Teams & Riders Chris Froome Discussion Thread.

[Rackham]

So he crashed and no one knew about it for 24 hours? Don't Israel PT keep a check on their riders or at least someone in the Froome family knew, surely ... strange.

No, they knew but they only communicated about the crash 24 hours after it happened. That's the story anyway.

 

[Barnacle Bill]

David Walsh wrote a piece on Froome's career, now that it has perhaps been concluded, from the rides in Kenya to the clashes with Wiggo and onwards.

Behind a paywall, but this is a bit on the early days:

Of all the stories Chris Froome told about a childhood spent in Nairobi, none was more vivid or life-affirming than his recollection of training rides with his friend and mentor David Kinjah. Thirteen years older than Froome, Kinjah was the first black African rider to get a professional contract with a European team. In Italy they called him Leone Nero, the black lion.

On this particular morning, they set out from Mai-a-Ihii, to the west of Nairobi, where Kinjah lives in a small tin hut. He is 29, Froome is 16. They are headed for the Ngong Hills; down through Dagoretti, skirting the Kibiku Forest, past Ngong town and into the hills. Though Froome is raw and inexperienced, he thinks that on the hills, he can ride away from his friend.

Sometimes Kinjah lets him take four or five bike lengths before smilingly reeling him in. They come to Point Lamwia, where Karen Blixen, the author of Out of Africa, buried her lover Denys Finch Hatton, and though Froome should be taking in the view, he is thinking only of his prey and his eyes are fixed on the road beneath him. He is a dreamer, a slightly mad but very determined dreamer.

After about 120 kilometres they stop at Magadi, a small town in the Rift Valley. An hour or so later his mum, Jane, comes in her car with food and drinks. Kinjah tells him to put his bike in his mum’s car because the long ride home will be too much, but he knows his young friend is never going to do that. The kid thinks he can take the black lion on the way back.

It happens on a fissured and potholed descent. One particularly bad jolt and Froome’s helmet unclips, falling between them. Somehow it gets caught up in his mentor’s front wheel and poor Kinjah is now flying through the air, a dreadlocked missile landing on his elbows and knees. He leaves a lot of flesh and blood on the road. As for the kid, he wants to disappear into the fissure beneath his feet.

They return to Magadi, get to the local hospital, where the wounds are bandaged. For the night they rest in a cheap hotel on the shores of Lake Magadi. On the ride back the next day, Kinjah goes hard enough to make Froome forget his guilt and just want to beat him. Kinjah, though, is really riding hard because he wants the kid to know there’s no easy route to get to where he wants to get to.