The Broom Wagon

The Volta a Catalunya (Tour of Catalonia) is held in March in northeast Spain. It's a UCI World Tour race, which is cycling’s highest international level. The Volta was first held way back in 1911, just a few years after the Tour de France began, making it one of the oldest stage races in the world. It's broadcast on television across the five continents and is covered extensively in cycling and sports media.

The Volta takes place just after the first big weeklong races of the season, namely Paris-Niece in France and Tirreno-Adriatico in Italy, and just before the series of one-day Classics held throughout April in Northern France and the Low Countries.

Unlike many other races throughout the season the Volta doesn't share the calendar with other events, so for those seven days it has the undivided attention of the cycling world. A win here will enhance any rider's palmarés - be it an individual stage or the General Classification - and it's an essential building block for the rest of the season. 

I live in Barcelona and know some people in the organisation. Last year I got invited to ride in a guest car on the queen mountain stage, through the Pyrenees from Llivia to Vielha. As a cycling fan this was a dream come true - travelling inside a professional race, up close to the riders and immersed in the energy and beauty of the huge convoy. 

This year I was asked back to work for the organisation, and specifically to drive the broom wagon.

The broom wagon is a somewhat infamous part of every professional race. It travels at the very back of the convoy and 'sweeps up' any straggling riders who are unfit to continue, or are ejected from the race because they are too far behind the rest of the pelotón. It's a part of the race seldom seen on TV and is a counterpoint to the glamour and flashiness of pro cycling, but any rider can have a bad day and all of them have used it at some point in their career. Sexy it ain't, but it's there for a reason.

It was a sunny Monday morning with clear blue skies when we rolled out of the seaside town of Calella, just north of Barcelona, for the first stage. The shimmering Mediterranean lay behind us as the race convoy headed inland towards the looming Montseny massif.

Unless you've watched a professional cycling race of this calibre pass you by, it's hard to grasp the actual size of the whole thing. At the start of a stage when it's still all together and relatively compact it measures about one and a half kilometres in length. During a stage it can stretch anywhere up to ten kilometres, depending on how far apart the riders become. The nucleus of the Volta is a pelotón of one hundred and seventy five riders from twenty five different teams, all surrounded by the convoy of vehicles. Each team has three service cars. There are over fifty motorbike police, two dozen motorbikes carrying press photographers, cameramen and commissaires. A dozen cars carrying race directors, judges, doctors and guests. There's the broom wagon, two ambulances, a couple of police vans and a squad car. Finally there's the 'green flag van', which indicates that the road is once again open to traffic. Altogether a flotilla of about one hundred and eighty vehicles on the move along temporarily closed roads for hundreds of kilometres each day.  

175 riders and 180 motor vehicles on the move.

We snaked our way through peaceful farmland and villages, past small towns full of excited onlookers and hordes of cheering schoolchildren out to watch the extravagant, multicoloured caravan go by.

The road has been on lockdown for about an hour in advance of the convoy's arrival, and the race police have sealed off all access roads and stationed officers at junctions. The same policemen travel with the race for the week, handling general security and most critically securing the road for the race to pass. They spend the day speeding back and forth, covering the length of the convoy in a complex and often dangerous operation. Essentially it works like this; an individual officer rides ahead and positions himself at the junction, village or point that needs to be secured until the pelotón and main convoy have passed. Then he jumps on his motorbike and speeds back through the race, weaving past all the riders and other vehicles, passing his colleagues posted along the way until he reaches the head of the caravan again and his next position, where he stops once more to secure the road. The cyclists depend on this for their safety - Marco Pantani was almost killed in a head-on collision with a car which had slipped unnoticed through the police cordon during a race in Italy.

Stage 1 was 163 km long with over 3,000m of accumulated climbing. I knew most of the route quite well, because I regularly cycle the Montseny. Not too steep - nothing much over 10% - but three long, first category climbs.

