Time Travel . . .

This post was originally posted for Conquista Cycling Club & can be found here...

Team Novo Nordisk has an exotic race calendar that sees us compete in a smorgasbord of countries around the globe. Even in the first few months of this year, I had turned the pedals in Spain, Australia, the Philippines and Brazil. For me, this is fantastic because it means I get to see some of the lesser-visited places on Earth but on the downside, it also means a LOT of transit.

As well as fending off thrombosis and water retention, crossing so many time zones so frequently also means a constant battle with jet lag. Sleeping patterns and circadian rhythms go out the window and don't get me started on what it does to other bodily functions.

To give you an idea, a few weeks ago, I left Spain and went three hours ahead for the Tour d'Azerbaijan. After a week there, I went back to Spain for one night before moving nine hours behind for the Amgen Tour of California. Then I had another overnight in Spain before gaining an hour at the Tour of Estonia. One hour may not be much, but when Spain exists in a time zone of its own, a few hours behind the rest of Europe, one hour can make a big difference! After Estonia, I had three more nights back in Spain before gaining seven hours flying to where I am currently laying wide awake in bed.

Last three weeks:

• ·         Spain→Azerbaijan = gain three hours
• ·         Azerbaijan→Spain = lose three hours
• ·         Spain→California = lose nine hours
• ·         California→Spain = gain nine hours
• ·         Spain→Estonia = gain one hour
• ·         Estonia→Spain = lose one hour
• ·         Spain→Korea = gain seven hours

I'm actually writing this blog at 2:30 am in Korea, two days before the Tour de Korea starts. I have to admit, I’m pretty angry at my Spanish teammate, David Lozano, because he is somehow fast asleep, comfortably snoring in his bed at a respectable time.

My Fitbit says that last week my average sleep was 5hrs 4mins per night. Not ideal when you consider that I am supposed to be racing and recovering.

They say that for every one hour of time difference, you need one day for your body to adjust. When we travel to a race, we usually get one day to adjust... period. It doesn’t matter if it is nine hours difference or three. There are things that you can do to make it easier. One way is to fight off sleep during a flight, so I have a better chance of sleeping later. Another is degrading myself and drinking decaf, so it doesn't keep me awake. But I am only human!

Some teammates (an Irish one in particular) seem to be immune to jet lag. We call him the King of Sleep. No matter where he is, how much travel he has done or how much sleep he has had the day before, Stephen Clancy can fall asleep within minutes of closing his eyes. Not only this, but he can wake up 12 hours later, oblivious to the fact that I have been staring at him enviously for the last four hours from my bed on the other side of the room.

I try everything... Counting sheep, reading the race book, listening to classical music or even early Coldplay, but nothing works, and it always ends up the same: playing Crushing Candy until I run out of lives and then just laying there twiddling my thumbs.

Getting three hours of sleep the night before a stage race is not ideal. To be honest, it's pretty annoying, but sometimes it's just unavoidable. After a couple of stages, the physical tiredness usually nulls the jet lag, yet the tiredness is probably enhanced by the jet lag itself. It's a vicious circle.

I know that time travel isn't possible (yet?) but I'm pretty sure that I have mastered it.

Amgen Tour of California - Character Building . . .

This post was originally posted for Conquista Cycling Club & can be found here...

On paper, the Amgen Tour of California was not a race that suited me. Touted as the 'hardest edition ever', almost every stage had a large amount of climbing and, well, gravity is no friend of mine. In reality, the Tour of California was definitely not a race for me. Consequently, my job for the week was to support the team's sprinters and GC rider as best I could, fetching bottles and moving them around the bunch if needed. And of course, survive.

Fortunately, I did not suffer alone. With only two stages that ended in a bunch gallop, many sprinters also had to suffer. The problem for them was that those sprint stages were at opposite ends of the tour: the first and last stages. Separated by six stages of unpleasantness that had to be endured just to get another opportunity to do what they do best.

In Stage 1, our sprinter had a fantastic finish and managed to beat some of the world's best to take fifth place. Spirits were high on the bus afterward, and there was already talk of 'next time'. However, 'next time' was a long way away.

