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

-Non, Monsieur, je suis celui qui en a gagné deux.

Good news indeed that William Fotheringham has taken on the task of translating Laurent Fignon’s book Nous etions jeunes et insouciants, We were young and carefree. Seemingly the epitome of Parisian haughtiness and hardened professional during his career, the excerpts available from the published French version suggest – like the title itself – that Fignon has taken a very nostalgic view of his career and racing days.

A year younger than Greg LeMond, Fignon retired in 1993, just a year before LeMond would follow him. Fignon had wanted to retire before the years took their toll, but his record for the preceding seasons had been thin – a win on stage 11 at the Tour in 1992 the only real standout. But, in typical Fignon style, he had no regrets.

“Something?” he said, when – according to Samuel Abt’s account – he was asked by a French reporter if it meant something to him, starting his last race, the Grand Prix Ouest-France. “No, why should I have felt something?”

Yes, the haughty Parisian to the last. The young racer who emerged in a fury in 1983 to win the Tour. At age 23, he was the youngest winner since 1933. Bernard Hinault was conspicuous by his absence but it was his young Renault-Elf-Gitane teammate who stepped up to take the victory, including the final time trial to show his worthiness.

With Hinault back in the 1984 Tour, riding for La Vie Claire, it was Fignon “by a generation”, as the media put it. He showed his dominance with five individual stage wins, three in time trials, including a win over Lucho Herrera in the mountain stage ITT. He took the yellow jersey in an epic battle with Hinault and the climbers Herrera, Angel Arroyo, and Robert Millar on Alpe d’Huez (Herrera won the stage). This was Fignon the unstoppable – second in the Giro that year (edged out by Moser’s aerodynamic bike, and perhaps some organizational conniving as well), on his way to a total of 76 professional victories. The glory years.

“What could be said was that after a dozen years of majestic heights – two victories in the Tour, one in the Giro, two in Milan San-Remo, a French national championship; and profound depths – a heel injury that cost him peak seasons, last stages losses of both the Tour and the Giro, two positive drug findings – at age 33, Fignon had retired as a racer,” wrote Abt in 1993.

Ah, mais je vous reconnais. How easy it is to remember Fignon only for those eight seconds in 1989, his total collapse on the Champs-Élysées, destroyed by his own mistakes – perhaps his pride – saddle sores, fatigue, and an aerobar-equipped Greg LeMond who, on that day, was unbeatable.

From that day, all his victories were overshadowed, prompting the exchange that opened this post and is repeated in his book: Fignon reminding a ‘fan’ that he should not be remembered for his defeat in 1989 but his two Tour victories. “A day of insane sadness,” he writes, recalling 23 July 1989. “A day of monstrous, unacceptable defeat.”

For Fignon, 1989 was not only personal but it marked a turning point in cycling. From then on, racing was over to the excesses of chemistry. “The guy I saw riding every day with me changed entirely,” he writes. Greg LeMond would likely agree. But for Fignon, busted for amphetamines and later admitting to using cortisone, was his drug use any different to EPO? “I was in the system, my way,” Fignon said, taking neither physical nor sporting risks, whatever the latter might mean. Hypocrisy? Perhaps, or Fignon may simply have been old school, rallying against the excesses of the EPO era.

Despite his defeat at the Tour, 1989 was perhaps his best year: Milan-San Remo, the Giro – at last – and other victories including the prestigious Grand Prix des Nations. But for eight seconds, though, he would have had three Tour victories and the honour of being the last French rider to win the Tour – foiled instead by Bernard Hinault’s late-career win in 1985 (how different the outcome could have been, were Fignon not sidelined with injury).

Cold and detached as a racer, Fignon became more likable in his post-racing career. Involved in race organization and commentary, he has been appreciated for his insightful analysis and candidness. Indeed, he has been candid about his own current condition, battling intestinal cancer that appears very serious indeed, and at only age 49. “Despite my treatments during the last seven months, my cancer has barely diminished,” Fignon told French magazine Paris Match early this year.

And he has been open in discussing a possible link to doping: “When I got ill, I spoke to the doctors about it, and it made them smile. Taking into account the doses, they think it is not linked. But is it an aggravating factor? Maybe.”

“I am not dead, but I am not healing, either,” he said.