Halfway through the race we found ourselves trailing along behind a solitary young rider from the Dutch team Roompot-Charles. He'd already dropped off the back of the pelotón on the first big climb and was about twenty minutes in arrears. None of his team cars were anywhere to be seen, and he'd been riding completely alone for over two hours. He had clearly run out of water and probably food too. Neither my colleague Toni nor I knew if race regulations permitted us to give a rider assistance of this sort, but at this point it seemed almost inhumane not to.

Toni was driving.

'Poor bastard. Think we should we give him something? he said in Spanish.

'Ah Jesus, yeah' I answered.

I checked the guy's name on the list of riders in the race book. 227 Arjen Livyns, Belgium.

I called out his first name as we pulled up alongside him, then reached out the window to offer him a plastic bottle of mineral water.

'Water?' I asked in English.

'Yes, yes thank you!' he said, grabbing the bottle and unscrewing the top.

'Fancy a banana?'

He nodded vigorously as he swallowed a gulp of water.

Not long after this exchange, a motorcycle cop pulled up alongside the van and told us that the rider had been disqualified for safety reasons. Such a long convoy becomes impossible to manage and, especially at the back end, the police can no longer guarantee that the road is securely closed to traffic.

We pulled up alongside the rider and I explained in English what had happened. A look of relief shot across his face and without any fuss he pulled over to the side of the road and dismounted. I got out of the van and while he climbed in the back, I handed his bike to my colleagues in the flag van behind us.

'Are you okay?' I asked, as we got underway again. He was pale and looked completely exhausted.

'Not so good' he replied sheepishly from the back seat. 'I have something wrong in my stomach since yesterday'.

As we sped along the winding mountain road in an attempt to catch back up to the rest of the race I glimpsed back at him once or twice. He was very young, not long out of his teens with a baby face and short blonde hair. Like many pro cyclists when you see them off their bikes, he looked quite frail and strikingly thin.

'So what happened to your team cars?' I asked, after a while. 'Did they forget about you?'.

He shrugged and replied 'They stay with the other riders. You know how it is'.

I nodded uncertainly.

'How long have you been with Roompot-Charles?'.

'This is my first year' he replied. 'I just turn pro'.

As Toni drove flat out along the road I translated some of the conversation into Spanish for him.

'Living the dream, eh?' he chuckled.

'Why did you start this morning if you felt ill?' I asked him.

Again he shrugged 'The team director tells me I start'.

Roompot-Charles is a Continental team, a kind of second division. The Volta being a Pro Tour race means all eighteen Pro Tour teams automatically take part, along with seven Continental teams which are there by invitation.

The day's stage was won by another Belgian rider. A star of the international pelotón called Thomas de Gendt from the powerful Lotto Soudal team, after a spectacular breakaway.

As we came down off the Montseny massif and approached Calella where the stage also ended, I wondered aloud.

'What will you do, now that you're out of the race?'

'I don't know' he replied vaguely. 'I see what the team director says'.

The finish line was quiet by the time we arrived. We  parked beside the press trucks, which were packing away their gear. The town was settling down again after all the buzz of the race.

I fetched his bike from the flag van and handed it back to him. There was nobody from Roompot-Charles anywhere.

'Do you know where is the hotel?' he asked.

'Which one are you staying at?' I replied.

'I don't know the name'.

'Most of the hotels are in that direction' I said vaguely, pointing down the street.

'Okay' he replied, climbing on the bike 'I'll find it'.

He reached out to me and shook my hand firmly.

'Thank you very much' he said, with a smile.

Stage 2 was a long, flat, windy stage. I did most of the driving and we picked up a couple of riders who we dropped off further along the route when one of their team cars became available. I was starting to understand the workings of the race when it comes to riders abandoning.

If the terrain and the race situation allow it, normally a team car drops back to the rider in difficulty. When he pulls over and dismounts, the team takes his bike and stows it on the roof rack.  Often the team car will take the rider with them, but if it's too full inside he gets entrusted to the broom wagon.

