A Grand Tour, a Grand Mess and a Grand Goodbye

I never planned for 1981 to be my last year in the pro peloton. Then again, I was never much of a professional in the traditional sense. The year began beautifully with my Kiwi mate Paul Medhurst and me winning the Melbourne Six Day. Then I decided I was done. Bike shop time. Sensible adult time. Early March. Feet up.

That lasted six weeks.

Late April the phone rings. “Hello John, excuse my bad English…” Only one man opened a conversation like that. Gianni Savio. One of his Safir riders had crashed, the Giro d Italia was around the corner, and suddenly I was being asked if I wanted to ride the biggest race in Italy with a Belgian beer team led by the legendary Herman Van Springel. Herman was in his final season, but wouldn’t be on the Giro start line as he was preparing to ride a record seventh Bordeaux Paris in the middle of the Giro. He went on to win the five hundred and sixty kilometres race behind a derny in fourteen hours. The man was a machine.

Safir were not allowed in the Tour de France because alcohol and cigarette sponsors were banned, so the Giro was their Olympics. Gianni, who owned the Galli component company, supplied all the gear and basically bankrolled the team whenever we raced in Italy. He had clout. And I had shown some of my best form on Galli gear back in 1978 riding for Carlos Galli, and we had become good mates.

And as luck would have it, the prize for winning the Melbourne Six was two return flights to Europe with Yugoslav Airlines. I managed to wrangle extensions for Kaye and our four kids. Dean was seven months old. What could possibly go wrong.

Belgium, illness and a young Phil Anderson

We landed in Knokke, where my old friend Rosa Desnerk had a holiday apartment. Lovely spot unless your wife arrives with Quincy, a brutal form of tonsillitis, and you have four kids climbing the walls.

I squeezed in a couple of Belgian kermesses to find some form and finally got to race against a young Phil Anderson. I had watched him coming through the Aussie ranks. Now he was stomping around Belgium like he owned the place. I was five kilos overweight and nowhere near fit, but Phil still invited me to a party mid race. I said yes. My teammate overheard and said, “Mate, we are leaving for Trieste tomorrow.” So much for the party. Just a few weeks later, Phil went on to become the first non European to wear the coveted Maillot Jaune.

The Giro: chaos from day one

The Giro started exactly how you would expect for someone like me. I was the only rider without a bike. The team truck had broken down somewhere between Belgium and Italy, and my brand new machine was sitting on it. I rode the prologue on Willie Sprangers bike and prayed mine would arrive before the mountains. Thankfully it turned up that afternoon.

Our sports director, Florent Van Vaerenberge, was not my biggest fan. He had been Don Allan’s director at Frisol and was used to riders who were prepared. I finished fifth on Stage One in a big bunch sprint, which helped. But then he caught me having a morning cigarette on day three and dobbed me in to Gianni.

Gianni, ever the businessman, saw opportunity. Cigarette companies could not advertise at sporting events in Italy unless a certain Australian lit one on the start line. I got paid five hundred dollars to roll off with a ciggy in my mouth. As soon as the gun fired, I stubbed it out on the head stem and got on with it. The Italian press loved it. Il Canguro FumanteThe Smoking Kangaroo became a daily column in La Gazzetta dello Sport.

Truth is, I was not fit enough for a three week Grand Tour. By the end of week one I was cooked. The rest day saved me. I slept like a teenager and came out swinging in week two.

Sneaking out for a beer and getting caught

One night I caught up with my old mate Bruce Biddle. Commonwealth Games gold medallist, Olympic bronze medallist and one of the great Kiwi riders. He had just retired and married an Italian. We planned a quiet beer. Bruce could not believe I would even consider sneaking out during a Grand Tour.

We met at a pub, had a great night, and on the way back I heard music coming from another hotel. “One more,” I said. As I slid up to the bar, who do I lock eyes with. Florent. He just shook his head. “Go to bed.” Bruce nearly fell off his stool laughing.

Finding form, losing skin and the Tour de Suisse

By the final week I was actually riding well. I got in a three man break that looked like it might go all the way until we all crashed on a steep descent. Two of us remounted, but the bunch eventually swallowed us.

Florent then informed me I would be riding the Tour de Suisse, which started only days after the Giro finished. I told him I needed to get back to Belgium to sort out family stuff. He was not thrilled, but he let me go.

I flew back, returned two days later, and somehow finished second in the prologue, which was actually a criterium, and then second to Roger De Vlaeminck in a stage. I complained I was under geared. The response. “You do not beat Roger.”

