My World. Peter Sagan
Going into that 2015 race, he had an amazing seven Grand Tour victories, plus two more that the UCI had scratched out for doping. As a result, he was looking for his third legitimate Tour de France win, going up against Sky’s Chris Froome, Astana’s Vincenzo Nibali, and the Movistar duo of Nairo Quintana and Alejandro Valverde.
In Bjarne Riis’s absence, Oleg had promoted Stefano Feltrin to general manager. Previously, Feltrin had been the guy looking after the contracts for the riders, sponsors, and such, and he had a very clear vision of how everything should work.
“You’re going to the Tour to work exclusively for Alberto,” Feltrin and Steven de Jongh, Tinkoff’s head DS, told me.
“No, I can’t do that. I have a green jersey to defend and stages to win.”
I couldn’t understand the logic. I was aware that there had been problems in the past in teams that had conflicting objectives, but I didn’t think that applied to me. I talked to Sean Yates, the British guy who was then one of our directeurs sportifs at Tinkoff about the issues he’d been through at Sky when Mark Cavendish and Bradley Wiggins were hunting the green and yellow jerseys respectively. We agreed that this was a different situation, as Mark rides as the spearhead of a team effort and expects assistance, lead-out trains, breaks being chased down, tows back to the main group, dedicated domestiques, all things that are difficult for a team to provide when they are protecting the interests of a genuine G.C. contender or race leader at the same time.
I didn’t want any help at all. I just wanted to be left alone to do my thing. I didn’t need anybody to help me. And that left seven other guys free to do anything Alberto wanted. It seemed to me that if we couldn’t win the Tour with seven highly paid handpicked domestiques, we weren’t likely to do much better with eight. It was hardly likely to be my fault.
“No,” said Feltrin, “We’ll need your strength in the first week to hold things together.”
“I need to race from stage 1, or the green is gone,” I explained. The points competition is so loaded toward the rough and tumble of the first few days that anybody coming late to the party has no chance of leaving with the spoils. “I don’t need any help, Stefano; just let me get on with it. You’ve got seven other guys. OK, if Alberto and I are the only riders in the front group, of course I will help. But if seven guys can’t pace him back up after a puncture or a crash, eight guys won’t be able to do it either.”
“We can’t risk it. You might crash in a sprint.”
“Oh, Stefano, I know you’ve never ridden the Tour, but have you ever even seen one? I don’t need a sprint to crash. I can crash anywhere.”
To his credit, Alberto never put any pressure on me to be his bodyguard around France. As we were all preparing for the Dutch start in Utrecht, I found a moment to speak to him alone. There was a stage after the weekend that went through the Badlands south of Lille, hitting no fewer than seven secteurs of Paris–Roubaix cobbles. I knew it was somewhere that my experience could make a difference if he needed it.
“Listen, Alberto, stage 4, the pavé. I’ll be there with you. Don’t worry.”
“Thank you, Peter.”
That was it.
In more general terms, there is a much greater danger of internal team rivalry when you have two riders going for the same thing. It was before my time, but people still talk about the epic battle between Bernard Hinault and Greg LeMond when they were on the same La Vie Claire team at the 1986 Tour. Less obvious, but another problem for Yates to sort out in that Sky team of 2012 was the battle between Wiggins and Froome. Two riders trying to occupy the same space in the team, in the race, and even on the mountain, raises issues for even the strongest squads, and it’s nearly always when the climbing starts. I should point out that for all these so-called problems, both La Vie Claire and Sky won those races and gave the fans enough entertainment that we’re still talking about both races today. Why so serious?
I’m trying to tell you things in the order they happened, but sometimes everything happens at once.
We were in Utrecht getting ready for the Tour. It was the Wednesday before the kick-off on Saturday. Oleg phoned me up and said, “Peter, we need to talk about your contract.”
Still convinced I would be retiring at the first available opportunity, I was worried he was going to ask me to extend my contract on the back of my recent run of victories, or make sure I knew it was cast iron, as a lot of business gets discussed at the Tour de France and a lot of deals are done for new teams and transfers.
“OK, Oleg, what’s on your mind?” I answered nervously.
“We need to renegotiate it.”
“In what way?”
“We need to reduce it.”
This was a surprise. I didn’t think I could be surprised any more. My life has been full of surprises, and I thought I was fairly unshockable, but I admit my stomach flipped.
“Erm . . . why, Oleg?”
“Listen, Peter, I brought you to the team to win me some classics. I’ve got Tour riders, and that’s been great. But this year I’ve taken you on because I need Monument wins; that’s what I’m paying you for. And you were shit at the classics.”
I took a deep breath. I could see what he was saying, but in a race with one hundred different stories, anything can happen, and I don’t remember there being any suggestion of my salary being performance related. OK, sometimes a sponsor might give you a bonus if you did something extra special, but I haven’t heard of them withholding pay because you tried your best but didn’t cross the line first.
“Yes, I agree, I was shit. But everybody knows why: Bjarne, Bobby, overtraining, contract negotiations, virus . . . I’ve come back stronger. I’ve got 10 wins and jerseys for Team Tinkoff already.”
“Yes, they’re lovely, thanks, but I didn’t sign you because I wanted a points jersey in the Tour of fucking Switzerland. I want a Roubaix, a Flanders, a Primavera, or at the very least a Gent–Wevelgem or an Amstel Gold. So, basically, you owe me your March and April salary.”
“Oh, man. Seriously?”
“Look, I know you’re getting ready for the Tour de France, so I’ll leave you to prepare, I’ll think about it for a few days, then I’ll call Giovanni.”
“OK. Bye, Oleg.”
“Ciao, Peter, good to talk to you.”
Classic Oleg.
I called Giovanni, and we had a Team Peter powwow. Giovanni began to shuffle some legal arguments and go through the contract again just to make sure there were no loopholes for Oleg to exploit. We agreed that we should just keep our heads down and say nothing to anyone as it might just blow over. No reaction, no press, no response.
On the Saturday morning, with the first stage time trial that afternoon, Oleg came over and found me by the bus getting ready.
“Hi Peter, how are the legs?”
“Good, thanks, Boss.”
“Listen, that stuff the other day about the contract? Just forget about it OK; it’s all good.”
“Oh. OK. Thanks again. I won’t let you down.”
“I know, I know. And all this stuff about team instructions and riding like a domestique for Alberto? Fuck ’em. Fuck ’em all. Get me that green jersey.”
You had to laugh. Oleg Tinkov, what a character. But it did underline a serious point that never disappeared the whole time I was on the team: Who should I listen to? Who did I need to please?
That was the race of second places. After the time