Each team has three cars, but only two are allowed to drive inside the actual convoy. They're the ones you see on television with spare bikes and wheels on the roof. The third car has to drive outside the race, on alternative roads taking shortcuts and diversions. They're the guys who appear by the roadside to hand the riders food bags and drinks along the route. Often times we would collect a rider at one point and then drop him off further along if his third team car appeared.

Stage 3 saw the race leave the coastal region behind and journey up into the high Pyrenees for the first of three gruelling mountain stages. Today was 179 km with two category one climbs along the way and ending with a special category climb up to the finish line at Vallter ski station.

On the second climb of the day we picked up a young Polish rider from the Caja Rural team called Alan Banaszek. Toni drew the van to a halt when we saw him standing by the side of the road behind his team car. The mechanic was lifting the bike onto the roof. The driver was out of the car talking to the rider and gesticulating with his hands. When he saw our van he signalled in our direction and then approached us.

'Is he coming with us?' I asked in Spanish, leaning out the window.

'Yeah, drop him at the third car or at the team bus' he replied brusquely.

On day one we were instructed by our coordinator that the broom wagon’s only function is to collect riders and drop them at the finish line, with no obligation to take them anywhere else.

'We will if we see them along the route' I replied 'otherwise he's coming to the finish line'.

He acknowledged with a nod, then turned back to the car, climbed in and drove off.

I pulled open the sliding side door of the van and let the rider in. He was pale and tired looking, and slumped into the backseat with hardly a word.

After the first stage, Toni and I had decided to give these 'poor bastards' a little comfort, so we'd strapped a cardboard box to the back seat and each day stocked it with some basic food and drink.

'Help yourself' I said to him, pointing to the box.

We pulled off and continued the slow, twisting ascent.

Not surprisingly, when a rider climbs aboard the broom wagon he's at a bit of a low point in life. I knew by now it was better to leave them alone for a while.

We crested the climb and began the fast descent, cornering at speed and swerving back and forth across the road. In front of us was an Indian file of the rearmost team cars. Behind us drove one of the ambulances, the green-flag van and finally the police vehicles. I looked back at the rider and saw that he was finishing one of the sandwich rolls from the box.

'Queso?' I asked.

He stopped chewing for a moment and looked at me blankly.

'Cheese?'

He grunted in the affirmative, swallowing and wiping his mouth.

'Yes, thank you' he said in a heavy Polish accent.

Caja Rural is a respected Spanish team, known for developing young talent. Unlike the cosmopolitan Pro Tour  teams, Continental teams like this are usually made up of riders from the home country.

'I thought only Spanish riders on your team'.

'Yes, all Spanish, only me' he replied.

'Are you with them long?'.

'This is my first season' he answered. 

'How's that going?' I asked.

He paused for a moment, looking out the window.

'It's okay, I think' he replied a little doubtfully. 'Sometimes it's difficult, you know. I don't speak very much Spanish'.

'Do you live here?' I asked.

'Yes, I live in Alicante'.

'Do many riders live in that area?'.

'I think there is some from other teams, but I don't see them. I have a friend lives there. Sometimes we train together'.

'And your family?'.

'Back in Poland'.

We reached the bottom of the descent and started along the flat road though the Camprodón valley.

'What are you going to do for the rest of the week?' I asked.

'I see what the team director says' he replied, then paused for a moment. 'How much do you think is a flight to Mallorca from Barcelona?.

'I expect midweek you could get one for under a hundred euro'.

'Yes, you think? he replied 'And how much for a hotel room in Mallorca?'.

'Off season like this you could find something decent for fifty or sixty euro a night' I replied.

'Really?' he said.

He appeared to do the numbers in his head for a moment.

'So maybe I go to Mallorca. They say it's good for cycling'.

'There's no girlfriend waiting for you back in Alicante? I asked.

'No, no girlfriend. It's difficult, you know?'.

'A lot of travelling?'.

'Yes, I travel very much, and with the girls .. it's not easy'.

'Being a professional cyclist doesn't get you very far?'

He shook his head glumly.

'Not really. I think that's the football players, you know?'.

I nodded sympathetically.

