My World. Peter Sagan
Copyright © 2018 by Peter Sagan
First published in 2018 by Yellow Jersey, an imprint of Vintage.
Vintage is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies.
All rights reserved. Published in Canada by VeloPress, a division of Pocket Outdoor Media.
Peter Sagan has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work.
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The Library of Congress has cataloged the printed edition as follows:
Names: Sagan, Peter, 1990- author. | Deering, John, author.
Title: My world / Peter Sagan ; with John Deering.
Description: Boulder, CO : VeloPress, 2018. | Includes index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018045051 (print) | LCCN 2018046888 (ebook) | ISBN 9781948006118 (ebook) | ISBN 9781937715946 (hardcover)
Subjects: LCSH: Sagan, Peter, 1990- | Cyclists--Slovakia--Biography.
Classification: LCC GV1051.S33 (ebook) | LCC GV1051.S33 A3 2018 (print) | DDC 796.6/2092 [B] --dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018045051
v. 3.1
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To my son, Marlon.
This book is about my biggest victories in cycling.
You are my biggest victory in life.
CONTENTS
SEPTEMBER 24, 2017
For the 10th time today, the masts of the tall ships loom up on our right. The scent in my nostrils changes as it always does at this point. From the damp cool of a Scandinavian weekend afternoon to the tang of the harbor, flavored with the smoky promise of dozens of fast-food grills selling every kind of edible meat or fish that you can cram into some bread and sell to a hungry cycling fan.
This is the long sweeping left-hand bend that separates the waterfront from the colorful townhouses that characterize this beautiful old port. The first time we came along here, it was at quite a gentle pace, with barely 40 kilometers ridden. That must have been shortly after 11:00 a.m. this morning. The next half a dozen or so times we came past those rocking masts and chattering rigging, the intensity had risen enough to mean there were fewer cyclists hanging on each time. There were nearly 200 of us this morning; now, after the last two or three hard laps of this hilly little circuit in Bergen, there look to be around 60 of us left. A Union Cycliste Internationale (UCI) official starts clanging furiously at a big old brass bell to tell us that there is one lap to go. I’m suddenly acutely aware of the No. 1 on my back. It’s now four in the afternoon, and I’ve probably got about half an hour left as UCI World Champion.
The race was really confusing.
It had started slow, which suited me. I hadn’t eaten or drunk properly for a couple of days since having a ridiculously badly timed upset stomach at home in Monaco on Friday. And that had followed a week off the bike