One might fairly trace this debate in modern times back to the 1936 Olympics to be held in Berlin. The US considered a boycott, due to concerns over Hitler’s racist policies, but the boycott was opposed by US sports official Avery Brundage, later the IOC president, who was adamant that political differences should not affect the Olympic ideal (“fine athletics and fine art”).

Brundage was later criticised for his pro-Nazi views but this did not prevent his acension in the IOC. His views of politics and sport would later surface when he strongly opposed the exclusion of Rhodesia from the 1972 Olympics, conflating it with the terrorist attack in Munich that year and arguing that after the hostage taking that: “The Games must go on…” In 1968 he ensured the suspension from the US team of sprinters Tommie Smith and John Carlos after they gave their Black Power salute on the podium following the 200 metre event. “They violated one of the basic principals of the Olympic Games. That politics play no part whatsoever in them,” he said. (Interestingly, the second place finisher, Peter Norman, also protested and wore an Olympic Project for Human Rights badge, attracting criticism but not suspension.)

Sport and politics mix at the 1968 Olympics.

Perhaps it is worth noting that Brundage was also a proponent of amateurism in sport, and was quoted saying that, “As soon as you take money for playing sport, it isn’t sport, it’s work.” He would certainly have been opposed to the commercial direction that the modern Olympics has taken – although the ‘amateurism’ of the Olympics was always rife with contradictions.

It may be a cliche to say that everything is political, but it is clear even from Brundage’s views that he was motivated by strong political beliefs of his own. Presumably, too, he could see that the Berlin Olympics – like perhaps every games subsequent – was a political project as much as a sporting one. Host cities have used the Games as political showcases (see Beijing most recently), just as athletes have used them to make their own statements, or terrorists and protesters have attacked the Olympics to make broader statements.

Given, too, the buoycotts that have affected Olympic (and Commonwealth) Games over the years, separating the politics from the sport is a pure fiction. We might hold up sport as a pure and untainted ideal, but its organization and conduct is but an extension of the values – the politics – that we deploy to govern ourselves and project our image internationally. Politics as culture as sport.

The cycling connection

The link between sport and politics in cycling is an interesting one, which can only be briefly discussed here but which is one of the themes of this blog. It is worth noting, in particular, that the Tour de France in its early history was a specific political project. Henri Desgrange conceived it as a unifying force for a France dominated largely at the time by regionalism, and also as a project for improving the health and vitality of its population. It also became a tool for upward mobility, for working-class riders to learn bourgeois values but while always remembering their place in society – under the benevolent tutelage of rule-makers such as Desgrange.

Desgrange, like Brundage, was a strong proponent of amateurism. He resisted the commercialism of the Tour and was in constant battles with the manufacturers who sponsored the teams. He wanted his political values to drive the Tour, not the commercial imperatives of industry. (It is perhaps worth contrasting the Tour, pre-WW II under Desgrange, with the Giro, with the latter essentially run by the trade teams.) Much of this sentiment persisted in even the smallest ways, such as the yellow jersey for the longest time being free of large sponsor of team logos – a sharp contrast with today.

The running of national teams at the Tour was a tool that Desgrange used to blunt the commercial ambitions of the sponsors, somewhat ironic given that Desgrange still wanted to sell newspapers after all. National teams were also run post-WW II (after Desgrange had passed) as a means to boost nationalism and to equate sporting success with a national pride focussed on rebuilding the country after the war (and perhaps forgetting some shameful incidents as well). Of note, these post-war Tours also benefitted from explicit political gains won in the 1930s that gave workers long summer holidays, ensuring large roadside crowds to support their heroes.

Trade teams returned in 1962, under pressure from the sponsors. National teams were run again briefly in 1967 and 1968, “In response to the noble and superior interests of the race, to the wishes of the public and the desires of the public authorities,” according to L’Equipe. In truth, it was as much of a battle between the Tour organizers and the sponsors, and an effort to boost public interest, as it was about ‘noble’ goals.

Today, commercialism and the interests of the sponsors is at the fore, although there has been some talk – that has come to nought so far – of a return to the national team format. Despite the ascendency of commercialism, itself an interesting political development (the market as the dominant force in organizing the race, the monetary factors determining the route, the requirements of television in making the schedule, and so on) there is still plenty of politics – best seen by the ASO versus WADA versus the UCI over doping controls at the Tour, or the ASO versus the UCI over the pro tour calendar and the worldwide development of the sport.

The Tour as a political statement

The 1948 Tour de France saw the first post-WW II participation of an official Italian team. It was only the second post-war Tour, although the Giro d’Italia had held its first returning race in 1946. It was clear that the rivalry between Gino Bartali and Fausto Coppi was going to define Italian cycling: Bartali won the Giro in 1946 and Coppi won it in 1947. By the following year their professional rivalry was so intense that Coppi refused to ride on the Italian Tour team with Bartali and pulled out of consideration. The Giro that year had been won by Fiorenzo Magni.

Despite Bartali being only five years older than Coppi, much was made of Bartali’s role as the elder statesman and Coppi as the young upstart. Bartali was the traditional; Coppi the modern. (For more on the fascinating contrasts between the two men, William Fotheringham’s book Fallen Angel is an absolute must read.) There was much truth to this contrast. Coppi investigated all manner of dietary and training innovations, such as increased carbohydrates and lighter, more frequent meals instead of large and meat-based servings, as well as interval and motor-paced training. He stressed hydration, rest and recovery, and also explored the latest pharmacological aids (primarily amphetamines).

In contrast, Bartali was a volume trainer. Blessed with a seemingly iron constitution (and reportedly a very low heart rate), Bartali was well known for staying up late, enjoying his red wine and other beverages, and more than the occasional cigarette. He was wary of doping – and apparently fascinated by Coppi’s use of drugs – but was reported to have enjoyed more than 20 espressos every day, leading commentators to suggest that he was already well stimulated.

