Rough Ride (33 page)

(67) Steegmans (Davitamon-Lotto team). Crashed after 145 kilometres; multiple abrasions to left hand and right arm.

(48) Wrolich (Gerolsteiner team). Persistent respiratory problems; pain in his left knee.

(103) DeJongh (Quick-Step team). Light-headed due to the heat.

(133) Casper (Cofidis team). Light-headed due to the heat.

(13) O'Grady (CSC team). Digestive problems.

(114) Dean (Credit Agricole team). Digestive problems.

(123) Etxebarria (Euskaltel team). Digestive problems.

(63) Brandt (Davitamon-Lotto team). Insect bite.

(175) Geslin (Bouygues team). Insect bite.

(87) Tiralongo (Lampre team). Pain in right knee.

(37) Gerrans (AG2R team). Pain in right knee.

Several riders have been complaining about the severity of the race. On Thursday, after a hard day in the Pyrenees, it was Tom Boonen, the world road-race champion. 'They want to fight against doping,' he said, 'but then they give us a stage like this.' This evening it was Bradley Wiggins. 'I don't know why the riders don't make a stand,' he said.

Someone needs to explain to them that the legend of the Tour was built on pain and suffering. '
Vous êtes des assassins,'
Octave Lapize screamed at the organisers after the Tour's first visit to the mountains in 1910. And almost a century later, nothing much has changed . . . nor should it. What Wiggins detests about the race now, he will love should he survive to Paris. He will have passed the ultimate test.

It is twenty years since I first raced the Tour. And twenty years since I was first introduced to the sounds of the Kama Sutra. I'm referring to Paris-Bourges in 1986 when a room-mate – let's call him Rex – invited a girl back to our room while I was sleeping, for a bout of creative humping that I had never imagined possible or come close to replicating since. I bumped into Rex during the rest day this afternoon. He was playing golf with Laurent Fignon on a course near the Col Bayard and he started joking as usual about our 'threesome': 'Tell Laurent how good I was, Polo,' he laughed. 'Three hours! And Polo asleep on the bed!'

Rex has put on a bit of weight (haven't we all) but remains as whacky as he was when we raced. 'Do you think there's as much doping in golf as is in cycling?' he asked.

'Not quite,' I smiled.

'Yeah, we
really
doped, didn't we?' he laughed.

For almost three weeks now, since the race left Strasbourg, I've been following the progress of twenty-four-year-old Frenchman Benoit Vaugrenard. He's the same age as I was when I rode my first Tour, and I was curious how his first Tour experience would compare with mine. Every day, I've stood at the finish and studied his face as he crossed the line. We both had a great first week and a tough second week but he definitely looked fresher than I did in 1986, today on L'Alpe d'Huez.

Tonight, by a stroke of luck, we stayed in the same hotel and I was able to enhance my notes. Some things haven't changed in twenty years: the weighing scales and waft of massage oil in the corridor; the silence as the racers catch a nap before dinner; the sheet with the room numbers pinned to the lift; the doors left ajar between rooms. But in other ways it's a completely different world. I used to wash my kit by hand between stages; Benoit gets his collected each night from his room. I used to load up with coffee each morning in the start village and meet the other riders for a chat; Benoit sucks on electrolyte drinks and sits on the team bus. But perhaps the greatest difference is our respective masseurs. Mine was Emile Thierry, a gruff, streetwise northern Frenchman, soaked in wintergreen from birth; Benoit is being rubbed back to life each night by the delightful Sophie Frennette. Now it could be that Sophie's hands are not as soothing as Emile's but she's certainly better-looking. And I can't help but wonder about the races I'd have won knowing she was waiting every day.

Does anyone recall that wonderful performance by Peter Finch in the 1970s movie,
Network?
He plays this ageing, TV anchorman called Howard Beale who goes on air one night and completely loses it. 'I want you to get up now,' he rages at viewers. 'I want all of you to get up right now and go to the window. Open it, and stick your head out and yell
"I'M MAD AS HELL AND I'M NOT GOING TO TAKE THIS ANYMORE
."'

You recall the performance? You remember the incredible rant? Well, tonight Howard Beale was me.