We didn't meet any Caja Rural team car or bus, and eventually we began the slow twisting climb towards the finish line at Vallter ski station. Occasionally we would catch a glimpse of struggling riders ahead of us, heads and shoulders bobbing from side to side with each laborious stroke of the pedals, fans by the roadside clapping, cheering and sometimes pushing them along. After a few kilometres I glanced behind me and discovered our passenger was sound asleep in the backseat. It was almost six o'clock in the evening and we were approaching two thousand metres of altitude. The ski season had finished only a week or two before, and the mountain sides were still largely covered in snow. We had already closed the windows of the van to keep out the chilly air. Professional cyclists need to be as light as possible and their extremely low level of body fat means it's harder for them to stay warm in the cold. Our passenger soon woke up shivering and unhappy.

'Pull in for a second' I said to Toni.

I hopped out and ran around to the back of the van, lifted up the back door and grabbed my suitcase. I pulled out the black down jacket the Volta had given me as part of our official clothing. Back in the van I handed it over the seat to the rider.

'Thank you very much' he said, with chattering teeth.

Hastily he put it on and zipped up, wrapping his arms across his chest to keep the heat in. Soon he was back asleep.

We continued the climb, one slow switchback after another until at last the road straightened out and we could see the buildings of the ski station ahead.  The finish line was right at the top, where the ski lifts began.

Shortly before, on the left hand side was a car park where a number of team buses were positioned, among them Caja Rural. I reached back over the seat and gave him a nudge. He woke up again and I pointed to his team bus. In a daze he took off the jacket and climbed out of the van unsteadily in his cycling shoes.

'Take care of yourself' I said, as he hobbled across the road.

He made no reply.

Rider 192 of Team Caja Rural taking a nap on the way to Vallter.

Next day was another big Pyrenean mountain stage, from the village of Setcases to La Molina ski station. I was driving the van and we were on the second climb of the day, with two young riders in the back, one Slovenian and the other Dutch. It was becoming apparent that only less significant riders were left to travel in the broom wagon. If Thomas de Gendt or Alejandro Valverde pulled out, their teams would not do them this disservice. So I was giving up on the idea of meeting any big names, until on the second climb of the day rider 151 of Team Katusha pulled in at a bend in the narrow road and dismounted.

'Toni' I said, quickly checking the rider list. 'This guy is Nathan Haas'.

I pulled the van over to the side of the road.

'G'day mate, you coming with us?' I asked, leaning out the window.

'I reckin' so' he replied flatly, in an unmistakable Aussie accent.

As he was handing Toni his bike, the only spectator nearby - a short fat guy in his fifties - pulled out a phone and started taking photos.

'Oh for Christ's sake!', said Haas, raising his hand to shield his face. 'No fotos, por favor!'.

Toni took the bike and gave it to the flag van behind us, then climbed back inside. The other two lads had been chatting in English about the cycle computers they used and how many grams each weighed, but when Haas climbed into the van they both went silent.

'Thanks guys' he said, as they shifted over to make room for him.

While Nathan Haas couldn't be called a superstar, he's a well known name to anyone who follows cycling.

'You don't like having your picture taken?' I asked him as I started driving again, winding our way up the mountain pass.

'Not like that' he replied, still a little irritated. 'You don't want that getting on social media'.

'Fair enough' I replied 'though he didn't look like the kind of guy who's big on Instagram'.

'You never know mate' he answered with a chuckle 'sometimes you'd be surprised'.

'Are you big on social media?' I asked.

'Sort of. Nowadays you've gotta be there. To be honest, the team handles a lot of it for me'.

Up until now all the riders who had climbed aboard the broom wagon had seemed exhausted and down in the dumps. Nathan Haas was team leader of Katusha but he seemed quite unfazed about what had just happened. He removed his helmet and arranged his hair.

'So what went wrong today? If you don't mind me asking'.

He let out a puff of air.

'It's weird mate. I got this virus in January when I was riding the Tour Down Under, and I haven't been able to kick it'.