For the next six stages, I was not much use in the mountains and, to be honest, it was as much a mental battle as a physical one. When you are not having any impact on the race and unable to support your teammates, you begin to question the point of going through such an ordeal to get the end. Each day, I found my way to grupetto and was happy just to get to the finish line, each time a day closer to that final flat stage.

By the time the final stage came around, the field has at least 20 riders fewer than the Stage 1, but our sprinters (and me) had suffered through the week and were ready to take their chances on Stage 8. The previous seven stages had taken their toll. We were tired, very tired, but no one wanted their efforts to be in vain.

The final stage finished with three laps of a 3-km street circuit, and it was going to be fast. The goal was to make sure our sprinters had good position coming into the final laps to give them the best chance contesting the finale. Mark Cavendish’s (who also suffered through the tour to get to this stage) Dimension Data team were controlling the front with six km to go when a crash on a corner split the field. Unfortunately, our sprinters were caught up in the incident and never regained position to fight for the finish.

In the end, Cavendish took the win, redeeming his week of suffering, while many others, including our sprinters, were left to question the purpose of the last seven days. I crossed the line tired, relieved and surprised that I made it to the end. If it is true when they say that suffering builds character, then my character is definitely maxed-out at the moment.

Yeah... Nah.

This post was originally posted for Conquista Cycling Club & can be found here...

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, back when I first started competing in triathlons, I had the crazy ambition of completing an Ironman distance triathlon.

That's a 3.8-kilometer swim, 180-km ride, followed by a marathon, or 42.2-km run. It is the Tour de France of triathlons and can't be taken lightly. I was working my way up to it and had completed a half-Ironman distance triathlon when I had the opportunity to watch a friend race the full distance.

From the sidelines, an Ironman looks pretty straightforward. Competitors seem to carry on at their own pace for hours on end. Watching the race fuelled my ambition to complete one myself. My friend finished in a respectable time, and I decided to go into the recovery tent to congratulate him. That's when things changed.

Inside the tent, it was like a makeshift war zone hospital. Competitors were in wheelchairs with drips, passed out on stretcher beds and laid out on the ground screaming with cramps. More people staggered in and collapsed, dazed and confused after crossing the finish line. It was shocking.

After seeing this, I realised how difficult completing an Ironman can be. It changed my mind on finishing one. Don't get me wrong; I still wanted to do one . . . but not yet. Or, as we so eloquently put it in Australia, 'Yeah . . . Nah'.

Just over two years ago, Team Novo Nordisk received news that we would be competing in our first ever Tour of California, arguably America’s biggest cycling race. Everyone on the team was excited and everyone wanted to race, including me. For the team, the race would be our Tour de France for the year.

Looking at the stage profiles and the other teams competing, we knew it was going to be tough. But we were excited. Oblivious and excited.

We had a trainer working with the team who was very familiar with the race. He sat each of us down to talk about the race. His opening words were, 'This will be the hardest race you have ever done.' For me, my desire to do the race became, 'Yeah... Nah'.

In the end, I was reserve for the Tour of California and fortunately, we didn't have any issues and I didn't have to race. In 2015, the same thing happened. This year, I found myself on the reserve list for the third time.

Up to about a week ago, I was racing at the Tour d'Azerbaijan and then had a three-week break until my next race. Meanwhile, my teammates would be competing in the Tour of California, touted as the 'hardest edition ever' with one of the strongest start lists ever. I was blissfully unaware. 'Yeah . . . Nah'.

Then I received an email telling me one of our riders was injured and I was getting the call up to race. I had to fly from Azerbaijan, via Barcelona to grab a few things, then on to California. Yesterday I looked at the stage profiles. 'Yeah . . . Nah'.

Now, I am currently in California preparing for the race that starts in a few days. I'm excited, but unfortunately, not oblivious.

Waiting

This post was originally posted for Conquista Cycling Club & can be found here...

