In the press room every day at the Tour de France, on the rows of TVs interspersing the rows of folding tables, the footage at race-end cuts to the VeloClub post-stage wrap-up show. Around a glossy white table that looks like a Turkmen television set, the talking heads of France’s cycling coverage discuss the beats of the day’s racing: the highs, and the lows, and the interviews, and the weird spinny wheel segment where they choose a rider that they’re going to interview the next day.
Normally this is basically an hour of moving pictures with the sound off – just something to look at while tapping away on the day’s stories. But today there was something particularly fun on the screens: slow motion replays, over and over again, of Lenny Martinez on the Col du Glandon getting handed a water bottle, returning it, getting another, returning that, followed by a ludicrous pantomime of failing to grasp a drink bottle for a third time.
It got funnier with each repetition – not just Martinez's repeated grabs, but especially when interspersed with sober mutterings of TV hosts, none of whom appeared willing to recognise its silliness. “Look at our brave spotty boy,” I liked to imagine them tutting. “Look at him, debasing himself at the Tour de France.”
Exhibit A.
Exhibit B.
Exhibit C.
The sticky bottle, as it is called, is one of cycling’s more whimsical ways of cheating. It’s not the product of drugs or gizmos. It is blindingly simple, almost slapstick. You get passed a drink bottle from your team car. You hold onto the bottle for a little bit while the car accelerates, under the pretence that you are really just locking in on a firm grip.
Cars, you might note, are powered by motors in a way that cyclists’ legs are not; therein lies the blinding brilliance of this life hack. For a few seconds, your strength is multiplied by the power of many horses: enough time to bridge back onto a wheel, if you’ve dropped it, or blaze your way to a decisive advantage.
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