The worrying thing is that I'm still not sure how it happened. The sixteenth stage from Le Bourg-d'Oisans to the mountain-top finish at La Toussuire had just finished and I was crawling in a long queue of traffic back to my hotel when my mobile rang with a call from John Saunders, a presenter with the satellite TV station Setanta Sports, inviting me to contribute to the evening magazine show.

'I've been reading what you said about having no interest in the race,' he said.

'Well actually John, that's changed,' I replied. 'This has been the most interesting Tour de France for seventeen years. Did you watch the stage today? Fantastic. Floyd Landis exploded on the final climb and lost ten minutes!
TEN MINUTES
When is the last time we saw that happen to the yellow jersey in the Tour de France? I'll tell you John . . . I like a lot of what I'm seeing in this race. The robots are gone. Everyone is suffering. It reminds me of the way the sport used to be.'

'Okay, that's great,' he said. 'We can talk about your new-found enthusiasm then.'

'Yeah, but I'm still not sure I believe in everything I see.'

'Oh.'

I quote him a list of my reservations: the favourites who've performed like drones; the dopers who are still winning stages; some very strange decisions by the UCI.

'Okay, well we can discuss that as well but generally you're feeling positive about the race.'

'Yes, I like what I see.'

'Right,' he said, 'we'll call you tonight at half-eight.'

My mind started racing immediately. I was thinking 'Every time you waive your reservations and give the sport the thumbs up, another doping scandal erupts and it feels like a kick in the nuts.' Suddenly we were live on air and I was being prompted by John about my new, positive view on the race . . . except that I had reverted to my original position and was feeling sceptical again. He asked a question. I cut him off. I raged about the hypocrites and liars and cheats who had destroyed the sport. I was mad as hell and I wasn't going to take it anymore. The show ended. I felt awful. My career in big-bucks TV had just gone through the floor.

Good news! I've found an antidote for my cynicism; from now on I'm going to watch the Tour de France exclusively on Gee-Whizz TV – also known as OLN, the Outdoor Life Network. I watched Floyd Landis' amazing win today from one of their outside-broadcast units positioned just behind the finishing line and tonight I'm a changed man. They're fronted by the galacticos of cycling commentary – Phil 'The Voice' Liggett, Paul 'The Old Pro' Sherwen and Bob 'The Bobke' Roll – and you rarely hear those guys ranting about cheats or drugs. So if I can just get my act together, I feel sure I can turn this round. I've got to hike up my hyperbole and work on my enthusing. Repeat after me:
'FLOYD LANDIS IS AMAZING!'
. . . except that I don't believe it. Yesterday, when Landis exploded and went backwards on the slopes to La Toussuire, it reminded me of how bike racing is supposed to be. Today, after his Superman impression to Morzine, I can't believe my eyes again. After the stage, as I was walking back from Gee-Whizz TV, I bumped into a former pro I used to race with. 'Wasn't that fantastic?' he said.

'I don't believe it,' I replied.

'What do you mean?' he said.

'I think it's against the laws of nature to completely fold one day and to come out next day and blow everyone away.'

'What about the stage I won in 1987,' he said.

'What about it?' I asked.

'I'd taken a hammering the previous day.'

'Were you using cortisone [the performance booster of choice at the time]?' I asked.

He looked at me as if I'd stabbed him.

'Were you using cortisone?' I repeated.

'No,' he replied, stunned.

'Landis is using cortisone.'

'Yes, with the UCI's permission,' he countered. 'He has a problem with his hip.'

'And that's okay, is it?' I replied.

'What do you mean?'

'Why has he been given a free pass to use a performance enhancing drug to treat a hip problem?' I said. 'Surely, in the interests of fair and clean sport, there should be no free passes. Why bend the rules for Landis? His hip is sore? Let him take some time off and return when it is sorted. I've never seen anyone so unhealthy ride so fast!'

He looked at me as if I was mad.

Dead man cycling: for the last ten days that's what you've been. The latest stage winner? The Tour's leading climber? The new
maillot jaune?
Sorry, these things don't interest you when you're running on empty. Every afternoon is another spent on Calvary; every morning brings the dread of returning there again. The only thought in your head is closure, the end, Paris; until finally, at last, the glorious day arrives.