European cyclists are so lucky and most don’t even know it. They take it for granted. In fact, I would wager that they don’t even think about it -- They live in the epicentre of bike racing, and this has many, many benefits.

For starters, it is a place where cycling is (generally) accepted as a sport and bikes are (generally) given respect and room on the road. Fans get to stand on the side of the road and watch big names go past in races. People can travel to other countries with relative ease and ride some of the most infamous and legendary areas. Finally, the pathways for cyclists to compete and progress to the professional ranks are greater and more defined.

When you look at it through the lens of professional cycling, the benefits get even bigger. For starters, the European riders don’t have to spend huge amounts of time away from home. The longest they are away is essentially the length of the race and then it is a relatively short flight to get back home. They can stay with their family and get to train from home.

For Australians like me, the logistics of racing in Europe are far more complicated. For starters, it’s a heck of a long way away. It takes around two days of travel to get to Europe and a few more days on top of that until the body and brain start to feel normal from the time difference. For those who are trying to carve their path through smaller continental or amateur teams, the cost of the flight alone is enough to put a sizeable dent in your savings. Add onto that the ridiculous price of an Australian international license & insurance (up to AU$4000), and this world is already out of reach for most.

Once (or if) you make it to Europe, there are the logistics of finding and organizing accommodations in a country where you probably don’t speak the language. Many go with the cheaper option of staying in a team house and sleep on a couch in a room with six other guys. Others find refuge in known pro-cyclist hangouts such as Lucca, Andorra or Southern Spain where the weather is slightly warmer. In these places, they have the benefit of training with other pros and can usually live in an English bubble, so there is less need to be fluent in the local language.

For myself, I live in Girona, in Northern Spain. There are a lot of other pro cyclists here, so I am never short of a training partner. I can get away with only knowing a few basic sentences of Spanish and sometimes forget that I’m in a non-English speaking country. Despite these ‘benefits’ of Girona, like the other riders from Australia here, I can’t escape the fact that I am on the other side of the planet from my home, family and friends. From what I have seen, there are two ways to approach this predicament…

Option 1: Set up a home away from home. Many pros make Girona their ‘home’ with all of the comforts that they would have back in Australia… an apartment, a car, and any other luxuries they may desire. This option has many benefits: They have a familiar and comfortable place to return to between races and can live a fairly relaxed life. They are more likely to try to learn the local language and customs because their living situation seems a bit more long-term. After living out of a suitcase at races, it is a relief to come ‘home’ and feel like you have unpacked rather than just relocated your suitcase.

Setting up a home away from home can also have its negatives. Unfortunately, professional cycling is a very uncertain career choice where you get almost no job security. This means it could all come to an end at any time and then you are stuck with a heap of stuff you can’t take with you. At the end of the day, for an Australian living in Europe, it’s all temporary. Setting up a home can also mean that you end up missing Australia even more as there isn’t a light at the end or a ‘return date’. This can also make it harder to stay focused on your training and easier to lose motivation.

Option 2: The alternative is what I choose to do and that is to treat the entire time in Europe as one big training camp. It is just one big trip away from home rather than a heap of smaller trips.

The benefits of doing it this way are that I don’t accumulate a lot of stuff. I generally make do with what I have. It’s easier to justify and deal with being away from home for so long because I know it’s only temporary, and I know my ‘return date’. Being on one big training camp also makes it easier to stay focused and remember what I am here for.

However, this also has several cons. In three years, I haven’t made any real effort to learn Spanish or involve myself in the culture or local events. I also feel like I live half of the year out of a suitcase going from race to race, hotel to hotel. By the end of the racing season, I quite often forget about what clothes and belongings I have back in Australia. The worst part of being on one big training camp is that I always feel like I am sitting around waiting. I am just trying to kill time before I have to go to the next thing.

Waiting for the next race. Waiting for the next training session. Waiting for the next flight. Waiting for the next hotel. Waiting to go home.

Volta do Rio Grande do Sul

This post was originally posted for Conquista Cycling Club & can be found here...

