grumpyf1

Every hero needs a villain. Two British sports stars have recently found out the hard way that their friendly rivals are anything but. I may not be an expert on the Tour de France, but I do know how much falling off a bicycle hurts. Teenage years spent larking around on two wheels left their marks, but my top speed would look like I was a slow-motion replay, compared to the rate the skinny-wheeled professionals go. Which is precisely why I feel for Chris Froome. When I parted company with my ride, or went over the handlebars because I inadvertently put my foot in the spokes of my front wheel (true story), I largely hurt my pride and got a few grazes. When Chris was elbowed sideways into the barriers at high speed, he didn’t have the 1970s armour that is a sturdy pair of flared jeans and a hand-knitted tank top. His flimsy Lycra was scant protection as he bounced along the road, and I can confirm no-one ever cycled across my head, either. Froome apparently “gets on well” with ...