'No kidding?'.

'Most of the time I'm ok, but now and again it just floors me, like today'.

The other two riders were listening in silence.

'So no wins yet this season?' I ventured.

'Not so far, but there's still a long way to go. A couple of years back I won the tour of your country'.

I looked at him in the rear view mirror, uncertain of what he meant. The Tour of Ireland ceased to exist years ago.

'I won the The tour of Britain' he said, with a grin.

'Ah, I get you' I answered. 'Well done man. though I'm actually Irish'.

'Shit, sorry mate' he replied hastily 'I got your accent wrong. No offense'

'None taken man, don't worry'.

'Dumb Aussie' he said, with a chuckle.

'So what'll you do now?' I asked.

For the other riders I'd spoken to, abandoning La Volta seemed to create an unpleasant uncertainty about their immediate future. 

'I'll go home and have a think about things I guess' he said casually 'I might take some time off, then figure out my next step with the team'.

Haas was a blend of laid back Aussie and self-conscious hipster. The crafted mop of hair, casually flopped to one side, short, trendy beard and a mellow smile.

'Where do you live?' I asked.

'Girona' he answered. 'Cycling central'.

Girona is an hour's drive north of Barcelona, and it's the cool place for pro cyclists to live. It's especially popular among English speaking riders from Britain, America and the southern hemisphere, and some retired pros have also settled there. Lance Armstrong and the US Postal team were the first to set up there in the early 2000's. 

'Nice place to live, isn't it?' I said.

'Brilliant mate. I love the place. I've got a house up in Andorra too'.

At the top of the climb a Katusha team car was waiting by the side of the road. As I pulled in, Haas checked his hair for a moment and then climbed casually out of the van. As he crossed the road he looked back and gave us a thumbs up.

'You guys have a good one!'.

The remaining three stages were relatively flat, with the young Colombian star Miguel Angel López moving steadily towards victory in the general classification. Riders came and went in the broom wagon. Mostly young, mostly tired, sometimes unwell and often dispirited. Almost as many riders were evacuated by ambulance to the nearest hospital to receive treatment following crashes. Broken collar bones, wrists and ribs. Concussion, broken teeth, neck injuries, cuts and road burns.

As is tradition in the Volta, Barcelona hosted the final stage of the race, with the start and finish line beside Plaza Espanya, at the foot of Montjuic hill. On Sunday morning there was a special buzz of excitement, much bigger than any previous stage. Hordes of fans milled about the start area taking snapshots of the riders passing on their way to the sign in, admiring the sleek team buses and trucks, and collecting free merchandise from sponsors. Colombian national flags hung everywhere.

The stage was to be a relatively short 143 km, finishing with eight laps of a fast and tricky circuit around Montjuic hill. After a week of fine weather the last day threatened rain. As the convoy pulled out of Barcelona, race radio announced that for the safety of the cyclists the circuit would be reduced to just two laps if it was wet when we returned. After the last stage of a race most riders go straight from the finish line to the airport, and team vehicles set off on long road journeys, so no one wants to have to deal with injuries and hospitals.

About half way through the stage we pulled to the side of the road to pick up a rider from the Dutch team Jumbo Visma. I was riding shotgun and climbed out of the van when Toni drew to a halt. First I opened the side door for the rider to climb in, then I went to take his bike from him.

'Where's the bike going?' he asked warily, looking at the back seat.

'The flag van' I replied.

I grasped the handle bars but he didn't let go.

'They treat the bikes like shit, you know?' he said crossly 'This is a lot of money'.

I knew exactly what he meant. On the first day I had discovered to my surprise that we just tossed the bikes into the empty rear of the van, where they would bang around on the metal floor for the rest of the stage. This was the first time a rider had mentioned it.

'I'll ask them to take care of it' I said weakly.

He frowned but relinquished the bicycle.

We got underway again and picked up speed. Today's course was flat and fast.

'Can you put on your seatbelt please?' I asked him over the seat.

'I already do' he answered, looking out the window.

