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Why I Love the Tour de
France By
Rick Walters “Race ya!” Just about any kid who ever hopped on a bicycle has ventured that gleeful, hopeful outburst. A tiny percentage of them grow up and never lose that urge for competitive, self-propelled speed, attempting to become professional racers. Among them, only the most elite men earn the honor of being one of the 198 cyclists who begin the Tour de France each July, the most grueling of the planet’s major sporting events. The Tour de France spans 21 days of racing, covering more than 2,000 miles of mountain climbs and flat roads, with one ultimate result. Every other sporting event--a marathon, a three-day cricket match, a seven-game World Series--is brief in comparison. Racers must finish each stage or be disqualified. At least a full quarter of those who start usually can’t finish, whether due to injury or fatigue. None of the other professional stage races in the world are equal to the length and demands of the Tour. It is not only the ultimate test in cycling, it is among the most epic of human endeavors. Even the rider placed last on the final day, dubbed the lanterne rouge, earns respect for just completing the entire course. The supreme glory of a Tour victory is not a common daydream among Americans, certainly not like the proverbial two-outs-in-the-bottom-of-the-ninth home run or the 20-seconds-left touchdown pass. If they are aware of the race, most think of it as a rarified European à la carte specialty next to a crowded plate of meat and potatoes team sports. In this, the age of Lance, awareness of the Tour in the U.S. has grown to be sure. Still, it’s unusual to encounter another enamored Tour fan. We latch onto one another, relieved to find an enthusiastic ear. Professional team cycling is a complex sport, full of strategy. Yes, team cycling. While each cyclist officially races individually, the Tour consists of 22 teams of nine riders. Teams are usually constructed around a leader, the racer with the best chance at winning the maillot jaune (yellow jersey), the lowest total time at the end of the three weeks, or the smaller honor of being a stage winner. The domestique’s job is to help the leader do his best, whether it means scuttling him water bottles or Power Bars, or allowing him to draft behind for long stretches, or chasing down a threatening rider who breaks from the peloton, the large group of cyclists spaced just feet apart that tends to form. The cycling lingo is seemingly endless, steeped in decades-long tradition. There are rather odd protocols peculiar to bike-racing. (It is forbidden to attack while a rider is urinating, for instance.) Additionally, points are awarded by referees for designated sprints and climbs, accumulating in individual and team distinctions. But a new fan doesn’t need to intimately understand any of it to catch the bike-racing bug. (For interested readers, an excellent primer can be found here.) The thrill of the chase, universally understood, is enough to get started. More available American television coverage wouldn’t hurt, though. Casual cyclists ride at an average speed of perhaps roughly 10 miles an hour or so. Diligent hobbyists work up to average speeds of up to 18 to 20 miles an hour or so. At the Tour de France level, the average speed, sustained over hours of riding in a day, can be more than 30 miles an hour or more, burning as much as 6,000 calories. Mountain descents can hit more than 60 miles an hour! Danger is an obvious, ever present possibility. More than one professional cyclist has lost his life on a French road. Broken bones due to an unfortunate crash are common to every Tour. Racers are extremely vulnerable, with fans lining the road, barely making room for the racers at times. Anything can happen, and it does. The great Greg Lemond, the 1986, '99 and '90 Tour champion, was the high-profile American pioneer who cracked the European-dominated event. Like many other U.S. cycling fans, my love of the Tour started with the ultra-determined Lemond, whose final two victories came after a horrible gunshot accident that left him nearly dead, requiring an amazing recovery. Trying to follow the Tour in those pre-Internet days was maddening! Scraps of news were treasured like gold. Today Web sites such as www.cyclingnews.com or www.velonews.com (among several others) give nearly instant results. The Outdoor Life Network on cable, admittedly not available to all, provides the kind of daily, hours-long coverage we dreamed of years ago. It makes loving the Tour more fun than ever. Then there is The Man, Lance Armstrong. His comeback from advanced cancer is one of the greatest inspirations in sports history. With four consecutive Tour wins, 1999-2002, even ESPN viewers know that he is presently pursuing a fifth victory, which would bring him equal to the four gods of the sport’s history. When I see him on those Subaru commercials, I still can’t quite believe that a cyclist has ascended to the highest level of celebrity athletes. A true Tour fan finds love and appreciation while riding a bicycle, struggling along sometimes, carried along in disbelief at the racers’ achievements. One September day in 2000 I had the chance to climb one of the legendary monuments of the Tour de France, Mont Ventoux in Provence, very often a key stage of the race. I was riding a fairly crappy rented hybrid, without even clipless pedals or decent toe straps, while on a weeklong gay group biking vacation. It was our “day off.” None of the others were up to it, but I was determined not to let the opportunity pass. So with Pierre, one of the guides, I started the more than two-hour ascent. It was unbelievably steep in the last kilometers, with a grade of up to 15%! I knew if I stopped I’d never get the bike going again, and walking was absolutely not an option. So I kept digging the pedals up the mountain, chanting a mantra to myself near the end: “allez! allez! allez!” When I finally reached the summit, with tears in my eyes from exhaustion and awe, there was only one thought screaming through my head: “I Love the Tour de France!” Rick Walters is a cycling fan whose riding is limited to overnight road trips, charity rides and club centuries. July 16, 2003 |