s hand waved in front of him, and the last finger that had been extended was joined by the others as the starter waved his hand forward signaling the ramp was open to Shamus, and the clock was no longer counting down, but now would count up until his ride was finished.
Shamus pressed the pedals smoothly, careful to avoid any nervous mistakes until he’d gotten down the ramp, and then he stood and pushed each one in accelerating surges until the bike was moving past the crowds at an increasingly quick pace. Faces became blurs, and voices blended into roars as he rolled past the excited crowd. Tunnelvision set in and his world became a black asphalt ribbon twenty feet across with white stripes flying at him then disappearing under his wheels. Wind noise quickly grew and drowned out anything he might have heard from the crowd.
For this short of an outing, he wore no radio equipment. In less than a minute he eclipsed thirty miles per hour and nimbly tucked his body down with his rear end on the seat and his elbows tight into the cups on his aero bars. He kept his head and back low to minimize drag and skied through the streets, arcing elegant turns so as to make full use of the road, keeping his pedaling cadence as constant as possible, shifting up and down the range of gears as needed, and avoiding touching the brakes and wasting valuable speed and energy.
The roads were dry, allowing him to take turns aggressively, his bike and body leaning severely as he went round; eyes spying ahead for obstacles. He pressed his legs for more, knowing the entire race was over in an impossibly short amount of time, and any energy preserved at the end was opportunity lost, and would have to be expended doubly in later days. His heart rate quickly passed one hundred and eighty and his legs pushed five hundreds watts of power through the rear tire. He paid no notice. The computer was only on his bike because without it the bike was too light to meet the fourteen point nine pound minimum specified by the UCI. The only feedback he needed would come directly from his muscles and his lungs.
The prologue route was a rectangular course within the ‘egg’ comprising the historical center enclosed by the city’s main canals. Shamus appreciated that the organizers had not opted for an out-and-back scheme, because he’d be forced to slow down for the turnaround, and then he’d have to find and re-establish his rhythm. Theoretically, this wouldn’t penalize him any differently than the other riders, but as he flew along the ancient European streets his body motion felt smooth and powerful, and he was loathe to tinker with it.
He made the final turn at the English Theatre of Bruges, and headed directly toward the finish line eight tenths of a kilometer up Boulevard Kuipersstraat.
The road had no grade to it, so he stayed tucked and pushed the pedals to his absolute maximum, turning them over at two revolutions per second as the chain spun between the larger ring on the front of the bike and the smallest gear on the back. His speed climbed and he looked down to his computer for the one and only time he would do so, and was reassured when he saw it registered forty four miles per hour. He pushed harder and harder, going very deep into the red zone, and was able to stave off any loss of speed as the meters remaining clicked down from eight hundred to five hundred, then two hundred, and then he crossed under the large blue banner and was finished. He gripped the brakes and soon was back to walking speed, and, as usual, Olivier was there to meet him and help keep him upright while steering him through the crowd and the press, to an area behind the barriers where riders could recover before reemerging to face the world, and face their results.
“Felt great,” was what he said to Olivier in gasps. A good ride. How’d I do?”
“Third. Two seconds back from Cancellaria, who took the win. Altogether, a super performance. You put twenty seconds on Cadel Evans, twenty five on Sastre, and twenty six on Leipheimer. It is a great start to the Tour. Let me know when you are ready for the press. They are waiting, of course.”
“How are they right now?” Shamus asked, wondering if he were headed into a buzz saw of allegations and rumor mongering, with no interest in the race just run or the challenges ahead.
“Things are mostly normale for the moment, but rumors are circulating of so many racers not coming to the starting line today.”
“How many?”
“Twelve riders did not start. Highly unusual.“
As if on cue, an assistant from Doping Controls showed up with identification badge in hand, asking Shamus to please come along. He rose, took a final drink from the water bottle Olivier had given him, and followed the young man to the appropriate trailer where he ducked inside and did his business under watchful eyes, by now largely desensitized to the embarrassments of conducting command performances of bodily functions in view of strangers.
As he took care of this unpleasant business which preceded the awards ceremony, in which he’d get briefly acknowledged for his third place finish on the day and would then be set free to deal with the throngs of press and autograph seekers jockeying for his attention, Eve sat in a conference room in a hotel nearby, a half dozen phones ringing incessantly, and two laptops shot popped new information like flashbulbs about the quickly evolving and possibly unraveling investigation she’d been all but wedded to in recent years.
In the U.S., there had already been pre-dawn busts by the FBI, hauling in individuals and raiding companies for records related to distribution of performance enhancing drugs.
As the Interpol investigation had neared completion a list of these targets was compiled, and law enforcement agencies around the globe awaited go-ahead from Interpol. However, once information about the investigation began seeping through public channels - a situation that unfortunately wasn’t highly unusual – they agreed it would be best to move forward before suspects and evidence had a chance to disappear.