I checked the rider list. Number eighty seven, Dutch rider Bert-Jan Lindeman. Never heard of him.

He began to cough. A chesty phlegm-filled cough.

'You okay?' I asked.

He gave a grunt. 'I feel a bit shit'.

'At least no one saw you climbing into the broom wagon' I ventured 'so you won't have your picture on Instagram'.

'That's not a problem for me' he answered flatly. 'I don't have the high profile'.

'Does the team not handle it for you?'.

'Yeah, a little bit. But I'm not so well known, so it's not very important'.

His face had the rough, weathered texture that older riders usually acquire.

'You been a pro for long?' I asked.

'About ten years' he replied, staring out the window at the passing countryside.

'What kilometre we are at now?' he asked.

I checked the trip odometer on the dashboard.

'Eighty six' I answered.

Judging by the look on his face, the idea of another sixty kilometres of conversation didn't exactly thrill him. However today was the last stage and I wasn't about to be put off by a little grumpiness.

I gestured to the cardboard box on the seat beside him.

'Help yourself' I said.

He looked at the box and then lifted the lid to see inside.

'Food and drink for the riders?' he said, raising his eyebrows 'nice touch'.

He reached in and pulled out a can of Coke. As he opened it and took a few sips he seemed to loosen up a bit, or maybe just resigned himself to the situation he was in. Soon we were chatting about his training methods back in Holland.

'Nowadays you know, it's all on the computer' he explained. 'Every kilometre we ride, the power output, the heart rate, all the GPS tracks. It all goes on the cycle computer and at the end of the ride the data goes automatic back to the coach'.

'And is this technology a good thing?' I asked.

'Sometimes you feel a bit like a machine, you know? he replied 'When I started as a pro you just went out on your bike in the morning and did the kilometres. Maybe you were checking your heart rate, but that's all. Once or twice a week you'd speak on the phone to your coach and then he'd send you an e-mail with the plan for the next week'.

'Does the technology make you a better cyclist?'.

'Yeah, I have to say' he answered. 'You train better and you're more focused. And all the other guys are doing the same, you know? If you want to be a pro cyclist it's what you have to do. If you don't like it, then you stay at home and don't turn pro'.

'When you go out training, do you wear your team clothes?' I asked.

'Yes, always' he replied. 'The team gives us all the clothes and stuff that we need, and it's good quality, so why spend your money?'.

'That makes sense' I replied.

'It's a little publicity for the sponsor too' he added.

He raised his head slightly and looked at me.

'I'm proud to ride for this team, you know?'.

'I can well imagine. It's one of the best' I answered. 'By the way, who are Jumbo and Visma?'.

'Visma is a software company' he explained 'and Jumbo is a big chain of supermarkets in Holland'.

'Do you riders do promotional work for them?'.  

'Not really' he replied. 'We do team presentation once a year but that's all'.

'So you don't have to cut ribbons at new supermarkets?'.

He chuckled and shook his head.

'No, but they don't give us the free food either. I wouldn't mind, you know?'.

'Maybe you could do a deal' I said. 'You'll turn up on your bike for the opening if they give you free shopping'.

'It could be a good thing' he smiled.

'I suppose you've ridden the Volta before' I said.

'Yeah, a couple of times. It's a good race, and good for the preparation'.

'What about the Vuelta a España?'.

'I've done it a few times'.

'Tough, right?'.

'Yeah, it's tough and very hot in August. I prefer the bad weather, you know? The cold and the rain is better for me'.

'Have you ridden the Tour de France?' I asked.

'A couple of times' he replied 'but I prefer the Vuelta. It has a better atmosphere, you know? The Tour de France is so much pressure, everyone is nervous and you don't enjoy it so much'.

'I won a stage in the Vuelta a few years ago' he added.

'Get outa here!' I said 'are you serious?'

'Yes I did', he replied proudly.

Winning a stage in a Grand tour like the Vuelta would be a major achievement in the career of a rider like Lindeman, who is essentially a support rider or domestique. In important races his job is not to win, but to help his team leader. On rare occasions he'll get a shot at victory, but with over a hundred and fifty other riders to contend with, the chances of success are always slim.

