‘We are not cyclists we are professionals’
Jacques Anquetil (?)
Back in the old days. The not so good old days, the Tour de
France was a war of attrition. Henri Destrange, the founder of the race, said
that his ideal Tour would be where only one man finished. The early tours were
designed with this in mind. They were made so difficult, inhumanly difficult,
so that it would be last man standing.
Stages were hundreds and hundreds of miles long, over
mountain passes that were little more than tracks cut into the hill by sheep.
Stages could last upwards of 24 hours. There are tales of riders quitting the
race because they were so scared of being attacked by bears in the mountains.
Riders rode fixed wheel bikes, the road illuminated by
candle lanterns on their forks. They had two gears, to change gear they had to
flip the back wheel round. To call it tough would be an understatement, it was
sadistic.
It is little surprise that the competitors were pretty much
exclusively drawn from the lower echelons of society. Why would you put
yourself through that unless you absolutely had no choice?
It is little wonder that when faced with such a challenge
riders would resort to what ever means that would get them through the race,
some early winners were disqualified when they hopped on a train during a
stage, others banned when they were caught being towed behind a car. The car
had a tow rope with corks on the end of it so that the riders cold hold on with
their teeth.
Then there were the drugs. Drugs weren’t banned in those
days. Although they weren’t so much performance enhancing as performance allowing.
Forget any Corinthian spirit, these guys were putting themselves through hell,
not for glory, not to seek fame, not for some idealised notion of sporting endeavour,
but through their pain and through their sweat they hoped to earn enough money
to raise themselves out of poverty. They were in it to win it and would do
whatever it took.
The Tour has always been a commercial endeavour. It was
originally founded to boost sales of a failing newspaper, L’Auto. The famous
yellow jersey comes from the colour of the pages of the paper.
It has improved through time, but even on the day that Tom
Simpson died on the Ventoux in 1967 riders were not allowed more than 2 bottles
of water. They had a team around them and part of the responsibility of their
domestiques was to go on bar raids – ride ahead of the leaders and literally
raid bars to try and get whatever drinks they could, often only alchohol was
available. When Simpson died, he had a cocktail of amphetamines and alcohol
coursing through his blood. He was badly dehydrated and that was only partly
due to the stiflingly hot Provencial sun, one of the last things he supped on
was a bottle of brandy.
There is something mawkish about us, the spectators glorying
in the suffering of the athletes. We (and I use ‘we’ advisedly) demand ever
more difficult courses to encourage drama and produce excitement.
I can’t, and I would never condone drug taking in the
peleton, but having ridden these hills (ridden and not raced, mind you, and
there is a huge difference) and cycled day after day, I can certainly understand
the need for a helping hand, whatever its source. And what if your livelihood,
and those of your family depended on your performance?
As soon as you introduce money into sport you remove all that
is good and noble about it. To think otherwise is naive. You cease to be
sportsman when you become a professional.
We are now in the closing stages of the tour and the thing that
has struck me is how it ebbs and flows. Although I have a confession that I am
not sure the difference between an ebb and a flow, so I am never sure if we are
in an ebb or if we are in a flow.
We started in Corsica with three tough stages, then the pressure
eased as we back to the mainland then gradually increased until we reached the
Pyreneees. Where it built to a crescendo. Then we had the TT and the long flat
stages to the Ventoux. Again the tempo of was gradually increased until by the
time we hit the slopes of ‘The Giant’ we were at fever pitch again.
Then a rest day, a transition stage today and a time trial
tomorrow, slowly building once more until we hit the mountains once more for an
Alpine triple whammy. These promise to be the three most difficult days that I
have had on a bike.
Today was a gorgeous stage. We climbed back out of Provence, the fruit groves being replaced by lavender fields then pine forest as we progressively
climbed higher. Looking back we were treated to spectacular views of the
Ventoux, before descending once more through the most magnificent gorge and
then the Alpes loomed into view. Rising snaggle toothed, from the valley floor.
Today was supposed to be an ‘easy day’, a transition from
Ventoux to the Alpes. However, I felt terrible on the bike. Perhaps it was the
rest day previously, perhaps the after effects of the Ventoux, or maybe the oppressive,
thundery atmosphere, however for the first time my legs felt heavy and I could
not get comfortable on the bike. I felt tired, lethargic and could not wait for
the stage to end. There was a climb at the end of the stage where I tried to
ride my legs back into form, by going hard. Did it work? I guess I will find
out tomorrow.
I will tell you this though. Had someone offered me something
to get me through today, to ease the pain in my legs and the discomfort on the
bike, I wouldn’t have taken it, but I would have thought about thinking about
it. It’s just as well my bad day happened on an ebb rather than a flow, or
maybe it’s the other way round…
From Gap
N This kinda encapsulates what I was trying to say above.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=h7wPa1Hl5ZA
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