Bartali's hard-man persona was nowhere more evident than in the mountains.

Bartali was unsure how he would fare in the 1948 Tour. By the rest day in Cannes on 14 July he had won three stages, but was 21’20″ behind a brilliant young Frenchman, Louison Bobet. According to reports, the Italian press corps was already packing its bags to go home. But back in Italy, the head of the Italian Communist party, Palmiro Togliatti, was shot by an assassin in the morning and badly wounded. Given the fragile post-war political situation, with its roots back in the collapse of fascism at the end of WW II, the assassination attempt provoked chaos and a general strike was called. A Communist uprising and civil war was feared. That evening, according to the story, Bartali’s old friend, Alcide De Gasperi, prime minister and head of the Christian Democrat party (he had been imprisoned under Mussolini for opposing fascism), phoned him and pleaded for a miracle.

Bartali responded by winning the next two mountain stages in the Alps, with winning margins of 6’18″ and 5’53″. By the end of the second stage in Aix-les-Bains, he had clawed back his deficit to Bobet and added an 8 minute buffer (by Paris, he would be 26 minutes ahead of the second place finisher; Bobet was fourth at 32’59″). It was a display of total dominance and Italy was supposedly spellbound, all thoughts of civil war forgotten as they listened to their radios. On 17 July, the day after Bartali’s two stage wins, the general strike was called off and Togliatti was declared in a stable condition in hospital.

Bartali chases down Bobet on the Croix de Fer on the road to Aix-les-Bains.

Once the Tour was over, Bartali was declared the ‘saviour of Italy’ by many reporters and the myth was cemented in place. Sport had epitomized the political – one sportsman had saved a whole country from political upheaval and civil war.

Experts were later been skeptical of this narrative. Benji Maso argues that despite the general strike the danger of civil war after the attack on Togliatti was already easing due to the failure of the assassination. Others have agreed, and former prime minister Giulio Andreotti, who at the time was a young Christian Democrat politician, told the New York times: ”To say that civil war was averted by a Tour de France victory is surely excessive. But it is undeniable that on that 14th of July of 1948, the day of the attack on Togliatti, Bartali contributed to ease the tensions.” Actually, Bartali’s contribution started the next day, on the 15th, which only reinforces Andreotti’s downplaying of Bartali’s efforts. Nonetheless, Bartali’s stage wins were given political status and a meaning greater than just their stature as sporting victories.

The politics of the personal

Yad Vashem is “the world center for documentation, research, education and commemoration of the Holocaust”, established in 1953 in Israel. One of its projects is to celebrate and remember The Righteous Among The Nations, individuals that stood up to Nazi atrocities against Jews. Sportspersons are included among the righteous. For example, Yad Vashem recounts the story of Polish soccer player Tadeusz Gebethner who in 1939 fought the German invasion of Poland, then later escaped from a prison camp and saved Jewish families from imprisonment before dying in the Warsaw uprising in 1944.

It has been known for a number of years that Gino Bartali was involved in efforts during the war to shelter local Jews, something that he keep largely quiet in post-war years. Yad Vashem is currently considering his elevation to The Righteous Among Nations, like Tadeusz, in recognition for his efforts.

One might have reasonably titled this article sport and religion, given Bartali’s well-reported piousness and the role of the Catholic church in Italy. But politics was still always to the fore, perhaps epitomized by the debate over Pope Pius’s response to Nazi deportations of Italian Jews and Nazi atrocities in general. This debate among historians will be ongoing, but at the personal level, a number of Catholics and Catholic institutions in Italy sheltered Jews from deportation.

The Delegation for the Assistance of Jewish Emigrants (Delegazione per l’Assistenza degli Emigranti Ebrei) or DELASEM was responsible for coordinating the emigration of Jewish refugees from Italy from 1939 onwards. After the German occupation of Italy in September 1943, DELASEM was forced underground but continued to work with local Catholic leaders in the Rome and Genoa areas and helped coordinate the hiding or escape of up to 35,000 Italian and foreign Jews, according to reports.

In the Florence area, DELASEM’s efforts were run by Giorgio Nissim, a Jewish accountant from Pisa, and the branch is credited with saving 800 people. Reports have not recounted exactly how Bartali became involved but in the period of the occupation he was not required for wartime service and devoted himself to training. During his training rides from Florence, often to Pisa and Lucca, he helped carry forged documents hidden in the tubing of his bike frame to assist refugees hidden in convents and monasteries.

“His role was to take photos and paper to clandestine printing presses to produce the false documents,” according to his son, Andrea. “He was also a guide to indicate the lesser known roads to arrive at central areas of Italy without being seen.”

One such refuge was the monastery in San Quirico d’Orcia, which Bartali would visit with forged documentation. Naturally, his training rides enabled him to range far and wide: San Quirico d’Orcia is 127 kilometres from Florence. According to testimony for Yad Vashem, Giulia Donati recalled the escape of her family from Florence to Lido di Camaiore where they were offered a home thanks to two elderly sisters, Isabella Pacini and Settilia Crocini. Bartali ferried documents to them as well, some 100 kilometres from his home in Florence. Reports have suggested he might have ridden as far as Rome: 285 kilometres, which is not unreasonable – the longest stage in the 1938 Tour (Bartali’s first Tour win) was 311 kilometres.

The authorities were suspicious of Bartali’s activities but, given his public profile, were reluctant to intervene. Despite this, one must not minimize the risks he was taking on with such support for resistance efforts. At one point he was reportedly forced to send his own family into hiding.

One cannot help but wonder as to Bartali’s motivation. He reputation as one of cycling’s old-school hard men, even against the standard of the 1940s, is set in stone. He was a good Catholic and his piety is well known. He was a garrulous character, but with conservative politics. What political views drove him to take such risks? According to reports, Bartali spoke little to his family about his exploits. “One does these things and then that’s that,” he apparently said. It may have been that Bartali articulated his politics by his actions, through his riding. Or it might simply have been his humanity. Maybe not everything is political after all.

