Since I remember some here enjoying the Interview translations (Carols especially) during the Tour last year I have tried another thing. I have found the article that Lora, Primož's girlfriend wrote before his first Tour in 2017 (where he ended up winning that Galibier stage). Obviously it was only written in Slovene but I always liked reading it and I wanted to give other people an opportunity to read it as well. The translation is mine so it might not be perfect at all times (especially since translating certain phrases is not always possible) but it is certaintly better than google translate. So here you go. Enjoy.
My boyfriend is going to take part in the Tour the France
Author: Lora Klinc, June 2017
At about the same time five years ago Primož wanted to win the Maraton Alpe, a recreative cycling event (in Slovenia). Now he is going to the Tour, the biggest race in the world.
I've always liked all that is French. Perhaps due to the fact that I am a bit of a Frenchwoman myself, my granny comes from a stony village Sospel above Menton, perhaps because I like the nonchalance and »je ne sais quoi«, or perhaps becuase of the cheese and wine. And Le Tour – I have known the names of mythical climbs already as a schoolgirl watching the fights of pink Ullrich and yellow Lance – Tour is France, more French than the stinkiest French cheese, Tour is like Eifell, barettes and fois gras mixed together. The French know how to live, spectacles and exagerations are written in their genes. How much enjoyement there is on the other side of the fence, I do not know, but since it is the race of all races, probably none what so ever. On one side of the fence, there will be me, on the other my Primož who will start his first Tour de France.
The thought that not so long ago seemed ridiculous now promises more an more. I can imagine that while there are still doubts, it is definitely not a story about a miracle. When someone says »It is not possible«, I could not care less anymore. If every day is like being on the edge of a miracle, then so be it. In the end I am the one who is counting the days without him. I got used to the fact that doping control knocking on the door replaced my alarm clock and that Christmas and Sundays do not exist. Everyone asks where he is and they don't understand why he is not always here. Filling up bidons is a routine, as is pretending to understand his stories about watts. You learn to respect and protect cyclists on the road, because you know that for someone else he could be »yours«. It is not just departures and airports, the definition of simple things is… simply different in the view of professional cycling.
This year is all about the Tour and Tour ahead of everything. Such a long race can be a problem even for a spectator, especially if my memory about the Giro d'Italia last year includes three weeks of digestion issues, heart rythm problems, trouble recognizing the right guy in the pack and downhills – downhills are horrible. He was on the ground five times in the Giro. The fifth time you run out of words to ease the wounds.
Last day with him on the altitude training camp in Sierra Nevada. The landscape barren, stone blocks sticking up into the air that is not there. Granada at the foot of the mountain is covered with fog due to the immense heat. I sit on the artificial grass in the middle of the athletic stadium at 2350 meters, hangover from the altitude, avoiding snakes, daily hikes at 3600m and 8 degree Celsius ice baths into which the psycho throws an aditional two bags of ice »Because it's good for the legs«.
It can't harm I think to myself as I immerse myself into the water – the shock that follows shows once again what a difference there is between a cyclist and a non-cyclist, serves me right, why am I even listening to him… the gentleman, whos head I would most dearly like to separate from his shoulders right now, is sitting in the ice water and explaining something about Titanic and the only sign of discomfort I notice is that he is slighlty holding the edge of the bath. I shake my head, wave my hand at him and leave, why the f*ck do I need to do that…
The stadium – I am in the middle and the only other person on it next to me is Primož. On the track, where normal people run, he is doing countless rounds on his TT bike. Even though I wave at him every time so much that I nearly dislocate my shoulder, he does not notice me. Hunched over his bars he just follows the white line and by now I am used to it, thinking, well maybe this is all completely normal. Him, alone with his goal.
Before he went to Sierra to the training camp we went for a vacation. To France. I have imagined myself sitting in the sun with a good croissant, a hat and some bad French coffee. In that moment of joy I have forgotten what vacation means in a pro-cyclists dictionary. I don't believe I have mentioned yet that I am definitely not a cyclist myself. A bike with thin tyres has been in my possesion for less than half a year and I have done about as much kilometers as a random recreational cyclist does in a single week. Not to mentions clipping in the shoes, the broken dreams of every cycling beginer. Yet, here I am, on my May vacation, in a city halfway between Izoard and Galibier. Well done Lora, you got fooled again.
Right away he drags me to Izoard on the first day of our »vacation«, and I am cursing him with words that I cannot even say because I am so out of breath, while he laughs at me like crazy. The next day the plan is – of course – Col du Galibier – THE climb of the Tour this year. What can I do, I just go.
I have tried to imagine how it will all look later, when these roads will change into gladiator arenas, fight for survival. The climbs have been there forever and the mountain is stronger than the man. And between the man and the mountain – there is always only road. The peaks that are not only names any more are nervous and the sun shines differently at 2700 meters.
When the valley starts closing from all sides I notice a sign that marks kilometers to the top. While also looking at some horses I almost fall over the bike when I see the number »30«. 30 kilometers to the top of Galibier. Great, absolutely great. Even though is stop constantly for random selfies with marmots, I know deep down I will never give up before the top.
Not caring about my mental fortitude the climb still seems infinite and when I ask myself for the hundreth time why am I even goin up there I finally meet my beloved snow, sun and Primož. He says that the top of the Galibier is closed, too much snow, be he went around and then down to the valley and up to Alpe d'Huez and back. Sometimes I ask myself if he is even normal… I drag myself up to Lautaret where the sun is shining and the sky is as blue as in a fairytale. And then down, the downhill is from stage 17, the kamikaze from Kisovec goes ahead, with such speed that I cannot even look at him. I hold my brakes so much that in the end I cannot even stop because my finger has a cramp.
If your brain is made the way that proves useful in the end, well then half is forgiven. And if you are doing it for the Tour, then the other half is forgiven as well. No one is counting all the intervals anymore, all the blisters on the balls, moments of hunger and sleepless nights with a cooked engine. No one on the other side of the fence cares about destroyed hips, metal screws in collarbones, stages where you cannot bluff, grim faces in the Dolomites or on Vršič pass, or under the Izoard. Because it is about the Tour. And the Tour decides who is worthy and who is not. All that matters is what color you bring to Paris. There are a lot of races. But Tour is the Tour. For some a wonderful portal to imortallity, for other a sinking ship, fot the viewers a special joy and for the French – who would know…
Now it is almost time. I am shaking off expectations and fear but looking forward to the unknown at the same time. No one knows what will happen and whatever happens will be okay. There is no romance in cycling, but there is a lesson – not to stop until you cross the finish line. How much blood do those guys on the startlist spit out every day…
At about the same time five years ago Primož wanted to win Maraton Alpe. Whenever we ride over Črnivec he talks to me about his first solo escape that was sucessful. He won that day. Now he is going to the Tour, the biggest race in the world. For a little Slovenian, who begged if he could become a cyclist five years ago, it is a really big thing.
And if I connect the conclusion to his previous sport and our legendary snow queen, Planica (ski jumping hill) where it all began and ended, you will definitely understand if I write: »No one can jump over 200, they yelled…«