The FBI raids that day were of almost unprecedented scope, short of responses it had made to terrorism threats or attacks. It raided offices at four major pharmaceutical firms; it raided and made arrests at over two dozen small labs and independent drug manufacturing labs; it arrested fifty nine people in the U.S. allegedly involved at high levels in funneling performance enhancing drugs to professional, collegiate, and high school athletes; six individuals in general management roles with major sports teams were also arrested, and charged with infractions including money laundering traced back to doping transactions; it also secured the records of players unions, athletic associations, and college sports programs suspected of directly or tacitly supporting athletic doping.
CNN was reporting that a special congressional subcommittee had been convened to investigate doping of college and high school athletes. From the Beltway came word also that the Ways & Means committee was taking up its own investigation into doping in professional sports, based on confidential information it had obtained about the role of management for one professional baseball team, the Texas Rangers, in administering doping products to its athletes. The committee dismissed accusations their investigation was merely a political witch-hunt related to the fact that the current President of the US had owned the club. The chairman of the committee stated that the relationship in question was merely a coincidence, however fortuitous.
What aided the FBI greatly, was the vast database of records obtained by Interpol from the computers of Petre Patrovski. His business-like practice of keeping thorough records seemed cavalier only to the extent that one considered this activity illegal. To his defense, it wasn’t clear to the FBI lawyers that the actual distribution activities that Patrovski and his colleagues undertook would violate laws in all states and countries. However, while that might present a hole to be plugged in the future, Patrovski’s records provided ample evidence of other illegal acts, such as money laundering and tax evasion. In many cases, harsh punishment could also be exacted by making public the unethical practices of the individuals, firms and organizations that supported this activity. The court of public opinion could be quick and damning in its judgments, and law enforcement wasn’t above employing it to adjudicate where conventional trials failed.
As the day progressed, the International Olympic Committee announced that it would, going forward, require testing of one hundred percent of athletes competing in the thirty five sports and nearly four hundred events it oversaw. It was widely understood that the Committee had taken minimal steps to address rampant doping practices in the power and speed sports such as wrestling, weightlifting, rowing, track and field, and hockey. Once again, they would ratchet up compliance activities to whatever level got the organization above public scrutiny. What it didn’t know, was that Interpol had obtained sufficient information from email correspondence, banking records, and Patrovski’s computer database, that at least three members of governing board of the IOC would be arrested on money laundering, corporate corruption, and tax evasion charges before the day was out.
European Union legislators announced their own investigations, and a commitment to tightening loopholes in existing laws among member countries. At the same time, the EU spokesman said that prosecutors had researched this matter intensively, and were convinced they had a broad set of tools that could be used to bring to justice persons who participated in or supported athletic doping. Included in that tool kit, was an ability to use moral persuasion to convince major corporations to desist from supporting sports or having relationships with companies entangled in athletic doping or lacking strict and clear records of clean athletics.
The statement by the EU rippled incredibly fast, sending shockwaves through corporate boardrooms where concerns of bad press made companies quickly reassess their exposure to potentially tainted teams, events, and organizations, and, where doubts persisted, terminate them. Sure, it was knee-jerk, but the corporate lawyers said it had to be done and few executives or board members cared to advocate for a riskier path.
Before evening fell, as many as six Tour teams were rumored to be facing loss of their sponsorship contracts. Before the next morning, even more would be added to that list.
As afternoon wore into evening, the list of riders and staff missing in action grew precipitously. Team cars left hotel parking lots and did not return. Taxis experienced additional trips to the airport they hadn’t counted on. It wasn’t an exodus of the masses, so much as an abandonment of ship by anxious rats.
Management staffs - those that were still intact - for the twenty one Tour teams were gathered in a convention hall at the Eurotel, conducting crisis management. They were in round-robin discussions with Tour organizers, their sponsors, and law enforcement, trying to understand what perils they might face individually, as a team, and as participants in the Tour.
Shamus and several teammates huddled in his hotel room to watch CNN and collectively worry about what the future held for them. They exchanged rumors and probably fomented a few new ones, speculating blindly about what was happening around them. The cyclists view, of course, was that the walls were falling in on cycling first and foremost, and other sports were experiencing only a modest shaking. As usual.
It wasn’t fair, they collectively agreed.
Shamus remained contemplative. He had no information he cared to share, and there seemed no shortage of people willing to fill the void of knowledge, time, and the air with their views and versions of the story, and how it wasn’t just.
European news channels carried substantially more content about accusations pertaining to the IOC, given its headquarters location in Laussanne, Switzerland. They also pounced on any aspect of the unfolding investigation pertaining to the Tour de France, given its locale, economic importance, high visibility, and the fact that it was easy for most Europeans to enjoy any measure of discomfort served up to the French.