Bartali was driven by his rivalry with Coppi, but the drive behind his wartime exploits remains a mystery.

Memories. Gasping for breath in the hot air. The climbs a roll call of cycling history: Galibier, Izoard, Alpe d’Huez. Camaraderie: pizza in Bourg d’Oisans, croissants at Les Sables, pastis at Les Deux-Alpes. Cyclists owning the roads, from countries near and far. The Tour a traveling carnival of festivities and excitement, passing on too soon. Rolling in like clockwork. Right on time.

The famous switchbacks of Alpe d’Huez, looking down on Bourg d’Oisans.

David Moncoutie’s ride for the 2006 Tour de France.

Matthieu Sprick chases hard over the Croix de Fer.

The polka dots await the climbers on the col.

The lonely rider on the north ascent of the Col Izoard.

The historic summit: the entry point into the alps from the south and the scene of many epic cycling battles over the year – as well as a welcome resting point for tired tourists.

Thirsty riders refresh before their next adventure, most likely an ‘epic’ climb and a visit to the local bakery as soon as possible.

The perfect ride: an empty road and blue skies over the mountains.

Many thanks, dear reader, for allowing your author to share some memories. Rest assured that an ‘epic’ post on Gino Bartali and the politics of cycling is under construction and will be posted in due course. Hopefully your patience will be rewarded. (Oh, and one also hopes that everyone is enjoying the fresh new site design…)

One concern, however, is whether this route is actually hard enough. For the last four years here, your author has been building a tradition of The Long Ride (not an ‘epic’ ride mind you, given the overuse of this adjective): a once-a-season outing that involves a distance that is significant relative to typical rides and usually features as much climbing as possible within reason.

The difficulty of these rides has been decreasing in recent years, following the first Long Ride of 200 kilometres including ascents of Mounts Seymour and Cypress and a lot of flat riding in Delta in the lead up. The distance then dropped to 180 kms and last year to 150 kms.

This latter route will again feature in 2010 and has been dubbed le parcours de Virenque. The course includes the major climbs in the Vancouver area: Burnaby, Seymour and Cypress mountains, with an excursion up into the British Properties area between Grouse mountain (inaccessible by road bike) and Cypress. Naturally, it is a dedication to the escapes of polka-dot and climbing hero Richard Virenque; and given the somewhat arbitrary purpose of The Long Ride, it is also a dedication to his futile escapes.

The 2004 Tour

The terrific yet tawdry career of Virenque has been documented on this blog in some detail. He retired from racing at the end of 2004, adding a final meilleur grimpeur Tour title to take his total to seven – a record. His ride in the 2004 Tour, on the Quickstep team, featured two escapes: one successful and the other unsuccessful.

Seemingly the master at choosing the appropriate climbs to score points for the KOM competition, Virenque chose stage 10, 237 kilometres through the Massif Central with a series of shortish but challenging climbs: one cat.1, two cat.2 and five cat.3 efforts. Perhaps, though, it was not so much of the right choice but appropriateness, with the stage run on July 14 – Bastille Day – almost an invitation from the organizers for Virenque to secure glory.

Axel Merckx and Virenque were the only survivors of an early ten-man break and Virenque grabbed nine sets of KOM points (not high scoring mountains, but sufficient to take the jersey at the end of the stage) with Paolo Bettini playing loyal teammate and sprinting in the group behind to prevent riders from competing teams securing the lesser points.

Virenque powered away from Merckx on the cat.1 climb, the Col de Pas de Peyrol, some 60-odd kilometres from the finish, leading to some controversy for the stage. “On the first category climb, Richard went stronger,” Merckx was reported saying. “We had agreed that he was going to take all the points for the mountains jersey then afterwards we would fight for the finish here and not before. But I guess he has a hard time keeping his word.”

“I was really just hanging on at the end of the stage today, so to win was really nice for me and the team,” Virenque said.

For his second effort, Virenque looked for glory on the 204.5-kilometre stage 17 between Bourg d’Oisans to Le Grand Bornard – the toughest mountains stage of the Tour, and the stage after the Alpe d’Huez ITT where Lance Armstrong cemented his dominance by winning the stage and actually passing second-placed Ivan Basso in the process.

On stage 17, in super-hot summer alpine conditions, a five-man break including Gilberto Simoni went clear on the first climb, the Col du Glandon. Mikel Astarloza tried to bridge, but it was ultimately Virenque and Christophe Moreau that managed to catch the breakaway on the Col de la Madeleine. Virenque tried to sprint for the Souvenir Henri Desgrange prize at the top the Madeleine – the highest climb in the Tour that year – but was pipped by Simoni.

The break looked strong over the Madeleine but there were still three climbs to go and 125.5 kms to hold off the chasing peloton. Virenque, Simoni, and Moreau held on until after the Col de la Forclaz with just the Col de la Croix-Fry to go before the finish. But Armstrong’s team were setting the tempo, led by Floyd Landis, which set up the memorable ‘no gifts’ stage win by Armstrong over the T-Mobile duo of Andreas Kloden and Jan Ullrich (one of Armstrong’s tally of five stage wins).

Virenque scored additional KOM points on the stage, but his title was never in serious danger having continued to gain points through the Pyrenees and the Massif de Vercors (although Armstrong placed second overall, highlighting the difficulty that pure climbers can have competing against a dominant GC rider); he was able to spend the latter part of the stage enjoying the attention of his fans – although another stage win would surely have been the perfect end to a fine career in the mountains.

