Dutch sportswriter, Nando Boers, and Pedro Horrillo, a Spanish cyclist riding for the Dutch Rabobank team, conceived the idea at the end of 2008 of corresponding regularly via email throughout the coming season. They would exchange thoughts about the racing, the results and events in the professional cycling world.
Dutch sportswriter, Nando Boers, and Pedro Horrillo, a Spanish cyclist riding for the Dutch Rabobank team, conceived the idea at the end of 2008 of corresponding regularly via email throughout the coming season. They would exchange thoughts about the racing, the results and events in the professional cycling world.
Dutch sportswriter, Nando Boers, and Pedro Horrillo, a Spanish cyclist riding for the Dutch Rabobank team, conceived the idea at the end of 2008 of corresponding regularly via email throughout the coming season. They would exchange thoughts about the racing, the results and events in the professional cycling world.
Amigo Nando, Fortunately I am still alive, although I dont show much sign of it. You were able to confrm that for yourself, some months ago, and I very much appreciate your visit. Yesterday I saw that you had telephoned me. I couldnt take it at that moment; I was too busy with those two noisy little devils that I have as children and I thought Id call you back later. And later there was no time, or rather, when there was time it was at a pretty ungodly hour. Ill call tomorrow, I said to myself. And the following day, that is today, I was embarrassed to call I ought to have given signs of life far sooner. Here I am, my friend, half a year after the catastrophe. Perhaps I ought to introduce myself; not because I think you wont remember who I am, but because I believe the person now writing to you is a different person from the one before. I answer to the same name and surname that has not changed but so many things in my life have changed in so short a time that luckily and I have pondered on that a good deal I am a quite different person from who I was. Today Im not going to go on at much length now is not the right time but I am going to sketch out the reason for my silence. A silence which, needless to say, I am only too pleased to break but I dont have the time to do so. I hope that will come some day. I remember that when I was in hospital I asked for my computer, with the idea of taking advantage of the time I had to do certain things, one of them being to write, but it proved impossible. What with the visits from doctors and nurses and from friends, and then with the tiredness and the pain of my injuries and the emotion of all that was happening I didnt fnd the concentration I needed to start relating certain things. It was still all too recent, and something inside was telling me that I ought to wait to get a better perspective on them. After some weeks they discharged me and I returned home. Theres no need to talk about that since you saw it with your own eyes and will already have drawn your own conclusions. 62 Then began the lengthy process of rehabilitation, which I am still immersed in, and the dynamic of getting back to normality. Since then so many things have happened, so many things to relate whats more, and I never have the chance to begin spelling them out. And the pile keeps on growing and growing, and I am afraid that much of it is going to get forgotten, so I am anxious to fnd the peace and quiet, and the time, to set it down in writing, but that moment is proving hard to get. I live the life of a house husband. Cooking? I certainly dont cook much, but the time left to me after rehabilitation I use mainly in looking after the children, and thats a hugely exhausting task, even if a totally gratifying one. I have many letters of yours waiting to be answered and I promise Ill do so meticulously. The frst dates from 14 April what times they were which you wrote a few days after my last Roubaix. Little more than half a year has gone by, but it feels like a lifetime. I believe I told you something of my experience with morphine in Bergamo. I hope I can still remember the day I was put on it, because there are some things there that really shouldnt be forgotten. I will tell you a bit at a time whats been happening, everything Ive experienced in this whirlpool that I fnd Ive been thrown into. The irony is that in spite of my complaining about not having enough time, I found the necessary strength and time from somewhere I dont know to write for El Pas every day throughout the Tour and the Vuelta a Espaa. When they suggested I did the Tour my frst reaction was to say no. I didnt feel up to it and I thought that Id never get it done. I set about it without much conviction, and realised that it wasnt as painful as I thought it would be. Furthermore, at times when I didnt feel at all like talking about what had happened that day, I could always fall back on talking about myself. In the end I came to realise that it was precisely that which was most satisfying. Later, during the Vuelta, and by then in a better state of health, I did the same. This time my columns were not published in the 63 paper, but on a blog which El Pas set up for me. It was a marvelous experience, above all for the feedback, for the chance to see peoples responses to what I wrote, and for the numerous messages of good will I received from my readers. Some told me about the tyranny of the blog having to reply to those who joined in. My problem once again was that I didnt have the time I really needed. I began with the notion that I would reply to the comments, and thats what I did, according to the time I had available. But in the fnal week I found it absolutely impossible, and I still feel bad about not giving any attention to those who participated in those last days. If any of them get to read this some day I hope they will understand. Well, my friend, Im not going to prolong this any further right now as Im depriving myself of hours of rest, and then I have to pay the price for that. It is one oclock in the morning of Thursday 26 November, or rather, it is now Friday 27. I hope youll be receiving a lot of my news in the coming days, and that all is well with you. I shall certainly call you tomorrow to say hello and to tell you to keep an eye on the post, since I have at last shown signs of life but I dont even know if I will have time to do that, and I assure you I am not exaggerating in the slightest. Best wishes from Abadio, now you know how to fnd it on the map, and please dont send me a reply because it really is my turn now. I send you a big embrace, now that I can do that, and I hope you will forgive me for all this delay. In any case, many thanks for your patience. Your friend