Greg LeMond was the lovable, impossibly talented American taking on the French at their own game, in their own race. First it was Hinault, then Fignon, and both with what Abt described as “an excess of character.” Both were the perfect foils, the inscrutable Frenchmen, the Europeans who we knew nothing about, with their stony faces, temperamental attitudes, and mysterious Gallic shrugs. Without them, LeMond’s victories would have been less spectacular, less sweet. Who can forget the Tour of 1986, let alone 1989.

So we should not forget Fignon. “…great stories, leg burning, rage of defeat, failure and pride,” wrote the reviewer of Fignon’s book in Le Monde. “De cyclisme, tout simplement.” That’s cycling. Indeed.

And we will remember not just the defeats, but the victories as well.

In cycling, as in perhaps all human behaviour, nostalgia is a powerful force. The ‘good old days’ always present a simpler template for the complexity we face today, as well as a stylistic cachet. What is Rapha, for example, except for nostalgia well-filed and with an extra lustrous sheen added?

Nostalgia is an opportunity to strip away the excess baggage of complications and view the past with the comforting glow of fondness. Ah, how much better it was in the 80s (substitute your favourite era here), with Hinault, Fignon, LeMond, Herrera, Hampsten, Roche and so on. (Of note, someone remarked recently that 2010 is to the 80s as 1990 was to the 60s, in terms of time elapsed – a sobering thought.)

Of course it was not necessarily better back in the day, just different and – let’s be honest – there’s been a fairly dramatic increase in the quality of cycling jersey quality, as just one example, from those terrible 80s lycras.

Still, nostalgia, or looking back at past exploits for inspiration, is a popular pastime at this time of year. Despite the relatively mild weather that Vancouver is experiencing at present (unlike the rest of the northern hemisphere, apparently) it is still hard to get motivated. With no plans for overseas excursions or epic local rides, your author is finding it difficult to muster up the enthusiasm for anything more than casual riding.

The New Year is a good time for drawing up the schedule, though, for identifying goals for the year and making notes on what goals can be achieved and the training required to get there. For your author, 2009 was a bit of a bust for racing with training time seeming to evaporate and July rolling around without sufficient miles in the legs. 2010 is shaping up to be no improvement unless some serious time management is put in place.

Having a goal or a singular focus is helpful for boosting one’s motivation. In 2006, your author had a trip to Alpe d’Huez and its surrounds to prepare for; in 2008 it was Mont Ventoux and a chance to join the ‘crazies’. There is nothing like the fear of the French cols to inspire base mileage in the cold and dark, or hill climb repeats on Spring afternoons. A specific goal requires prioritizing, and priorities require special attention. And a positive goal – posting a new PB for a hill climb – seems to work better than a negative one – such as “not getting dropped”.

But so far the calendar for 2010 looks pretty clear. One event, though, is a must. The BC Masters cycling weekend in Courteney/Comox is well on its way to becoming a regular excursion for your author and Mrs W-R. This region of Vancouver Island is simply beautiful with stunning mountain and coastal scenery, which somehow seems to comfortingly familiar as well as excitingly exotic.

The weekend affords the opportunity for some treats – hiring a car, a scenic ferry ride, hotel cable television (it’s usually Tour time), a side trip to see the goats on the roof at the Coombs market, and tasty local epicurean delights.

And the racing is great! It is an omnium weekend and last year added a time trial to the road race and hill climb events. The latter is the final race and features a fairly tough 10 kilometre course up the picturesque access road to the ski resort on Mt. Washington (with great views of the Comox glacier). While it is only 600-odd metres of climbing, with gradients up to 11%, as well as some July heat, and with tired legs from two other races, it is a good challenge – mostly in pain management.

The 2009 edition was a shortened version of the 2008 route that was 16 kilometres with the first 6 kms featuring 400 metres of ascent with brutal gradients close to 13%. Your author posted a time of almost exactly 60 minutes that year (the winning time was 53′53″). Any climb that takes more than an hour ranks as serious and this route is probably a category 1 equivalent.

The shortened version takes around 25 minutes off one’s time. Although 2009 was a less-than-stellar year for climbing performances by your author, he did manage to ride relatively well and to hold off late charges by two strong finishers. The decision to drop the first tough section of the course was mostly popular as everyone was well beat from the weekend, and the organizers wanted to encourage more younger participants from the local club without scaring them off.

Still, it would be nice to see a return of the full course in 2010 – those first ramps are reminiscent of the Col de la Croix de Fer for sheer, bug-eyed suffering. Ah, the nostalgia. Perhaps there is something in 2010 to aim for after all…

What exactly is it about cycle racing that captivates us so? Part of it, surely, is the spectacle of athletic achievement. We like to see a job well done; human capacity pushed to its limits; and – let’s admit it – pain and suffering in the service of elusive glory.