Le parcours de Virenque

After some frustration with the fork sensor mount of his cycling computer, your author recently dispensed with said computer entirely, forgoing all distance, speed and cadence information. The absence of any feedback can be disconcerting when one is not used to it, but riding is certainly refreshingly free from distraction. Given the current proliferation of GPS units power meters at all levels of riding these days, getting rid of even a basic cycling computer seems somewhat unconventional.

Given the recurring ride route in this case, however, computing the distance is not so difficult. The amount of climbing is approximate, based on a rough route sketch (see below) but is certainly at least a little north of 2,400 metres.

The main challenge of the parcours ride is securing enough good espresso along the way, and fighting off the cramps on the final major climb, Cypress. Virenque dedicated his win on stage 10 in 2004 to former Festina manager Joel Chabiron and to his grandmother: “I was cramping all over in the final today but I thought of both of them a lot and I wanted to win for them.”

There will be no winners on this ride, however; just the satisfaction of a tough day on the bike and completing The Long Ride for another year. Your author, though, will be wearing his Virenque-style Domo-FarmFrites ‘Ventoux’ jersey…

Lucien Van Impe won the mountains classification, le maillot à pois rouge, six times at the Tour de France (and the Tour itself in 1976), equalling the record set by Federico Bahamontes and only bettered by Richard Virenque with seven titles.

He was less than impressed with Anthony Charteau’s win at this year’s Tour, however, reportedly saying, “What does the leader Charteau do? Get himself in the early escape, gather as many points as possible and give up in the finale. It’s dead easy to do.”

Van Impe has been critical for a number of years of this strategy and criticised Richard Virenque in 2004 for adopting it. Although Virenque had a number of stage wins (seven of them) and high GC placings early in his career, Van Impe thought that the polka-dot jersey wearer should be contesting the final climbs with the GC leaders, and even winning them (Van Impe won 9 stages at the Tour, Bahamontes 7). Such was the strategy that Bahamontes and Van Impe adopted, one followed by other legendary climbers like Lucho Herrera.

In his latest comments, however, he was actually less critical, saying, “Virenque and Jalabert are the ones who started this – but with this difference: they could really climb, and they could win sprints on hors category climbs or even win the stage.”

Charteau was certainly a surprise winner this year, not having distinguished himself in the mountains prior to this Tour. He did comment, however, that, “Chez les amateurs, j’étais un pur grimpeur.” He said that when he became a professional, his status as a budding amateur climber changed and he worked for a team leader on teams such as Crédit Agricole and Caisse d’Epargne before he joined Bbox this year.

Indeed, Bbox seemed to have no leader at this year’s Tour, content to chase stage wins and other prizes – a strategy that paid off with Charteau’s own performance and stage wins by Thomas Voeckler and Pierrick Fédrigo. As Charteau said, by the time he reached the mountains this year, he was not worn out by having to work for the team.

Charteau’s broader point, however, is that talented climbers often go unrecognized because they are working for a team leader. This was definitely the case in this year’s Tour; some of the best climbers, like Daniel Navarro in Astana (who won the last stage of the Dauphiné into Grenoble by breaking away over the final climb) and Chris Anker Sørensen on Saxo Bank (who won stage 8 on the Monte Terminillo at the Giro this year), were working for their team leaders.

Other climbers that were expected to do well were either hardly to be seen (Juan Manuel Garate) or abandoned (Amets Txurukka). Others appeared more interested in a high GC placing or in the white jersey competition. Indeed, the top-three riders for the maillot blanc are probably a better reflection of climbing performances at the Tour this year: Andy Schleck (2nd overall); Robert Gesink (6th overall); Roman Kreuziger (9th overall). As Schleck told L’Equipe, quoted above, he might not be the best climber in the world but he was the best climber at this Tour, and it is hard to argue with that conclusion.

Still, if some of the more recognized climbers were not going to contest the mountains competition this year, then chapeau to Charteau for taking it on, even he was not as dynamic as a Van Impe or even a Virenque.

The Tour organizers changed the rules to 2004 to award double points for the classification to thwart Virenque’s strategy of winning the jersey based on the intermediate climbs on stages (he won it that year anyway, with one stage win, some inspired riding in the Alps, and a 15th place overall). So the title is still up for grabs for a climber who can contest the stage wins and is less concerned with his own or his leader’s GC position.

But until these riders step up, an opportunist like Charteau can show his mettle and claim the title of meilleur grimpeur and win the most prestigious climbing title in cycling. And given how hard he worked, it is hard to begrudge him that.

Of note: A recent posting, which you can read here, also commented on the decline of the pure grimpeur and noted the difficulty that such riders have competing for stage wins against strong overall contenders. One might indeed argue that Contador and Schleck present that very challenge.

Also, for new readers that might have missed it, the series on the ever-controversial Virenque ran in several parts, see: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4.

Finally, the highlights of the Tour are discussed by your author and Richard from cyclingart.ca on our latest podcast.

Stage 17 finishes at the top of the Tourmalet, with the winner fittingly to take the Souvenir Henri Desgrange prize. The story of the inclusion of the Tourmalet and its neighbours has since 1910 taken on mythic proportions and a previous post – which you can read here – looked at the myth and the background to the Tour in that year.

Needless to say, the Pyrenees will provide an awesome challenge to this edition of la grande boucle and stage 17 will (hopefully) produce a thrilling mountain-top finish. Stage 16, though, might provide the ideal opportunity for a strong man to emulate Eddy Merckx in 1969, who broke away on the Tourmalet , widened his lead over the Soulor, crested the Aubisque (whether he shouted at race officials is not recorded), before winning in Mourenx-Ville-Nouvelle by 8 minutes. This feat prompted reports to proclaim: “It was a gratuitous act, one without premeditation or preparation; an act which annihilated everything and everyone in its path, from the responses of the other riders to the very idea of the race itself.”

On that day, it was not the Tour that was the assassin, it was Merckx himself.