It begins with the same aches and pains as many others. You throw your heavy, weary legs across your immaculate, shiny bike and those first hundred miles are a grind. Then the final climb of the Tour – a modest third or fourth category on the outskirts of Paris – is crested and suddenly the tempo begins to rise.

The sight of the Eiffel Tower, perhaps the most beautiful thing you've ever seen, lifts you like a magic potion. Flesh bristling with goosebumps, you sweep onto the Place de la Concorde at sixty kilometres per hour and begin the final circuits on the Champs-Elysées. The surface of the avenue is bumpy and uneven. The peloton stretches into a long, snaking line but the strangest thing happens: for the first time in three weeks, you are pedalling without pain.

Those final circuits are the fastest you've ever raced until the bell sounds for the final lap and seven kilometres later it's over. An experienced team-mate embraces you with tears in his eyes. 'Now you know what it is to ride the Tour de France,' he says. Your father steps from the crowd and gives you a hug. You wonder if it's the happiest day of your life. It feels like you've won.

You shower and change for the closing ceremony where the mayor of Paris presents you with a medal. It gathers dust in a cupboard for years until it is discovered one afternoon by your son.

'What's this Dad?' he enquires.

'That's what they give you for finishing the Tour de France,' you reply.

'Cool,' he says. 'Where did you finish?'

'Paris,' you smile.

'No, I mean what place did you finish?'

'I finished,' you reply.

Tonight I sent a text to Bradley Wiggins: 'Bloody well done mate.' Yesterday's stage to Morzine was the last in the mountains and he's a cast-iron certainty now to finish in Paris. He doesn't normally reply to texts but ten minutes later my phone buzzed with a message: 'Thanks Paul, two beers at dinner makes it feel sweeter.' I like this guy. I really hope he enjoys Paris. 'Cheers Brad, you deserve it.'

As expected, Floyd Landis recaptured the yellow jersey this afternoon and will become the third American to win the race in Paris tomorrow. There's a chance I will have to write a profile of him for my newspaper next week. I begin my research with a superb essay called 'The Book of Floyd' by the American author, Dan Coyle (taken from his biography of Lance Armstrong). The portrait of Landis is fascinating: raised as a Mennonite (church three times a week, no TV, no sport, no dancing, no revealing clothing, no mingling with the unrighteous or coveting of worldly goods) in Farmersville, Pennsylvania, Landis' one temptation as a boy is a passion for racing a mountain bike that is soon raising eyebrows in the community.

At the age of sixteen, his parents take him aside one afternoon and issue a warning: 'If you continue competitive cycling your soul will burn for eternity.' It's Floyd's choice. He can rise with the righteous to eternal life with God or travel to hell with the unrighteous. Floyd thinks about it. Will God really send him to hell for racing his bike on Sunday? No, probably not. He decides to keep racing and soon demonstrates a knack for the zany – racing his bike downhill without tyres, taking naps on the pavement – that sets him apart.

'It was usually portrayed as run-of-the-mill eccentricity,' Coyle observes, 'that wacky Floyd, crazy like all those mountain-bikers. But, in fact, there was nothing the least bit eccentric about it. This was a purposeful, rational process. "It was as if," his former team-mate, Will Geoghagen, once said, "Landis had just been defrosted from some distant past and needed to figure out everything anew. His life was nothing so much as an experiment, one that might have been tided 'Reactions That Occur When an Unfrozen Mennonite Is Mixed With America'."'

At the age of twenty, Landis left home to begin a new life in California. He had never tasted coffee or had sex and had only seen one movie
(Jaws)
but he was soon one of the strongest mountain-bikers in the world. In 1999, he turned his attention to road racing and for seven years now we've been following another experiment: 'Reactions That Occur When an Unfrozen Mennonite Becomes a Professional Cyclist'.

This afternoon, after his race-clinching performance in the time trial at Montceau, Landis was asked a series of questions about the doping affair in Spain and the eviction of the two race favourites, Jan Ullrich and Ivan Basso. 'I don't know anything about that,' he said. When pressed on the issue again, he grew irritable: 'Look, as you keep asking, I'll say that it was an unfortunate situation and none of us got any satisfaction out of the fact that they weren't here. Have you got any questions about anything else?'