Broughton Robbie - Magic Spanner

The definition of Magic Spanner

MAGIC: The power to influence events via mysterious forces.

SPANNER: A tool for gripping or turning.

MAGIC SPANNER: The action of a mechanic to influence the recovery pace of a rider by way of mimicking a mechanical assist. Completed while hanging from a moving vehicle thereby propelling the cyclist, at pace via automotive assistance, to regain time lost due to a racing incident.

Contents

I reckon Ive spent more July days in the company of Carlton than I have with anybody else these last few years. And I can tell you, he can be a challenge. As you all know he has a habit of going on a bit during commentary, and not just about the cycling. He can talk about anything... wherever he goes there are donkeys missing their hind legs. HE DOESNT STOP! At the end of the days action we get in the car and his mouth keeps racing. Thank heavens for Radio Monte Carlo and my control of the volume button; its a useful tool.

I have been through my fair share of lead commentators and all have been very different. First there was David Duffield who started me off on the microphone. There was also Mike Smith, followed by David Harmon, and then Carlton Kirby along with Rob Hatch. They all have a different approach to their commentary; none sound the same. They have all been, or are, my teammates and I have enjoyed the company of them all both on and off air. Its fair to say we are privileged to have a job that generates so much fun around a sport we love.

Of course we have our moments but Ive never come to blows with any of them; although I have thought about jamming a bread roll into Carltons mouth a few times... he can go on... and on. He treats life as an adventure a big one and he certainly has a gift of bringing his anecdotes to life, as Im sure you will find as you read on.

4 a.m. A hotel in Paris. Day 20 of the Tour de France.

So there I am, dead of the night, a tubby middle-aged cycling nut locked out of his room... completely bollock naked. Im waiting for the hotel security guy to let me back into my sanctuary. Considering my predicament, Im remarkably at peace. Like a condemned man, Im resigned to my situation. Bizarrely, Im pondering what to do with my arms. There are no pockets to look nonchalant; folded arms would look a bit showy-offy. Inevitably, as there is little to be proud of, two hands are cupped over my man bits. I wait, breaking my serenity only occasionally to whisper Aaaaw, shut up to the Japanese tourists trapped in the escape stairwell in front of me. For it is they who got me into this mess. They are getting restive... Well, theyll have to wait.

The best part of three weeks on the road have taken their toll: 6 a.m. starts, hours of driving, hours of staring at a small TV monitor while commentating on the greatest sporting event on earth. Le Hexagon as its called or France, to you and me is a remarkable arena. And a big place. It takes a lot of getting around, which has left me shattered; physically exhausted, mentally frazzled. Still, though, I have just enough brain space to ponder a diversion: its amazing how much temperature and surface definition you can sense via a buttock! Yep, my door felt cold and smooth to the touch... but Im not using my hands. Amazing.

My predicament started with a gently strumming sound that entered my dreams. Darrrum, darrrum, darrrum... What the hell is that? I asked myself. Darrrum, darrrum, darrrum... Like a kid drumming four fingers on a table, impersonating a horse. Or a classic Hollywood scene of someone losing patience. Darrrum, darrrum, darrrum, darrrum. It went on. At my bloody door! SHAAAADAAAAP! I shouted. And it stopped. Then, just as Im nodding back off, there it was again. This time I hurled a fine Crockett and Jones bootie at the door and screamed: F-------k offf! for good measure. The effect was the same. A brief halt before the strumming was back again.

For me, there is a Rule of Three when it comes to being woken up. My wife is familiar with this. Once is okay. Twice may be forgivable. Third time? All done. Im up and out of bed. Grumpy as they come, usually flamboyantly knotting a dressing gown as I head for the kitchen and a cuppa. This was far more serious. I was deeply fatigued and in no mood to reason. I was going to tell these bastards just what I thought of them, my dark mood accentuated by the entirety of my blue-white nakedness. Furious, I yanked the door open with a backed-up series of expletives about to let rip.

There was absolutely nobody there!

The corridor was completely empty save for the rolled-up fire hose next to my room at the end of a long blank corridor with mood lighting and an awful Aztec-print carpet. Silence.

Then just as Im convincing myself I am clearly going mad... it started again. The sound was coming from behind the fire doors directly opposite mine. Bastards! I thought. Kids just pissing about. Well here we go then, have some of this!

It was about now that my world went into slow motion. Holding my door handle, I pivoted Sumo style and launched a kick directly at the Push Bars To Open sign, the idea being that the miscreants would be sent flying as the doors flew open into the stairwell.

Wham! The doors smashed open against the concrete walls.

Now, screaming is an auto-reaction, usually in response to the perception of exaggerated threat. On this occasion the threat levels were considered high on both sides of the fire doors threshold.

The screams from both directions went on for a few elongated seconds. The Japanese tourists rocked back en masse at the sight of a Sumo/Bjarne Riis lookalike. Meanwhile, I simply lost control of the situation. Still screaming, I grabbed both bars and slammed the fire doors back shut.

Clunk! went the fire doors. Then, Clunk went the door of my room.

Bent over and still holding the bars of the fire doors, I looked over my shoulder, knowing I was in trouble. Aaaaaaaw, for Gods sake!

Next to the hose was a red telephone. I picked it up. There was no need to dial. It began ringing at the front desk. Security answered.

Oui!

Bonsoir, Monsieur. Cest Monsieur Kirby. Jai un petit predicament! Um... Im locked out of my room.

OK, Ill come up and let you in.

Um, I must warn you that Im actually, um, en nue... naked. Completely. And...

Yes?

There are some Japanese tourists locked in the stairwell.

Just as he puts the phone down, I hear him start to laugh.

Darrrum, darrrum, darrrum...

All right, I know youre there... give it a bleedin rest.

What seems like an age goes by before: POING! Finally the lift announces its arrival.

I prepare to greet the security guard. But its not the security guard.

It was an elderly American couple who must have enjoyed the same night out at the Moulin Rouge as my Japanese friends. Unlike my pals in the stairwell, they had seen the sign for the Night Porters bell. The Japanese guests had thought they were locked out and duly made their way up the fire escape in the hope of waking some kindly soul who would let them in. Well, it didnt go too well for them, did it? Likewise my American friends.

Good evening, I ventured.

Oh. My. God! said the lady.

Terror begets clumsiness. The air was now filled with the sound of the frantic swiping of the door key as the theatregoers desperately tried to gain entry. It opened and they crashed through their door, slamming it behind them. I could hear her crying.