It was not that long ago (well, maybe a while, actually), before high-speed internet and before vast teams of on-the-spot reporters and bloggers, and before obliging European media outlets posting live videos, that the humble printer word – on paper no less – was the primary means for many fans outside Europe to get their cycling coverage. No more pouring over backdated and hard-tog-get newspapers and magazines, or off-peak and truncated television coverage. How times have changed: for the better!

Print coverage of racing is now well and truly need. By the time a magazine hits the newsstand, the internet has had the event well and truly covered and fully documented. But there remains plenty of room for long and well-considered analytical articles, that are not under time pressure, that can be checked and double-checked, and that can offer insights as well as commentary.

And they can tell a story. Cycling journalism has a long and illustrious heritage, even in English, and reflecting back on that heritage is still a satisfying way to immerse oneself in the history of cycling.

Regular readers of this blog will know that one of this author’s favourite writers is Samuel Abt. A correspondent for the International Herald Tribune since 1977 (now semi-retired), Abt covered the Tour de France and European cycling for a substantial portion of his career and left us with a number of books from the 80s and 90s that provide a fascinating glimpse into cycling during that time.

As well, though, Abt strove to elevate cycling journalism to a literary form. A traditional style of reporter, Abt the writer never appears in the narrative – unlike the creative non-fiction that has become popular today (often to the detriment of the narrative). He his the narrator of the story, the chronicler of events and of dialogue. Abt moved to France in 1971 and, like Ernest Hemingway (whose quotes pepper his early writings), immersed himself in local culture; Abt the writer knows his way around the country, the language, and the food, and writes as an insider – part of the cycling scene – rather than the freshly-landed Anglophile struggling with driving directions and trying to find wi-fi.

Abt’s writing style is direct, but also evocative. His stories of the famous riders and the lesser-knowns alike transfix the reader and take them on a journey into the heart of European cycling, a sport that Abt clearly loves. His books are a treasure trove of stories, profiles, and action – inspiring stuff. His first published collection of columns from the Tribune is Breakaway: On the road with the Tour de France. It mostly covers the 1984 Tour, but opens with a flashback to the 1983 edition and Pascal Simon’s abandonment with a broken shoulder.

Far up the road, spectators had already jammed the switchback curves of L’Alpe-d’Huez. The police finally gave up trying to estimate the size of the crowd and could only say it was many more than the usual 300,000 to 400,000 who waited each year for the bicycle riders in the Tour de France to climb to the peak. This Sunday morning in July, while the sun burned off traces of fog in the valley and melted a bit of the glaciers permanently atop the French Alps, the crowd was waiting for one rider. “Allez Simon,” the banners said. By then it was over.

Far down the road, on the Chapelle-Blanche hill, precisely at kilometre 95 of the day’s 223-kilometre stage, Pascal Simon had ended his race. The television motorcycle that had been hovering for a week let millions of Frenchmen watch as Simon tried to climb the hill, grimacing with the pain of a left shoulder blade broken in a fall. He had strength in one arm only, and his unbalanced bicycle wobbled; the other riders stood on the pedals and put their weight forward on their shoulders as they thrust, but Simon had to remain seated… Simon’s pain was obvious as he laboured up the hill. Sweat illuminated his face and darkened the back of his yellow jersey, the symbol that Simon led the Tour de France.

In tribute to the place that books have in cycling’s history and its ongoing coverage, your author and Richard from CyclingArt have teamed up to start a series of podcasts. Titled ‘Bikes, Books & Beers’ the podcasts combine our interest in the written word of cycling, with some appropriate libations to encourage the conversation. Abt’s book Breakaway features on the first instalment and subsequent editions will (and have) cover other great books as well as some well-deserved beverages.

Bikes, Books & Beers. Enjoy!

Yes, what all cyclists presumably dream of, to leave the sport by the big door, at the peak of their powers, instead of slipping away, barely noticed.

As we have seen, though, LeMond was not able to leave by the big door and retired without the late career victories he had hoped for. In doing so, he was following a venerable tradition set out by great champions. Even Eddy Merckx, the champion of champions, held on a little too long in his career. In 1974, his tenth season riding as a professional, he won the Tour, the Giro, and the world championship title. It would have been the perfect time to step aside, la grande porte was wide open.

But he continued to race. And possibly rightly so – the early season in 1975 saw him win Milan-San Remo, the Tour of Flanders, the Amstel Gold, Liege-Bastogne-Liege, and a 2nd place in Paris-Roubaix – an incredible start. But then illness kept him away from the Giro, and while his 2nd place at the Tour was not helped by random incidents during the race, even Merckx himself could see he was struggling.

“There were unmistakable signs that the decline was setting in,” he said. “My best days were now behind me. All the effort and concentration I had been putting in for so long were beginning to take their toll.”

The season of 1976 was the turning point, although Merckx opened it with a major statement by winning Milan-San Remo for the seventh time. Then the decline set in, with Merckx himself noting that, “the peaks became increasingly rare and the troughs more frequent; I had lost most of the old sparkle.” Incredibly, though, despite illness and recurring back pain, Merckx raced another season in 1977, finishing 6th at the Tour de France and winning the Mediterranean Tour in an otherwise lacklustre year. Finally, after riding five minor races in 1978 he called it quits after 14 seasons as a professional and the exit door was certainly not as large as he might have hoped.

In contrast, Bernard Hinault had his retirement plans all worked out. By his account, after he won the world championship title in 1980 he decided to retire aged 32 (the end of the 1986 season). That was his plan and he intended to stick by it. And he intended to leave in fine style by winning the worlds title again: “If I’d won the title I’d have hung my bike up that very evening and been the happiest man in the world.”