A few weeks later at the GP Dortmund, I won the bunch sprint for fourth, beating De Vlaeminck and Sean Kelly. The final kilometre was chaos. The bunch surged toward a parked car. I missed it by inches. Patrick Sercu, on my wheel, did not. Straight through the back window. Horrific crash. Years later, at the Eddy Merckx factory, they had his mangled bike on display. The frame held together perfectly.

That race also introduced me to a young Adrie van der Poel. We chased together to reach the leaders. He was frighteningly strong. His son Mathieu turned out alright too.

No shortcuts

I thought I had beaten the system. Ride the Giro unfit, survive, then hit peak form for Switzerland. But it was basically a five week Grand Tour. My body eventually sent the bill. I got sick during the Tour of Germany and never fully recovered that season.

Freddy Maertens and the world title masterpiece

The Worlds were in Prague. Freddy Maertens approached me for help during the Tour of Germany. The Belgian team had lost faith in him after a crash ridden year, but he had just won five stages and the green jersey at the Tour. At his best, Freddy was the best I ever raced against. In 1978 and 1979 he won twenty eight Grand Tour stages including 13 stages and outright victory in the Vuelta.

Freddy approached me again in Prague and as I had just recovered from illness and knew I would not finish the race, I agreed to help. Wayne Hildred, a Kiwi turned Aussie was Freddy’s teammate on Bouled d’Or and the team paid his way to support him. The day before the race, Wayne was riding with Freddy climbing the finishing hill in a fifty three thirteen without touching the pedals. He was flying. That night after dinner the team had obviously came on board to all ride for Freddy and Wayne said the team manager announced Freddy will win.

On race day, my job was simple. Stay near Freddy and help where needed. When he jumped across to the leaders, I knew he had it. He won his second world title.

At the airport he thanked me and said we would settle up at our next race. Then he got invited to a bigger event in Spain. I never saw the money. When I caught up with him at the 2019 Tour Grand Depart in Brussels, we had a good laugh about it.

A family road trip for the ages

After the Worlds, I had promised Kaye a quick European holiday. We had two Aussie mates staying with us, so naturally they came too. Problem. We had a tiny Volvo and four kids. Dean ten months, Bree three, Matthew seven and Lisa nine.

Night one. Nice. No hotels. We slept in a car park overlooking the coast. Kaye and I in the front seats, Dean on the floor, Bree on the parcel shelf, Robbie and Lisa in the back, Fletch and Matthew in the boot. In the morning, a stray dog had joined the boys in the boot.

Night two. Turin. Gianni Savio put us up in a beautiful hotel. Spirits lifted. He tried to convince Kaye to stay another week so I could race Lombardia. He even offered his mountain chateau. Kaye listened politely, then delivered her verdict. “No f***en way.” Gianni passed away late last year and I will miss our annual catch up. I remember Dan Jones interviewing Gianni on the first Detour movie. Gianni said that with another head I could be a big big champion.

Night three. Lugano. Again, no rooms. I found an old hotel near the station. Locked. I knocked. A German Shepherd launched at me. The owner appeared, half asleep, and after some desperate pleading he let us stay by climbing a fence, passing the kids up to a balcony, and crawling through a window into what turned out to be an ensuite shared with another family. We climbed back out the next morning.

Nationals, the Sun Tour and the end

Back in Australia, my form returned. I was chasing a fourth straight national road title in Mildura. Five of us hit the finish together. Tony McCaig, David Dumps Allan, Peter Bulldog Besanko, Clyde Sefton and me. Bulldog attacked, Clyde chased, I tried to box Dumps in, we tangled, and Clyde got the jump. I closed the gap but had to settle for second.

The Sun Tour was my final race. I injured my knee after Nationals and could barely pedal. I somehow won the opening stage into Bacchus Marsh, outsprinting Clyde and Dumps, but the pain was too much. I abandoned on day two. My teammate Shane Sutton still reckons I am weak as piss.

And that was 1981. I planned to return in 1983, but a high-speed disagreement with a tree left me with a shattered left foot and a long road back.

My final year as a pro was not polished or perfect. It was chaotic, funny, painful and unforgettable. Which, in hindsight, makes it the most me season I ever had.

Nice to see that Wayne Hildred has forgiven me for the slow wheel change that cost him a third Aussie road title in 1986. Wayne has never stopped competing and I was fortunate enough to see him win the 70+ World Masters Championship in Lorne last year.