'It was in 2015, stage seven' he explained 'in the south, in the Alpujarras mountains'.

I quickly translated into Spanish for Toni.

'¿Una etapa de la Vuelta?' he exclaimed loudly. '¡Que grande!'

Lindeman contained a smile of satisfaction.

'Was that a mountain-top finish?' I asked.

'Yes, a big climb at the end'.

I paused, sensing he would continue of his own accord.

'I got in the breakaway early in the day. We were five riders. It was a hard stage, always up and down and very hot weather, but we worked together and managed to stay away to the end'.

I observed him as he gave the casual but precise description of events. A story no doubt told many times before.    

'On the final climb the attacks started, you know? So soon we are three riders left, then a few more attacks and there is only me and one other guy'.

'In the end I had better legs for a sprint and I could win. It was a good day, you know? I had good legs that day'.

He gazed out the window, as if savouring the memory.

'There's riders that would sell their mother to win a stage of the Vuelta' I told him.

He chuckled and nodded his head

'Perhaps they would'.

We drove on at a steady clip. Race radio informed us that the small breakaway had been captured by the pelotón. Today the big teams weren't taking any chances.

'So you guys like driving the broom wagon?' he asked casually.

'It's pretty cool actually' I replied.

'I guess you can take it a little bit easy, right?' he said. 'Not like the other drivers who have to take the sponsors and the VIPs'.

'Yeah, this is a bit more laid back' I answered.

As if to clarify what he meant, he leaned forward and put his hand on the top of my seat.

'This is an important job you guys do' he said. 'It's a real part of the race, you know? Not just public relations'.

I nodded and smiled back at him.

It was now dry and sunny as we cruised at a steady 50 kph through the sprawling hinterland of greater Barcelona towards the city centre. Race radio announced in Spanish, English and French that the full eight laps of Montjuic would go ahead as planned.

I decided to ask him about doping in the pelotón - a topic I hadn't broached with any rider up until then - even just for curiosity to see his reaction. He murmured and then paused for a moment before answering.

'I don't think there's much these days. Sometimes maybe you see something a bit strange, or you hear something. But nowadays it's not cool to dope, you know?'

'And with biological passports and all that?' I suggested.

He nodded in agreement.

'It's not so easy for the cheaters any more, you know? I go on holiday with my girlfriend, maybe to Greece or Portugal, and every day I have to send an email to the inspectors so they know where I'm going to be, at least for one hour'.

'Every day?'

'Every day. And when I'm at home they can come any day any time'.

'How do you feel about this constant surveillance?'.

'The control? That's just the way it is' he replied with a shrug. 'If you don't like it then don't turn pro'.

'Anyway it's better for a rider like me' he continued. 'Some of the guys who are famous and make the big money, perhaps for them it makes sense to dope. But for me it would only be a problem. I'm glad they have all the controls'.

We talked some more about cycling, then girlfriends, then Barcelona and a little about life in general. We were now driving down the broad Gran Vía, towards Plaza Espanya. Only the most essential vehicles were taking part in the laps around Montjuic, and the broom wagon would not be needed.

'You've still got a few years as a pro cyclist' I said.

'Yes, I think so' he answered.

'Any plans for when you retire?'.

A veteran rider like Lindemann certainly earned a good living, but he wasn't going to retire on the money he made from cycling.

I was looking back over the seat at him. He seemed surprised at the question and paused to think for a moment, then just shrugged.

'I'll think of something when that comes'.

Team buses and trucks lined the wide road leading from Plaza Espanya up to the Magic Fountain, where the riders were already on the final circuit. We pulled in at Jumbo-Visma and Lindeman climbed out. I fetched his bicycle from the flag van and gave it back to him, seemingly in one piece.

'Thanks guys. It was a nice trip. Maybe see you next year' he said, as we shook hands.

'Fair enough' I answered. 'But with you on the bike'.