But 1986 was not his year to win again – Charly Mottet was the best-placed French rider in second behind Moreno Argentin (Hinault said he sacrificed his ambitions to work for Mottet and Laurent Fignon). Had he had been pushed into second place in that year’s Tour de France by Greg LeMond, one of the epic years of the race where the rivalry between the two supposed teammates overshadowed the whole race. Hinault fought for the entire Tour, and even if he finally conceded to help LeMond win, his pride kept his fighting spirit alive. At one point, on the Col de Vars, Hinault said he overheard a photographer tell his moto to stay with Hinault, as he was about to abandon. “They wouldn’t have missed such a moment for anything,” Hinault said. “They wanted to see me give up when I was suffering like an animal, but nothing would have made me quit then. The pain was unbearable and yet I continued. I’d rather have died.”

Yes, Hinault left by le grande porte.

Your correspondent has been mulling the topic of this post for some time, as it has become increasingly clear that he does not have the time amidst and increasingly busy schedule to keep up the effort of regular posting. Perhaps it was time to hang up the, er, keyboard and look for the door, be it grande or petite. This blog is now in its fourth year and there have been many adventures along the way and plenty of classic stories to recount and current developments to comment on. The fervent intention has been to provide some little-known, or not widely-discussed, history and other perspectives on our great sport and hopefully this has been partially successful.

This June interlude in Switzerland comes just before the 24-day Tour de France, the most prestigious event on the pro circuit, in which LeMond will finish a most creditable third. To put that into perspective, bear in mind that he was only the second U.S. competitor in the 81-year history of the Tour. He was also the first non-European ever to make it into the top three. “I was almost disappointed,” he would say later. “I’d half-expected to win the thing.”

Let’s face it, it’s patently impossible for a kid from Washoe County, Nev. to be picked up from the mountain canyons around Reno and dropped right in among the most formidable racers in the world – and go wheel to wheel with them…

So wrote Sports Illustrated in 1984, in a long article following Greg LeMond training in Switzerland, back in the golden years when LeMond was truly the young innocent with the massive talent, the talent that would slay the European giants of the road.

And who could have predicted the trials and tribulations that LeMond would go through in his career, the impossible highs and the impossible lows, which this blog has attempted to adequately chronicle in a series on défaillance, in part 1, part 2, and part 3. This post, part 4, looks at LeMond’s final years of racing, his search for answers, and a final postscript.

Answers

LeMond announced his retirement at the end of 1994, following a series of medical tests he’d sought to explain his chronic fatigue.

“The tests revealed that LeMond is suffering from mitochondrial myopathy, an impairment of proteins in his muscles that prevents them from delivering the kind of power a world-class cyclist needs for hours a day, every day of a stage race,” according to Sports Illustrated. “Doctors don’t know if there’s any connection between the disease and the 30 lead shotgun pellets still inside him as a result of a turkey-hunting accident in 1987.”

Since the 1992 season, LeMond had struggled to find his old form and had been undergoing a battery of testing to ascertain his condition.

“My immune system is not functioning properly,” he was reported saying in the middle of 1993. “I have had a hard time recovering for the last month.It’s a combination of allergies with asthmalike attacks and a sore throat and chronic fatigue.”

His training at the end of 1992 over the winter leading into 1993 had been poor, by his own admission, but he had made up for lost time and gone into the 1993 Giro “a little over trained”. During the race, his body rebelled with allergies and the onset of what he would later call his chronic fatigue. This condition, as well as a broken hand would keep him away from that year’s Tour – another poor showing after his abandonment in 1992.

Coming into the 1994 season, there were his critics, suggesting that he was overweight, not serious about training, or simply too old – he would turn 33 just before the Tour de France.

“It’s not just weight,” LeMond told Sam Abt, “but weight and training. It’s proper training. I’m convinced it’s not my age. What would have changed in my body in three years? Nothing! All it takes is having the right combination: no stress, good training.”

But was that drive absent? LeMond noted that he had more demands on his time, no longer able to maintain that monastic focus on cycling. As his old foes – such as Laurent Fignon – retired, many thought that LeMond was holding on for too long, looking for a final ride of glory before stepping away from the sport that he had given so much to over the previous decade or more years.

In May of 1994, LeMond was feeling confident. But his early season had been mixed – strong from winter training, then setbacks with illness, before a crash at Paris-Roubaix and more concerns with over training. Still, he said he needed to get his weight down from 158 pounds to closer to 150 pounds, and that his power output in March had been only where it was in January instead of showing gains.

“I still have a lot of improvement to make between here and, say, the Tour de France,” he said. “I’ve trained more this winter and I’ve been dedicated, more dedicated than I’ve ever been in my career.”

But at some point between May and July, LeMond revised his expectations for the Tour substantially downward.

“It’s been frustrating”, he told Sam Abt, lamenting his absence of form. “I’ve worked really hard since last October. I’m trying to keep my morale up, I’m trying to keep my motivation.”

LeMond had hardly shone in the Dauphiné and the Tour of Switzerland, his build up races for the Tour. It was clear on his GAN team that expectations for a final Tour de France win were gone, that he could not really claim to be the team captain, and was hoping at most for a stage win.

“I don’t want to give up hope before I start the race,” he said, expressing his hope that he could still ride at the front, help his teammates, and perhaps secure at least one more win on the road. “Regardless of all my problems, I still have the desire to win again. And that’s what keeps me going.”

The end

“Greg LeMond reached the end of the road in the Tour de France and in his glorious career, too, dropping out of the race, exhausted, on a small hill, the Côte des Loges-Marchis, during the sixth stage,” Sam Abt wrote. “Let the records show that the finish came at kilometre 183 of the 270.5-kilometre ride from Cherbourg to Rennes.”

Although LeMond would not announce his retirement until the end of the season, it was all over. But the Tour rolled on with another victory in Paris for Miguel Indurain, his fourth in a row. It was a tough affair, with Tony Rominger, Claudio Chiappucci, and Gianni Bugno – potential challengers – all dropping out. Lance Armstrong did not repeat his stage win of 1993 (at 22, the youngest stage winner since WW II) and left the race before the Alps.