Pedro Durango, 25 April 2010 Ciao amigo, We spent the past few days in the Basque Country, the two of us, and we made a long bike tour, we ate and we drank. In order not to forget those days together, I wrote a report for you and me. Forgive me if my writing style is perhaps too journalistic; thats part of me, 64 its my way of saying something about the reality we experienced together. I write: We drink beer in a caf owned by a friend of Pedros. We talk for a long time. Its a year after the crash. I really hope you like it, amigo, my account of those days. Here we go: In the storage room below your apartment in Abadio, next to the training bikes and the mountain of old baguettes for the donkeys, this unopened suitcase had been waiting for months. I wasnt afraid to open it, you tell me, but still I didnt want to. Somehow you shied away from looking at the remains of a life before the crash. You put your bottle of beer back on the cafe table. You had left the suitcase untouched for four months, but then one day you clicked open the lid, almost without being aware of it. The smell that came from it reminded me of the race, you say. Memories were coming back, because of the novels you had taken along to Italy, the newspaper of the day before and the road book with the route and the stage profles. Everything you had put in the suitcase on that fateful morning you saw again for the frst time four months later. You tell me how you took the objects in your hands again, inhaled their odour. That indescribable hotel room smell, the aroma wafting from the clothes you had been wearing in the restaurants where you had dinner with your team mates after the stage was done. You had already told me about the book you had been reading during the Giro. Now you saw it again: 2666 by Roberto Bolao. The Spanish soigneur Joseba had later handed it to Lorena. You told me that you had asked Lorena to bring you that book in hospital. You had just woken up from your coma. You tell me: I fancied that book more than the bike. You didnt get very far. You tell me that in the Pamplona hospital you never got beyond the page where you had stopped reading on 17 May 2009 in Italy. You say: My thoughts always drifted away after two minutes. On one page, in chapter 3, Bolao describes the murder of a woman. Joseba had looked on which page I was. He was shocked. That woman had also fallen into a ravine. Coincidence doesnt exist when it happens. 65 You know, you say while you put the beer bottle back on the table, Culmine di San Pietro: Culmine means summit, but it also refers to the elevation you can achieve in a spiritual sense, the maximum. But also: the fnish. And Pietro is my name in Italian. I ask what you think is the meaning of it all. You: Do you remember that you told me this story about the racing driver Niki Lauda last year? That after his near fatal crash he started smoking marihuana in an attempt to release hidden memories? Maybe I will do that, too, at some point. Maybe, you know. Lorena doesnt fnd these stories the least bit entertaining, you say. She prefers not to talk about the hospital. She still cant bear to be reminded of her fear that on arrival in Bergamo they would tell her that her husband had died. Lorena and I are at a different level sometimes, you say. Ive changed. Theres a big difference from last year, when we met at your home the day after you had been released from hospital, you in a wheelchair and your neck and chest immobilised with a corset. Your movements were shaky. So too was that orthopedic brace around your neck, and that corset around your back and chest. People from the village wanted to touch you, the strong athlete who was in a wheelchair and drank lemonade. Their fngers touched your shoulders hesitantly, cautiously, feetingly, as if their village neighbour was in danger of falling to pieces. Earlier that evening at the dining table with a glass of fzzy water you said: Cheers, to paracetamol. Out of boredom you occasionally watched a cycling race in those days. Cycling is not part of me now, you said. Im trying to recover, so that I can at least lead a normal life again. After that comes the time to think about cycling. We were standing on the balcony, the children and your wife were inside, asleep. We talked about the water level in the river, about the mountain tops we could vaguely discern. The church bells chimed very loudly, eleven times, the moon was a crescent. You pointed down and said that the ground foor was also part of the property. Thats where the bikes are. And my suitcase from the Giro. 66 You had yet to open that suitcase. The memories of the crash were actually not that important to you. You fell silent for a moment. Then: I could have ended up in a wheelchair for the rest of my life. In the ravine you had landed on a slab of rock, 80 metres down. You told me that the mountaineers who found you after half an hour could see from the blood trail (you lost two litres) that you had somersaulted several times. That slab one metre by two had broken your left leg in several places and crushed your knee cap, but had saved your life. Below the slab there was a drop again: 20 metres deep. You would never have survived yet another tumble. That visit of mine was in June 2009. Now its almost ten months later. You continue your story in the bar. There was a time when you were blown around by the winds of popular opinion, or by what others thought of you. Now your mental strength has increased: you care far less about what people think of you, because when you were hovering between life and death that simply wasnt important. You say, paraphrasing a Spanish saying, that youre more and more inclined to accept your own circumstances, and whats going on around you. Most people dont fnd themselves there, you say. Of course youve gained an interest in the facts of the crash. Im curious, you say. You feel the need to talk to riders who were nearby at that near fatal moment. The Cervlo sprinter, Jeremy Hunt, was also in the group that was left behind by the peloton near the summit. Hunt saw me crash, you say. Jos van Emden, who couldnt keep up with me in the climb, thought during the descent: why, hes going fast. I also remember that after three curves I let a Quick Step rider pass me on the inside. An Italian, Davide Malacarne. I recall that he made a steering error and that things almost went wrong. You learned what the Quick Step riders from your former team talked about that evening at the dinner table. Apparently you didnt go into a nosedive like an airplane, but tried desperately to hold on to the crash barrier, until you were pulled into the deep by your own weight. 131 132 133 134 139 140