Heading into the Volta Ciclistica do Rio Grande do Sul was a total mystery. We had little information about the race other than how many days it lasted and we stepped onto the plane blindly. The one thing we knew was the weather, which decided to do a 180ᵒ turn after our first two days there. James Glasspool had done the race in 2015 so almost every sentence he said was, ‘Last year, we….’

The day before the race was insanely hot and humid. After arriving from Europe, this was a bit of a shock to the system. We set out for a couple of hours on the bike to stretch the legs and try to shake some of the jet lag, however, it did not all go according to plan. Without any phone reception or maps, we managed to find ourselves on a section of gravel road. When in a new country, this is generally not an uncommon occurrence. We normally navigate our way back to the hotel and enjoy the gravel roads as they are something different. Joonas Henttala was particularly happy as a recent cyclocross bike purchase made him feel like he knew what he was doing. This time however, the gravel got the better of us and after sweating it out while fixing two punctures, we looked like someone had thrown a bucket of water on us. One rider from an Argentinean team had decided to ride with us because he did not know the area and I’m pretty sure he had some huge regrets about that decision.

When we received the race bible, we were still not much wiser about the race as the scale on the race profiles were incomprehensible. According to the race book, the first stage appeared to have two climbs at the end of the race. However, in reality, it was basically 1 climb of almost 30km!! This, coupled with the hot temperatures and crazy humidity, meant that most of the peloton suffered with cramps and there were some big time gaps throughout the bunch. Andrea Peron suffered badly and I ended up pushing him for the final 20km. At least he owes me one now!

After a relatively flat Stage 2, the climbers were keen to show their form on Stage 3, where the race finished with the same final climb as Day 1. At least this time we knew what we were in for! However, five minutes before the start of the stage, there were rumors the stage was going to be cancelled due to a festival that was making it impossible to close the roads. Instead, we were told that we would be doing an exact repeat of the previous day’s stage! Since the race signage had headed out in the direction of the original stage, we raced without any distance, sprint or KOM markers! Unlike the climbers, I was pretty happy with the decision.

After Stage 4, we changed hotels and moved into something that many of us had not experienced before -- all six of the riders sleeping in one room! They managed to squeeze six single beds into one room with about 30cm between each one. That night it felt like the set of the Brady Bunch, but I’ll have to admit, it was probably the best team conversation we had put together in a while. Sadly, all team bonding went out the window the next morning when it was a race to get to the bathroom first!

Before the final stage, a strange mist had set in and visibility was at around 50m. The race looped around for 40km before descending a long climb, turning around and coming back up for the finish. As we approached the start of the descent, the race was suddenly stopped and pushed to the side of the road. The commissaires told us the descent was to be neutralized and we went down the 20km at around 20kph the entire way. By the time we reached the bottom, my arms were cramping from squeezing the brakes the whole time! With the change to Stage 3 and the neutralization in Stage 5, this meant that we did not have to descend down a mountain the entire race!

When a tour finishes, usually the riders go their separate ways as they take different flights back home. Since we were all heading back to Europe, we found ourselves waiting around together for the same flight the following evening, which meant we had about eight hours to kill. Some guys like to sleep for as long as possible. Some guys will head out to the local shops and usually buy shoes or electronic goods that they don’t need. We decided to walk the streets and head to the only place we could find that was open… a Carrefour Supermarket. Exciting stuff!

My Back Pages...

This post was originally posted for Conquista Cycling Club & can be found here...

I grew up in rural Australia where a bike serves no real purpose other than getting to school and back. As a kid, I rode my BMX around town and preferred playing team sports such as soccer (aka football), cricket and rugby. I had no idea what the Tour de France was, and for me, the most important feature of a bicycle was not how aero or light it was, but if it had stunt pegs on the back so I could ‘double’ my friends. After high school, I let myself go. I was overweight and had taken up the bad habit of smoking. I relocated to the city to study and moved into a shared house, which included a triathlete. One Saturday, we were sitting on the couch watching a triathlon on television when my girlfriend made a remark about a triathlete's physique as he ran out of the water. Being slightly offended and highly competitive, I made a bold claim and said 'I could do that.' It was quickly met with laughter.