“I was killing myself to stay with the group,” LeMond told Abt after he abandoned. “I just ran out of juice. I shouldn’t have come to the Tour. Not in my wildest dreams did I think I’d be out in six days.”

LeMond mentioned his chronic fatigue again, and that he was still searching for answers, which would come by the end of the year, as noted. But his motivation was still high, he still wanted to be a player in the peloton and not just turn up to races to make an appearance. He was competitive and hungry right to the end. But this truly was the end of his racing career.

Postscript

Défaillance. A sudden weakness. For LeMond, though, it was a gradual decline, as if a weight of contradictions was piling up on top of him – his hunting accident; struggles with muscle conditions, fatigue, and over training; the blood-boosting drugs that were creeping into the peloton and would soon come to dominate the sport. Perhaps it was necessary for a rider that had soared so high, who had made cycling’s most remarkable comeback at that time to somehow have to fall so low, that cycling’s gods were somehow punishing LeMond for daring to achieve so much.

LeMond’s search for explanations eventually gave him an answer he was looking for, but later he would distill it down to – for him – a simple truth.

“I walked away from cycling disgusted,” he told Procycling in 2008, “probably knowing that I’d burned myself out because other riders were on EPO. I’m pretty sure that riding against guys who were using EPO in the last four years of my career damaged by body.”

Whatever the full explanation, there was also LeMond’s pride, the expectation that as a former Tour winner and World Champion and proven race winner he would be always riding at the front. “I just couldn’t believe I was going to race the Tour again even though, if I look back, I probably should have stopped two years earlier [at the end of 1992].”

Samuel Abt’s 1995 book, covering mainly the 1994 Tour, is titled ‘A Season in Turmoil: Lance Armstrong Replaces Greg LeMond as U.S. Cycling’s Superstar’. Abt, who wrote another book on LeMond’s comeback to win the 1989 Tour, could hardly have known how prescient he was – not only that Armstrong would go on to eclipse LeMond’s Tour record but that the two would come to polarize so intensely, well, everything in cycling. The cover shows Armstrong aggressively piloting his bike while LeMond hovers in the background – sage like, or even god like – mouth open as much shouting a rebuke as encouragement. The picture conveys more meaning now than it did even then.

How then to conclude, now some twenty years after Greg LeMond’s third Tour de France win in 1990. How to sum it all up. Perhaps it is best left to others. First, the conclusion to the Sports Illustrated 1984 article; second, the same magazine’s final entry on his racing career:

Adoring fans surround Greg, hands reaching out, touching and patting him. And this pleasant youngster looks up into the stands and grins at his wife. He could only be an American kid at this moment, ingenuous and open, fresh-faced and with not too much cynicism in him yet – happy with his princely role in European biking. He mouths the words toward Kathy: Très bon! says Greg LeMoooonnnnd.

After his legendary win in the 1989 Tour, in which he made up 50 seconds on the final day with two of those pellets still lodged against his heart lining, this magazine named him Sportsman of the Year. A few talk-radio know-nothings objected, reviling the choice by pointing out that riding a bike is something anybody can do. Which, of course, it is. But no rider among tout le monde did it quite as astonishingly as he did.

To address the first question, your author offered the following definition of the pure climber: the riders that win many mountain stages off the front and only ever rarely win a grand tour (though many famous ones have done so). They duke it out for the mountain points and leave the flatlanders wallowing – unless those flatlanders can also hold their own (Anquetil, Hinault, Fignon, LeMond).

We have a couple of problems with this definition. Firstly, if you were to list some of the most prominent riders that one might consider to be pure climbers – say Charly Gaul, Federico Bahamontes, Lucien van Impe, Marco Pantani – just to name four, all of these riders have won grand tours, including the Tour de France. These riders typically started out making their mark as climbers but then matured into more well-rounded riders, able to hold their own in time trials and flat stages to protect their advantage in the mountains.

Against this list, we can put climbers who did not win the Tour de France, say Robert Millar, Lucho Herrera, Andy Hampsten, and Iban Mayo. But all these riders, and others, were contenders in the Tour, won other grand tours or came very close, and won other stage races. The pool of climbers who are threats just in the mountains, and win consistently on mountain stages, but are not contesting the overall is much smaller and perhaps unnecessarily restrictive.

But there is a certain romantic attachment to the idea of the pure climber, unfettered by the complicated goals of overall placings but who simply wants to win stages in the mountains and does so with style and panache. In recent years at the Tour, for example, we have seen some performances like this – Brice Feillu and Juan Manual Garaté last year, Juan Mauricio Soler in 2007, Carlos Sastre in 2003 (before he was a team leader), and Félix-Rafael Cardenas and Roberto Laiseka in 2001. The Giro, in particular, has seen some other similar and equally memorable performances. Where to draw the line in defining a grimpeur seems like to remain contested.

The second problem with the definition is the idea that climbers leave the flatlanders wallowing. A discussion of this problem also raises the other important question noted above: are pure climbers becoming rare.

Lucho Herrera, perhaps a classic example of a pure climber (although he won the Vuelta), liked to say that he knew when the serious doping started in the peloton because the riders with “fat arses” were climbing like “aeroplanes”. He undoubtedly had some specific riders in mind, but the broader point is that riders not considered to be pure climbers have done well, and exceptionally well, in the mountains. In fact, using the Tour as a reference point, the best climber was Lance Armstrong, who won 11 mountain stages during his seven Tour winning streak; that was one more than Eddy Merckx, who won 10. Those are better stats than perhaps the best Tour grimpeur of them all, Lucien van Impe (six mountains jerseys) who won nine; van Impe’s best year was 1975 when he won two, but Armstrong won four in 2004 and Merckx won three in 1969 and 1972.

