The Spectre of Doping

The Spectre of Doping

When I placed that syringe in my bookcase I thought I’d closed the book on my dalliance with performing enhancing drugs. The haunting symmetry between the phrase '‘closing the book” and hiding the syringe in the bookcase wasn’t lost on me. I weeped at its beauty.

When I was caught doping, the first face I saw when I was released from Biarittz-south Police station’s cell – known to be the worlds toughest – the first face that greeted me was that of Dave Brailsford. The late August sunshine gleaming off his lovely bald head. I can’t overstate how important to me Dave was during those first few awful weeks. He put me in touch with Steve Peters who suggested I lie on his couch. Steve touched my gently on my cheek. Tears pooled in my eyes before cascading down my cheek running across Steve’s gentle hands. I let it all out…

I realised that I became an institutionalised doper from an early age. Once, aged about 6, some bigger boys pushed me over in a playground. My foppish hair had angered them. Lying in that playground sand-pit, I felt that I’d reached rock bottom. My sister Fran was there to pick me up and we went home for tea. Whilst at home, I succumbed to my injuries and had a grizzle. The mental anguish was worse though. I cried so much, my mum suggested some Calpol. I’d never had any more and had always prided myself as being the ‘cleanest’ kid in my Primary School. Now, I thought, “Bugger It David. Those dastardly older boys have probably had Junior Paracetomol”. I looked at my mother and nodded. Yes, I would have some Calpol. The routine of my sitting back, watching my mum pour a measure of the liquid into the spoon and then pointing it towards my mouth was strangely unemotional. I swallowed the spoonful. It was done. I was now doped. After that, I hit the Calpol hard, whenever I felt slightly under the weather or needed a pick-me-up.

I’m glad I had that special time with Steve Peters. It helped me fit together many parts of the crazy, scary, beautiful jigsaw that is my life.

Sky Fall

Sky Fall

Please don’t see this as a blog. See it as an ‘Open Letter’. I truly believe Open Letters are the way to rescuing this beautiful, savage sport.

I awoke early this morning – a stunning quality of light shone through the gap in my curtains and I opened my eyes to find myself in a state that I can only describe as '‘tranquilo'’. The sunlight moved over my sleeping wifes breasts as gently as a lamb sniffing a daisy.

I slipped into my silk kimono and went to the front door to see if the paperboy had been. I faltered as I saw the headline staring back at me – Sean Yates dismissed from Team Sky. My sport again on the front pages for all the wrong reasons. Tears started to flow and quickly soaked my kimono. I was a mess.

I gathered myself, as this is the only way forward for the sport no matter how painful it is. I put two slices of bread in the toaster and went to have a poo.

The loneliness of sitting on the toilet was almost too much. I cleaned up, ate my toast and prepared to get out on the bike. The sound of the click as I slipped my feet into the pedals was like a weight lifting off my shoulders. At one with the bike, I realised just why I feel so passionately about cleaning up this sport. I cycled all the way to Waitrose. Whilst I was browsing the various Olive Oils, I overheard two members of staff discussing just about everything aspect of their work – their manager, colleagues, grievances etc. Tears welled in my eyes at the openness of their conversations – there was no Omerta here. Why couldn’t cycling be more like this? I called up Pat McQuaid to try to reason with him. It was Sunday morning though and no one was home in Aigle.

My passion rekindled, I cycled home with over £300 worth of Olive Oil. 6km into a block headwind. It was hideous but I coped knowing that, with the shopping dangling from my bars, that I would eat well that night.

Whole Milk Aniexty

Whole Milk Aniexty

After the revelations of the last few weeks, I had to find much-needed headspace.

I love this sport but it’s brutal and beautiful in equal measure. Only this morning, I rode to my local café for my regular cokachino and the barista managed to put whole milk instead of skimmed milk in it. I was shattered mentally but I still drank it. After all, its Le Metier and all part of the sport that I love.

I called up my sister, Fran, and after a bit of a grizzle, pulled myself together. Luckily, my phone rang and who should be on the other end? Why, none other than the Z-Man, The Big-Z, Z-Unit, David. David Zabriskie. Like the crazy mo-fo he is, he was calling, get this, from a 7-Eleven knocking back his 2nd big-gulp of the day. It was only 11am! That’s the type of guy David is. Zany and a good guy to have ‘in the trenches’ alongside you as we Brits say making reference to the horrors of trench warfare during WWI.

After shamefully drinking the whole-milk coffee, I put the cup in the back pocket of my jersey as a reminder to me how low I’d sunk.

The quality of the light outside the café though was fantastic and I went out and smashed out 150km and fell in love again with this beautiful, crazy and brutal sport. I called up Fran again and had another grizzle.