I guess it was out of spite, but I quit smoking, sold my car, purchased a road bike and within three months I did my first triathlon. After a couple of years battling away in triathlons, I began to realise that I actually hated running and was not a natural swimmer. I was frustrated that I couldn’t be as competitive as I wanted to be, so I decided to try my luck at cycling.

At 21 years of age, I was a relative latecomer to the sport of cycling. I didn’t know any cyclists and knew very little about the sport, so I really threw myself into the deep end. The learning curve was steep, and I have several embarrassing stories of doing things the ‘wrong’ way, like when I purchased and rode around in a wind-vest in the middle of summer because I thought it was a short-sleeved jersey. But I’ll save those stories for another time…

I started at the bottom, riding and racing with my local club team before getting the opportunity to race in National Series events. I was progressing and racing for a domestic team in 2009 when I was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes while at a National Series race. I was told that endurance sport and diabetes was a very difficult combination and that I would need to stop for a while. I was devastated and in my mind, I had already sold my bike.

Fortunately, I had some good friends who were not going to let me mope around and I was back on my bike within two days. Riding and racing with type 1 diabetes was another steep learning curve, and it was a few weeks before I took to the start line again. At the end of 2010, a friend of mine managed to put a good word in for me and I was able to race my first UCI race in China for a Continental Team. I trained my butt off for the race and came away with a good result and received a contract offer for the following year.

This year marks my fourth year racing with Team Novo Nordisk, a Professional Continental team comprised entirely of athletes with type 1 diabetes. During the season, I’m based in Girona, Spain and race around Europe, Asia & the Americas. Although racing and competing is my job, I genuinely love being active and outdoors. My favourite training ride is one where I can forget about heart rate and power zones and just go and explore the world.

At 34 years old, I’m truly the oldest guy on the team. In fact, I’m older than the team doctor and even the team’s CEO! I like to think that this gives me a slightly different viewpoint on life and racing, and hopefully I can share some of these ‘behind the scenes’ stories.

Arrivederci Roma

I've studied it at school. I've read books about it. I've seen countless movies about it. So going to Rome is one of those things that is on most people's bucket list. 

There are so many icons of Roman history like the Pantheon, the Colosseum, the Roman Forum, the catacombs and the list goes on. However, ever since I was a kid watching the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and learning about where they got their crazy names from, I've always wanted to see the Sistine Chapel. 

It's one of those mythical places that you are told deserves so much awe and admiration for so many reasons so you build quite high expectations for it in your mind. Before I went to Rome, I imagined a huge, grand building that just had to be the centre of the Vatican City. I was wrong. 

The Sistine Chapel is located within the Vatican Museum. All the website articles suggested that you purchase tickets online to avoid the long queues and boy I'm glad I did. The line to purchase tickets at the office literally went around the block with people lining up for hours. 

We arrived 15mins before suggested and waited across the road for our 'guide'. Despite booking online to avoid the queues, it turns out that you are basically paying to go in another, shorter line. The guides enable you to jump ahead and go to the front where they get you into the museum and then basically leave you to yourself. 

I was expecting inside to be different to the ridiculous queues outside. It turns out, inside is just as bad. The sheer number of people that are given entry is insane. Instead of being able to wonder around the museum to explore and look at the various displays, you are shuffled through amidst a sea of tourists & selfie sticks. If you are lucky, you might get a quick glimpse or photo of the things you want to see. 

After half an hour, I was sick of people. People pushing me in the back. People standing on the back of my heals. People cutting in front of me. It got to the point where I started to skip displays just to get ahead and away from people. The only problem is, the people never end!! So you end up missing things that you want to see out of frustration only to get more frustrated when you get stuck behind the next lot of people. 

I saw a lot of things. I also missed out on seeing a lot of things. When I finally got to the thing that I really wanted to see, the Sistine Chapel, it was standing room only. Literally. The chapel is a lot smaller than I anticipated and it was absolutely filled with people all with their heads tilted up to the ceiling. No photos are allowed and talking is not permitted and because it was the middle of summer, it smelled like a high school locker room, without the deodorant. 