Being a fan also has an aspirational aspect. We know, individually, our own limits and that those limits are far short of the pro peloton in most cases. But we get a vicarious thrill from association, that somehow – through our own riding and support of racing – that we are contributing to a greater whole of sublime physical performance, of bettering oneself and working in service of higher values.

There are also stylistic elements, perhaps best captured by the remarkable success of Rapha and its magazine Rouleur. There is something inherently cool about the pro peloton (despite many unfortunate fashion choices over the years), a kind of European insouciance always mixed with an impeccable attention to presentation and with a nod to cutting-edge technologies. And the coolness factor appears to increase the further back in time one goes, and if the photo-spread is in black and white it boosts it even further.

How ever much we rationalize it and search for meaning, there is something about being a cycling fan that defies analysis. It is, at its heart, a surrender to passion – it’s more about heart than head.

This is a curious conclusion is some ways. The Tour de France and its grand tour cousins are spectacles of sporting wonderment to stir the emotions. Smaller races, though, lack the spectacle and that they still stir the fans into support is a source of some confusion.

Perhaps further exposition is needed. In 2008, your author followed part of the Dauphiné Libéré around the south of France. The long-running race is a favourite for the stars and the pro-tour teams in preparing for the Tour and has seen much great racing over its history.

It has a decidedly provincial feel to it, however. The publicity caravan is visible but not a patch on the behemoth that plies the roads during the Tour; the crowds are small and dedicated, but it has the feeling of a weekend or weekday picnic outing rather than a frenzy of cycling supporters; there are no barriered areas for riders – they simply exit their buses, mingle with the fans, and find their bikes for a warm-up. If you squint your eyes a little, it takes on the appearance of a well-attended, funded, and organized regional national champs rather than a premier world-class cycling race for the top professionals.

The riders may seem relaxed for this casual local outing, but the racing – of course – is serious. Prize money, glory and reputations are on the line. After a stage, the riders are quick to disappear from the finish line area, dodging the media, and find their team crew and the safety of the team bus. After a tough day at the office, they just want to get ‘home’ as quickly as possible. Tomorrow is another day in the saddle, next week another race, and next month perhaps a major Tour. There is little time to bask in the glory of pro racing or to enjoy the adulation of fans; all this must be balanced by the routine requirements of what may be a glamorous job, but a very demanding one.

So once the grand spectacle is stripped away, what are we left with? What spectacle do hard-working, skilled and gifted riders performing the duties of their profession provide? If the race is not exciting enough to make them slip their masks, how can our passions be stirred by their lack of passion? Where is the spectacle of another day at the office?

Still, when the slight hush falls over the finish-line crowd, when the big screen by the line shoes the first riders – perhaps just ahead of the peloton – rounding the bend of the last kilometre, when the camera motorbikes zoom into the pit area and quickly form into a row, and you can hear the sound of tyres carving into the tarmac, the hum of spokes spinning through the air, and feel the riders’ tension as they bear down on the line, it’s hard not to be invigorated, to feel to build of excitement…

It may not be the Tour, but there is something inescapable about the beauty of cycling, something that defies any attempts at rationalization. Even the smallest stage on the most insignificant of races gives us a glimpse into why we’re cycling fans: we just can’t help ourselves.

And let your author be honest for a moment, patient reader; following cycling around the small villages and towns of southern France, with attendant spectacular scenery, each special in its own way (and carefully chosen to be so by the race organizers) is not a small pleasure. Flush with the relaxing tonic of being on holiday (and perhaps a little too flush with local tonics) certainly gives rose-tinted glasses. But why complain? Those memories will sustain true cycling fans for many cold and dark winter months to come.

Thanks to all those who have read this blog this year, and apologies for some posting delays in the last few months. I hope to have the Greg LeMond series wrapped up early in the New Year. Oh, and the grimpeur of the year? Julian Dean. Yes.

Winter has a way of closing in shockingly fast. Add in three weeks of constant rainfall and training time has been next to zero. Eschewing an indoor trainer means the only option for saddle time is to tackle the cold, rain, and the dark. Frankly, it is not worth it.

Not being able to keep up a stock of base miles is a source of constant stress for cyclists. Regular riding is required to keep that basic level of fitness, which is the building block for the top-end speed that is stacked on top of it.

