Dekker Thomas - Descent: my epic fall from cycling superstardom to doping dead end

A remarkable story of a fallen cycling hero.

CYCLINGREVIEW.NL

Brutally honest.

CYCLINGNEWS

Arguably the most shocking yet.... It is the uncomfortably raw, matter-of-fact descriptions of the hedonistic lifestyle of a professional cyclist just one decade ago, and the depths to which he sank as he tried to navigate his way through that minefield, which are most shocking.

THE TELEGRAPH

A staggering underworld of blood bags, testosterone patches, and injections. No one is spared.

ERIC PALMEN, BIOGRAFIEPORTAAL

Unlike othersDavid Millar, Tyler HamiltonDekker doesnt try to pass responsibility for his doping elsewhere: it was his choice. He shows a self-awareness thats been lacking in most recent chamoirs and has been absent from most doping kiss-and-tells. Dekkers willingness to accept responsibility for his own actions is refreshing.

PODIUM CAF

The most shocking doping memoir professional cycling has produced.

DANIEL FRIEBE, AUTHOR OF EDDY MERCKX: THE CANNIBAL

Descent... has something that one rarely comes across in a cycling memoirvulnerability.

ERIK RASCHKE, CYCLINGTIPS

Its been a long time since there was so much ado about a cycling book. Its a shock when you realize that a cyclist has a rock-n-roll life instead of a monks existence. Its time to read it yourself and judge it.

RACEFIETSBLOG.NL

Descent should also be course material for cycling: Every commissaire, every DCO, every DS, every wrench monkey, everybody should be made to read Descent, not to see where Dekker failed himself but to see where the sport failed him and to learn how not to let it fail others.

PODIUM CAF

Thomas Dekker has done something brave here: He has opened sutured wounds with the hope that the rot will dry up. And for that alone we should be thankful.

ERIK RASCHKE, CYCLINGTIPS

What a relief it is to hear a former pro sportsman take responsibility for his actions. Perhaps this is what makes Descent so different; it certainly accounts for it being unputdownable.

SPORTS BOOK OF THE MONTH

For the average cycling lover, this is a hard confrontation with dirty cycling.

LAURENS DE GREEF, BICYCLETTA READ & RIDE

Readers will be shocked by many passages about sex, drugs, prostitutes, and the hedonistic excessiveness and egotistical drive that it takes to succeed in pro cycling.... Each chapter is a conscious move toward the final stage of self-destruction, and when the end arrives, the reader, too, feels ruined.

ERIK RASCHKE, CYCLINGTIPS

Copyright 2017 by Thomas Dekker and Thijs Zonneveld.

Published by agreement with Overamstel Uitgevers B.V.

English translation copyright 2017 by David Doherty.

First Dutch edition published by Overamstel Uitgevers B.V. in 2016.

First UK edition published by Ebury Press in 2017.

US edition edited by Ted Costantino.

All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America by VeloPress, a division of Competitor Group, Inc.

3002 Sterling Circle, Suite 100

Boulder, CO 803012338 USA

VeloPress is the leading publisher of books on endurance sports. Focused on cycling, triathlon, running, swimming, and nutrition/diet, VeloPress books help athletes achieve their goals of going faster and farther. Preview books and contact us at velopress.com.

Distributed in the United States and Canada by Ingram Publisher Services

A Cataloging-in-Publication record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. ISBN 9781937715809; eISBN: 9781937716967

Art Direction by Vicki Hopewell

Cover design by theBookDesigners

Cover photograph by Franck Fife/Getty Images

v. 3.1

CONTENTS

IN THE HOTEL

ITS A THOUSAND SHADES OF DARK. The curtains are drawn, the door is locked. The only light is the dim glow of the bedside lamp. Shadows creep across the carpet and up the wall. The picture hanging there is the kind you find in countless hotel roomsan anonymous print of some flower.

Im lying on the bed in my jogging pants and T-shirt. I havent even bothered to take off my shoes. A thick needle is sticking out of my arm, attached to a drip. My blood runs dark red through the plastic tube. Slowly it fills the bag thats sitting on a digital scale on the floor.

In the corner of the room, far from the light, a man is sitting in a chair. His foot bobs up and down as he jots something in his diary. Every few minutes he glances at the scale. I met him for the first time half an hour ago in the hotel lobby. He introduced himself as Dr. Fuentes. Beige trousers, checked shirt, and a face that is instantly forgotten. He smells of cigarette smoke. We have barely spoken a word to each other. His English is basic and my Spanish nonexistent.

I dont think he even knows who I am. Not that it matters.

I havent come here to talk.

I stare at the blood in the bag. Its as if it isnt mine. As if it isnt even real. I thought it would be different, the first time, that I would be excited, nervouslike a kid stealing candy from the corner shop. But there is no thrill, no jangling nerves. This is a simple transaction. Doping is business. It just happens to be one you need to hide from as many people as possible.

Fifteen minutes go by, and Dr. Fuentes gets out of his chair. He removes the needle from my arm and wipes away the blood with a cotton ball. He holds out a Sharpie and says in a thick Spanish accent, I give you number. Twenty-four. Two four. You must write here. He points to the bag of blood. I sit up, take the marker, and write the number on the bag. He nods and says, We are done.

I pull my tracksuit top over my T-shirt and shake his hand. He opens the door and mumbles something indecipherable. I step into the hallwaythe light is so bright it hurts my eyes.

The door clicks shut behind me.

Theres no way back from here.

DEAD ORDINARY

I GREW UP IN AN ORDINARY FAMILY in an ordinary house on an ordinary street in a small town by the name of Dirkshorn. Its slap-bang in the middle of the pan-flat landscape of northern Holland, little more than a dot on the map: 12 streets, a church, a supermarket, a football club, and a fish-and-chip takeout. A carnival comes to Dirkshorn once a year. That aside, nothing ever happens.

My parents are ordinary too. Bart and Marja. Salt of the earth, you might say. Mom works as a swimming pool attendant in the next town. Dad is a baggage handler at Schiphol Airport. Five mornings a week for 30 years hes been getting up at 4:30 to head for Amsterdam, lunch box crammed with sandwiches, to lug other peoples suitcases from one place to another. Dinner is on the table at 5:30 every evening; Dad does the cooking. Standard Dutch fare for the most part: cauliflower, meat, and potatoes. On Sundays wed always get something from Joeps takeout. My folks earn enough to make ends meet, and they take good care of what they own. I spent my whole childhood whizzing around on secondhand roller skates. They were good enough.

I have a loving mother. The kind who has orange juice and biscuits waiting for you when you come home from school. In her whole life she has only been really angry with me once, when I was very little. I cant even remember what Id done to upset her.