Despite seeing some absolutely amazing things, the Vatican Museum and to be honest, Rome in general, has waaaaaay too many tourists. I guess I'm in no position to complain, seeing how I'm one as well, but if you are planning on visiting Rome, try to do it in the quiet season. At least that way you will have a chance to appreciate what you see. 

I may have checked Rome off my bucket list but I didn't get to enjoy it. 

Responsible Service

Everyone has thought about it... being able to pour your own beer and get one whenever you want. 

Thanks to Australia's drinking culture and responsible service of alcohol laws, the closest thing you can get is 7-Eleven's Slurpee Bring Your Own Cup Day. Beer taps remain safely behind the bar under the guard of the bartender. 

Not in Spain though!!! In the old town of Girona, near the bottom of the cathedral is a place called 'Doll - Cervesaria Moderna & Restaurant'. Inside there are beer taps all around the restaurant and 3 TV screens above them. 

You get a card and load it up with credit. €5 (AU$7.28) will get you 1L of beer. You place your card on the reader next to the beer tap & your name comes up on the screen with how much beer credit you have remaining. Then simply get yourself a glass and pour to your hearts content. 

Take your card with you and come back whenever you want. Brilliant. 

Race formula.

When you watch a bike race from the side of the road, you generally see about 30 seconds of the race as it blasts by and that's it. Even when you watch a race in television, most of the time they will only show the final kilometres and you do not get to see how the race formed in the early stages. It's a shame because the opening kilometres of a race can be the most exciting. 

A bike race will generally follow a particular formula... A small break of enthusiastic riders  will be allowed to ride away... The peloton takes it easy while the gap grows... The race leader's team or the team with stage victory aspirations take control to chase the break down in time for a sprint finish or the key moment in the finale. 

That sounds pretty simple but in actual fact, the opening kilometres of a race can be a challenge for everyone. 

If there is a team that is the favourite to win, the others will look to them to control the race and do the bulk of the work. Consequently, the favourite team does not want to let too many riders get away in the break or the job of bringing it back may be too hard. Also, if there are other teams that are contenders for the race win or close in the overall result, they don't want them to be in the break either or that team gets a free ticket to do no work during the stage. 

For teams that don't have a rider that can contest the final, they want to have a rider in the breakaway and will often do everything they can to achieve this. This way, they at least get the chance to win and also get some TV time for the sponsors. 

So they opening kilometres can be hectic as constant attacks keep the average speed over 50kph and teams chase each other up and down the road. Small breaks will splinter off the front and the teams responsible for bringing it back will try to block the road and prevent any other riders bridging across. 

The teams that don't want to miss the break will sneak through and launch themselves off the front in an effort to make it across. This will cause more riders to do the same and eventually the break gets too big so the stronger teams chase it back and it starts all over again. 

This can happen over and over before the break forms. Sometimes it can happen in the first kilometre and sometimes it can take the entire race! In Asia, many teams seem to have an almost kamikaze mentality towards getting I the break and they don't care for the traditional formula for a race so the attacking often lasts for what seems an eternity.  

Once the break has formed though, and the attacks have stopped, the bunch has a bit of a break or 'pisso'. It is usually signalled by the favourite team or the race leader pulling over for a nature break in front of the peloton. (Well, not literally) Traditionally, it is ungentlemanly to attack while the yellow jersey has stopped so the speed drops to a walking pace while the gap to the break grows. 

The team responsible for bringing back the break watch the time gap grow and make sure that it doesn't blow out too much. As an indicator, the peloton can usually bring back around 1min of time every 10km but the bigger the time gap, the harder it is. 

When the gap reaches a suitable amount, the 'workers' go to the front to set the pace. This may be the responsibility of a single team or if there are several teams with a vested interest in the finale, they may send a rider each to the front to share the workload. 