By the time Shamus received a call in his hotel room to say that the team’s dinner was new being served downstairs, they’d already heard news that several TV and radio stations were threatening to cut back or eliminate coverage of the Tour de France altogether, if it turned out that extensive doping issues still remained in the sport. They listed the names of riders who were said to have fled start of the Tour rather than submit to Doping Controls after the prologue, and others who were said to be unaccounted for as the day went on.
Certain of the names listed were Tour contenders. If they were in fact gone, their teams were at a huge disadvantage going forward, and perhaps Shamus’s odds had improved. However, the quality of such a win would certainly be tarnished. The media discussed that it would take up to three days for all of the lab results to return from tests taken at the end of the Prologue. Perhaps additional riders would be opting out of the race before these results were returned.
Dinner that night was a highly unfocused affair. Rather than discussing riders’ performances on the day, and strategies and tactics for upcoming stages, more fearful rumination and rumoring held sway, and Shamus expected there were twenty other team meals underway with much the same fung shue.
Monsieur Trusseau was conspicuously absent from the team, and Olivier and other team staff swore no knowledge of his whereabouts. Nor did they care to express confidence he would be joining them again shortly.
Shamus mulled the odds the team would embark on tomorrow’s opening stage; and then he contemplated the odds there would be an opening stage at all. He thought there was a strong chance the Tour survived the night, and perhaps a fifty-fifty chance Continental Tire would be participating in it. The key was Trusseau. If he were in a bad spot, the team’s fortunes would come up short very quickly.
Shamus smelled the fear in the room. Men fearing for their jobs. Men fearing they may have invested a substantial portion of their lives in something that wasn’t going to be nearly as rewarding as they’d gotten used to. Men fearing the little compromises they’d made and thought they’d gotten away with might be coming back to them with ferocity and lack of forgiveness or debate or balance.
Not one person congratulated him on his strong ride in the Prologue. These men were trapped within themselves, like coal miners in a blocked shaft, able to wonder little beyond whether fresh air and sunlight would come to them again. If not, little else mattered.
After dinner, Shamus returned quietly to his room. He could think of nothing better to do. He looked forward to the opportunity to ring Eve and find out where things stood. Once this had been done, he found she hadn’t been in any position to provide the puzzle pieces he was interested in. He wanted to know what was happening to his universe of cycling and the Tour. She was caught in the gravity of her own universe, which consisted of federal agents and judges and subpoenas and arrest warrants, and keeping score of which bad guys were brought in, and which ones were still at large.
One thing she did tell him, was that the UCI and the Tour organizers were planning to have an emergency meeting that night to determine what they should do about the mess on their hands. At the moment, she said, attorneys for these organizations were bouncing from once conference call to another, trying to determine what options were available, and the legal and financial tradeoffs each entailed. Once they had a handle on this, the sports authorities would call the general managers together from each team and lay out the options and take a vote about which path to follow. She told him the meeting was tentatively scheduled for nine, and where it would take place.
Shamus felt impotent notwithstanding this information – or perhaps precisely because he had it, but had no way to use it.
As he sulked in the frustration of the situation, there was a knock at the door. He opened it, and Olivier walked in without waiting to be asked. He took a seat at the foot of one of the twin beds. Thus far, he hadn’t even been able to make eye contact with Shamus. Shamus sensed the man was near the end of his cord.
“Can I help you with something, Philip?”
“I don’t know, Shamus. I don’t know,” he said, rocking his upper body back and forth, arms crossed tightly in front of him. The man was a powder keg, Shamus thought.
“It’s okay, mate, tell me what’s going on and I’ll help you work it out if I can,” Shamus said genuinely.
“I have no idea what to do now, Shamus. No idea at all.”
“Trusseau has gone, hasn’t he?” Shamus asked.
“Yeah, and Doc too,” Olivier said, still staring at the black face of the TV, which wasn’t turned on.
“I’m not surprised. A lot of people are near panic, aren’t they?” Shamus asked, coaxing Olivier to stay among the living.
“That’s right, Shamus. It’s a mess. A beeg beeg mess, for certain.”
“So you’re left holding the flag, is that the way it is?”
“Yeah, but what flag is that anyway? The sponsors are calling to speak with Monsieur Trusseau and of course he is nowhere. So they call and leave messages for me, but I have no interest in speaking with them. This is not my business, Shamus, to deal with the sponsors. I work with the riders. I am only an old rider who helps the younger ones, not a politician, you know?”
“I understand, Philip. You do a great job with the team, you know that, right?”
“Sure, Shamus. Let me work with the riders and all is fine. I don’t want to manage the business affairs. That is Trusseau’s business — so why do you think they are bothering me?”
“They’re probably just as scared as you are, if you think about it.”
Philip’s face skewed slightly from serious to ponderous. He hadn’t thought of the sponsors as people who could be scared. Scary, yes. Scared? He had to think about that.