The challenge for the climbers wanting to win individual stages is that those riders fighting for the overall in any grand tour are strong, motivated, and often have strong team support to shepherd them to the bottom of a climb or to pull them up it while chasing down breakaways. In many cases the climbers lose out to the contenders for the overall or their rivals. Even Bernard Hinault, not a ‘fat arse’ but hardly regarded as a grimpeur won 4 mountain stages during the years he won his five yellow jerseys, with six second places – an enviable record in the Tour for any rider; plus, in 1986 when he lost to Greg LeMond he claimed the mountains jersey and won on Alpe d’Huez.

So, climbers struggle when there are strong champions and their challengers. But has it become harder for climbers to compete and are they becoming rare? To answer this, or at least go some way toward an answer, your author looked back at Tour results during the reign of Jacques Anquetil, Merckx, Hinault, Greg LeMond, Miguel Indurain, and Armstrong to see the extent that climbers were ‘crowded out’ by these champions and if there was any historical trend. As a simple methodology, their Tour winning years were considered (five for each, three for LeMond) with 5 points assigned for a mountain stage win, 3 for a second place and 1 for third. The rationale was to see if there has been a trend over time for multiple-Tour winning riders to be more dominant.

It is often noted that the template for winning the Tour de France is to dominate in the time trials – the true test of the strongest rider – and to defend in the mountains. Anquetil was the first five-time winner of the Tour and perfected this model. He won just three mountain stages in his Tour winning years and his other top-three mountain placings were few, giving him a score in this analysis of 22 points. In these years, he won 16 Tour stages in total, usually the time trials. Anquetil was strong in the mountains, but not dominant, and this allowed his rivals and the climbers to take stage wins.

Interestingly, some three decades later, this was the model followed by Indurain. Although he had won mountain stages prior, during his five wins he did not win any, despite winning ten stages in total between 1991 and 1995. He was, however, a strong climber and recorded several second and third places, which gave him 23 points by this analysis. This was the same number of points scored by Greg LeMond in his three Tour wins and also in his best other years, 1984 and 1985, when he was third and second respectively. He won just two mountain stages.

In between Indurain and Anquetil we have the Merckx era, which was not a happy time for other riders. Merckx was a major force in the mountains: in 1969 he won three stages and came second in three others (and won three other stages); in 1972 he repeated the feat again by also included a third as well. Across his five Tour wins he amassed 73 points in this analysis. Even Hinault, who was strong – particularly in his first three Tour wins – only recorded 40 points (although better than Anquetil, LeMond, and Indurain).

If we were to consider only the first five of Armstrong’s Tour wins, an interesting picture emerges: seven mountains stage wins and a series of other placings for a total of 49 points. Of the six champions analyzed here, Armstrong was clearly the second dominant behind Merckx, but not a massive gap from the discipline Hinault was able to impose. 2005 was a poor year for Armstrong, just a second place on one mountain stage (and one stage win in the Tour overall). But 2004 was a massive year with 4 stage wins and a second place. If we drop 1999 from Armstrong’s calculation (just the one mountain win) and add 2004, Armstrong clocks up 65 points – an impressive total of climbing dominance.

Overall, based on this limited analysis, the room for climbers (and other riders) to perform has varied in the years of the great champions – with less room under Merckx and Armstrong, but more under Hinault, Indurain, LeMond, and Anquetil in descending order. This is, of course, just a snapshot and a better analysis would delve into the results further to see whether mountain stages were won by ‘pure’ climbers, climbers who were also contenders, or others. But, as noted above, where the line is drawn for definitions is problematic.

By this analysis, there has not been a trend towards more dominance by champions in their peak years. Merckx and Armstrong in many ways bookmark a period of much variability. And turning to the issue of doping, the EPO era (starting in perhaps 1991) did make it difficult for some of the old school climbers, as this blog has discussed on a number of occasions. But new climbers coming up through the ranks also benefited – Pantani, Richard Virenque, Claudio Chiappucci, for example, who started out as pure climbers and then evolved into major contenders (and winners). These example were followed by climbers who doped such as Iban Mayo and Bernard Kohl.

What then of the current era? Recent articles have pointed to the benefits of better training and that experts have seen non-traditional climbers respond quicker to more scientific methods than those with natural climbing advantages. Bradley Wiggins is perhaps an excellent example. But this has cut both ways, as climbers have also benefited from better preparation for time trials: Alberto Contador, for example, is following the Merckx and Armstrong template of being strong in all types of riding. As well, we have the climbers like Andy Schleck who are serious podium contenders.

There is still room for the fleet of pedal and the light of weight to make their mark in the mountains, just as there has always been. The space for these riders to win has shifted with time. Some grimpeurs elect to maintain their aloofness to the general classification and focus on mountain wins, while others transform into major contenders.

With our understanding or power versus weight ratios much more scientific in the modern era, much of the mystery of climbing prowess has been stripped away. But as recent Tours and other grand tour races have shown, there remains space for the pure climber to play and they will continue to do so – reports of their death (however we define them) have been greatly exaggerated. They will, however, still have to work very, very hard to achieve success.

Instead it was an opportunity for blog maintenance (finally replacing the lost pictures from a very early feature on the Col de la Croix de Fer), which was a reminder that le grimpeur first hit the blog-waves in January of 2007. While looking for the lost pictures, one classic shot jumped out of the file: a favourite of Cor Vos, part of a feature done for Pez Cycling News.

The picture captures Bernard Hinault at a light-hearted moment; for such a serious rider, there were – at least in this photo – some brief moments of levity. Whether he had words for the water thrower, though, is left undisclosed in the photo. If Hinault’s expression subsequently turned sour, perhaps the words he uttered might not have been fit to print anyway – in any language.

Back in the archives, too, is a feature on le blaireau and his climbing methods. For those readers who have not been following this blog from its inception, perhaps you may enjoy the article while the work on new features continues…

Climb like a badger – May 2007