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 trial—it was too long to be called a prologue, they decided—there was a flat stage across the reclaimed lands that give the Netherlands its name, finishing on an island. I knew there would be crosswinds, and, bizarrely, the predictions about helping Alberto came true, as we were both alert enough to make sure we were in the front split. It was a good day for the team, who smashed it hard on the front in lashing rain and gale-force winds, and also for Sky, and we drove it between us for Alberto and Froome. By the finish, Quintana and Nibali had lost a minute, and I felt free to contest the sprint. It was a tight one, going to a photo, but Andre Greipel’s tire touched the line before mine, and I had my first second place.
After guiding Alberto over the pavé as promised with plenty of effort but no real incident, I finished second in the sprint again, this time to John Degenkolb, who was having an incredible season, winning both Milan–San Remo and then Paris–Roubaix on these same cobbles. Unfortunately for both of us, we were only sprinting for second place on the stage, as Tony Martin had clipped off the front of the hard-core group that remained in contention with a few kilometers to go, and we just couldn’t catch him. He took the stage and the yellow jersey with it. Another near miss for me, but I wasn’t worried. The chances would come.
Like the next day, when I was second to Andre Greipel again.
And the next day, when I was second to Zdeněk Štybar.
Actually, that one really hurt. Well, it didn’t hurt me as badly as it hurt Tony Martin, who was in a crash within sight of the line. The yellow jersey has no more padding than any other, and it couldn’t prevent his collarbone from cracking, leaving his heart as broken as his clavicle. Of course, I didn’t know he was hurt at the time; there was just a mess of riders everywhere and a chance to win a stage. But first we had to catch Štybar, who’d jumped himself into a handy lead just as the Lycra hit the tarmac. Well before that day and continuing to this, whenever there’s chasing to be done, it seems everybody looks at me. Seriously? I still don’t really get it. It had already been demonstrated on a few painful occasions in this race that there were other sprinters capable of beating me, and they had powerful teams to help them. But no, let’s wait and let Sagan chase. I was beginning to get a bit fed up, so I sat up and invited somebody else to chase Štybar. There were only a few hundred meters to go: If we didn’t get together and chase together, he would win. We didn’t. He did. And guess what? Yes, I was second. I was thinking of getting a new jersey made. Most second places. The brown jersey, maybe.
I wasn’t second the next day. I was third. Second loser, I suppose. To make up for it, I found myself second in the G.C., so I could keep my imaginary brown jersey.
Second in the sprint again the next day, stage 8, to Alejandro Valverde on the slopes of the Mur-de-Bretagne, but we were both outdone by two late attackers anyway. At least I was consistent, I suppose, but it was getting pretty frustrating. By consolation, that consistency meant that I wouldn’t have to wear my notional brown jersey the following day, as I’d nicked enough points off Greipel to get my favorite Robin Hood–colored jersey back. Rob the rich to give to the poor? The way things were going, I bet if I ran the Sheriff of Nottingham’s coach off the road, I’d get to the treasure chest and find Greipel or Cav had already helped themselves.
A week went past. We did a team time trial. We climbed the Pyrenees. I slipped out of the top 10, unsurprisingly, but I still had the green jersey. For a while, I’d also held the white jersey of best young rider overall. Some people found it hard to believe that I still qualified