‘Put yourself in their shoes. They’ve got a bunch of money invested in us, and all hell seems to be breaking loose, and the man they count on to watch over this piece of their business is AWOL, you know? I can say that I’d be scared if I were them, wouldn’t you?”
“Oui. That makes sense,” Philip allowed.
“So what would you think about calling them back. What could it hurt?”
“Absolutely not!” Philip snapped. Logic was nice, but fear trumped.
“What if I was with you when you called?”
“You would do that?”
“Sure I would.”
Philip mulled it over, or seemed to, then blurted out, “no way! It is not my job and I have no interest in doing that. Here is the number and as team leader I think you can call!”
With that, Philip all but sprinted for the door, wrestled with the handle until it acquiesced, then stomped down the hall like a man with a mission…to split.
Shamus watched it all passively. He thought it made good theatre, anyway. Finally he looked at the square of paper in his hand, it had a name and a phone number, and the box checked that indicated Please Call Back. He thought it couldn’t hurt, and went for the phone.
“Mister McDonough, this is Raleigh Spriggs.” Shamus didn’t bother pointing out that since he’d returned the call from Mr. Spriggs, he already knew who it was. “Thanks for returning my call.”
“Least I could do,” Shamus responded, “how can I help you?”
“We’re looking for Mister Trusseau, of course, any chance you could put us in contact with him?”
“It’s doubtful, as you might imagine.”
“Right,” said Spriggs in a proper English accent, probably walking barefoot on fine imported carpet in a powerful office with floor to ceiling mahogany bookshelves stuffed with impressive looking titles, and topping off his Brandy glass for at least the second time on the day, Shamus pictured in his mind.
“Well, what could you tell us about what’s going on over there? We’re a bit baffled at the present, as you might understand,” Spriggs continued. “You’re the top rider, is that right?” he asked further.
“Yeah, that’s right I suppose, and it’s certainly confusing over here, as you say. Lots of rumors but very little information, actually. Apparently there’s a meeting later this evening to discuss what’s going on, and what the Tour officials are intending to do and so forth, but that’s all I know at the moment.”
“So will Mister Olivier be representing the team at this meeting, or do you not know?”
“Uh, well, it’s not like we’ve spoken directly about that, but I’ll go out on a limb and say that I think Mister Olivier would strongly prefer not to do that.”
“I see,” said Spriggs. “And you?”
“Me?”
“Would you be attending, then? And could I call you later and find out what’s transpiring?”
“Well, I’d be happy to do it, I suppose, but, honestly, I don’t think it will be a meeting for the riders, if you know what I mean. I think they’ll want management there for such issues, right?”
“Certainly, totally understandable,” Spriggs said contemplatively.
Shamus found himself lacking anything further to offer, and the conversation seemed to hit a lull as Spriggs did whatever business people did in these situations when everything was going quite down the toilet.
“Listen here, good chap, I have something very important to ask of you,” Spriggs picked up again, and without waiting for acknowledgement from his counterpart, he continued, I’d strongly request you stand in for Trusseau in the upcoming meetings and stay in contact with me as you do. We’ve made an important investment in this team, and we’re not a firm that gets itchy feet just when there’s a bit of confusion in the air, but we need someone inside the process and there’s nobody else we could send in on such short notice. Tomorrow I can send in a proper attorney who will represent us, but tonight I’m asking you to be our man, is that clear?”
Shamus quickly realized that he’d just learned exactly what business people do in such situations – play the hand they’ve been dealt. Shamus, if not the ideal player, happened to be closest to the table, and therefore, the chips were his.
“It is,” he said.
“Super,” Spriggs responded. “Good show and all that. Obviously you have my number. Call me twenty four hours, you know. We’ll get through this, for sure. It’s just a bit of a curveball, isn’t it? Listen, do call if you need anything. I’ll send a letter of authorization if that helps open doors, you know. Absolutely not a problem.”
Shamus listened to the man’s patter. He actually seemed to be enjoying the challenge of this momentary mayhem. Shamus shook his head at the absurdity of it.
“I’ll call you as soon as I hear anything,” he said.
“Cheers, and thanks again Mister McDonough,” Spriggs responded, ending the call.
Shamus felt a fish out of water. He changed from the sweats he normally lounged in, into his most formal jeans and polo shirt, hoping it would suffice to get him in the door at whatever meetings were to take place that evening.
As a first step in his new undefined role as listener and repeater of information for the sponsors, Shamus Googled Continental Tire and Raleigh Spriggs. He read the first response that Google offered, and ice water ran through his veins.
Categories: Book, Doping, Paris-Nice, System6, Tour de France, Tour of California
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Loving the story, just a few things to check out:
-eluding should be alluding
-carbon fibre covering spokes? I don’t think so
-check spelling of “normal” not “normale”
-check spelling of feng shui not fung shue