The middle of the race then becomes boring as the peloton slowly chips away at the time gap. If they go too slowly, they risk not catching the break and missing an opportunity for a stage win or losing the overall lead. If they go too quickly, the break will come back a long way from the finish which will inspire others to try their luck at escaping again. A lot of times, when the time gap reaches around 3mins, the peloton will just slow to the same speed as the break and keep it the gap the same until around 30km to go. 

The TV broadcasts normally pick things up around now and this is what most people see. They often cheer for the breakaway to win but in the end, they are just delaying the inevitable. 

The break gives everything that they have left (or have been holding back) in a final effort to beat the peloton to the line. Meanwhile, the peloton goes full gas as they work to bring the break back. Teams fight for position near the front of the bunch to best position their selected riders for the finish while at the same time trying to save energy and not do any work themselves. 

If there is wind present, the race gets even more chaotic as position becomes even more important and the bunch can potentially break apart as riders struggle towards the back. 

In the final kilometres, the break is usually brought back and the strong teams move to the front. Others are left to scrap for the back of their wheels as one lone rider cannot compete with a train of 6-8 riders from one team. There is pushing and shoving and teams yell instructions to each other. If you are someone that is nervous in a situation like this, even a slight touch of the brakes can mean you lose 10-15 positions. 

Add round-abouts, traffic island and high speed turns to the mix the potential for a crash is very high. At the end of the day, the best chance of victory goes to those that a brave (or stupid) enough to ride in the chaos at the front of the peloton. They say that it is just part of the sport and if you are not prepared to crash, then you cannot contest the finish. 

Ode to Staff...

I love a good game of 'Would You Rather?'. If you don't know what that is, just take a look here... www.rrrather.com Someone recently put this question to me... At a bike race, would you rather be a soigneur or a mechanic? That's a tough question because to me, they are both pretty unattractive propositions. 

The Soigneur...

The soigneur's role is to basically have everything ready for the riders. Their day begins when they wake up early to prepare the breakfast table for the riders. This means they have to head down, reserve a table and put out all of the 'special' food items that riders may need such as protein, different types of milk, cereals and spreads. 

Then the soigneur heads off to prepare water bottles, race food for the days stage and lunches for the riders for after the stage is done. 

After breakfast, they pack everything back up and gather everyone's luggage and pack it into the van before heading to the start line. Here they are ready with anything that the riders might need for the race including creams, oils and extra food. 

Once the stage has started, the soigneurs head to the feed zone and wait to hand out feed bags when the race goes past. 

Then it is a race against the clock as they have to get to the next hotel to check in and put all the luggage in the correct rooms. They wait for the riders to arrive and give them their room keys, wifi passwords and massage schedules. 

The soigneurs have to give every rider a massage before dinner where they again have to reserve a table and put out any special food items. 

Then it's off to bed to be ready to do it all again the next day...

The mechanic...

The mechanic's job begins on the day before the tour starts where they have to unpack and build every rider's bike as well as several spare bikes. They may have to do repairs and also spend some time checking wheels and tires and possibly gluing new tires on. 

The mechanics are also responsible for the team vehicles so they need to make sure that they are clean inside and out. 

On race day, the mechanics make sure that the bikes are ready to go at the hotel lobby and that the team cars are loaded up with anything that they may need during the day.  Riders can be very particular about their bikes so they may have to adjust things by fractions of a millimetre just so that it 'feels right'. 

During the race, the mechanic's day can be either quiet or hectic, depending on whether there are any mechanical problems. If there is, they need to be at the ready with spare bikes or wheels and prepared to hang out of the car window at 100kph holding on to the rider to fix the problem.

After the stage, the mechanics need to wash/clean/repair all of the bikes and prepare the vehicles again. 

At the end of the race, all of the bikes and equipment need to be broken down and packed into bike bags for transport. 

On top of all this, most of the time, the mechanics and soigneurs usually have to drive the team cars and buses hundreds of km's to and from races!

So to answer the question, 'At a bike race, would you rather be a soigneur or a mechanic?' I would have to say soigneur. I hate packing and unpacking my bike and could not think of anything worse then having to do it several times.