Crunching the time

Chris Carmichael’s latest book from VeloPress turns this idea on its head. (VeloPress provided your author with a complimentary copy.) Carmichael is apparently selling stacks of these books and the title immediately explains why. The Time-Crunched Cyclist: Fit, Fast and Powerful in 6 Hours a Week offers the panacea to the second most precious commodity for the vast majority of cyclists behind good weather: time.

Basically, the message from Carmichael is ride less now. If you can put in the base miles, that’s well and good. But six hours a week is all you need to get, er, fit, fast and powerful. And you can start in on this plan, the Time-Crunched Training Program (TCTP) just a couple of months out from your season – whether that be racing or just aiming for a personal best on your local hillclimb.

There is a trade-off, however. You might be riding less, but you will be riding a lot harder. The plan is based on the principle of working your top end hard – there are plenty of tough-looking and strict sprinting drills to complete, and a high number of the workouts are at over 80% intensity. This has the effect, according to Carmichael, of pulling up all of a rider’s fitness. Working the anaerobic will still benefit the aerobic. And with plenty of time to rest, recovery from hard workouts won’t be a problem.

But there are other trade-offs as well. The fitness from this plan will give you a fast finish but, in the absence of a solid long-riding base, will only be good for hard rides of up to 3 hours. Still, as Carmichael points out, this covers most of the racing/competitive situations that a high number of amateur riders will face.

Another trade-off is that the fitness will not last as long. Having a solid base will allow top-end speed to be added on at various points in the season. Carmichael’s plan allows for a couple of peaks in a season, but you have to taper off and build up again. You get some pretty bright-burning matches to light up your riding, but you’ve only a handful to use over a couple of months in the season. Carmichael describes it as “time-crunched training leads to time-crunched fitness”; it’s in blocks of 12 weeks, which is how long your ‘fitness’ will last (minus 4 weeks at the start to work into it – gains come quickly, apparently) with two blocks a year realistic.

Carmichael has no qualms in pointing out the limitations of his training plan. It won’t work for everyone. But for riders targeting specific goals or events, say over a short summer racing season, a high degree of fitness can be achieved in limited time. If this is the sort of riding that you do, or you need a plan for a special ride, then this is the plan to follow.

Ride less now: ride harder later

Like any training plan, though, you have to be disciplined. And with only six hours a week on this plan you will have to be super disciplined. The work rate heads upwards pretty quickly once you’re on the program. If you want the gains you have to do the drills – and they are plenty tough.

This raises the question of whether the plan is too strict and too reliant on intensity. Some coaches have suggested that amateur riders often train too hard on the light days and not hard enough on the heavy days. With the TCTP stacked with heavy days, this could be a problem.

Still this could be a good plan for a well-disciplined solo rider, or for two or more riding buddies all training together. As Carmichael points out, it’s well suited for an indoor trainer. If you want to get fit, fast and powerful, forget about those cafe rides while you’re in training – or do them outside the six hours. And to get the most out of the TCTP, you’ll need to get set up right with a HR monitor (almost essential) and, ideally, a power meter.

If you like a structured training plan and want to see the benefits of working hard, then this could be the book for you. If you’ve even less time for charting heart rates and downloading power outputs, and your preferred training is to sprint for traffic lights when the mood takes you, or chase your friends up the steepest hills you can find, the TCTP will be too strict and too technical.

But does it work? The debate is ongoing about when and for how long to work at particular intensities, and Carmichael’s book is a useful contribution. Will it make you fit, fast and powerful? Well, there’s only one way to find out!

Before looking in detail at LeMond’s disastrous seasons in 1993 and 1994, it is worth pausing to comment on the adversaries that he was up against in those years and the performance shift that was underway in professional cycling.

At the press conference after the 1991 Tour, where LeMond finished 7th, Miguel Indurain – the winner – sat down next to him. “L’homme fort,” LeMond said, according to Samuel Abt (Indurain did not speak French, nor did he understand it when LeMond repeated it in English, Abt noted).

But it was not just Indurain ‘the strong man’ that LeMond had to worry about.

The performance shift

LeMond may have had his own problems finding his form, but it was also clear that les hommes forts, the strong men, were changing the face of cycling. As has been mentioned here before, Cyclismag has provided an extensive discussion on the historic power output of riders at the Tour. According to this analysis, 400 watts on average on the major climbs (equalized for comparative rider weight) was the limit of performance in the late 80s to early 90s. Lucho Herrera was producing 395 watts on Alpe d’Huez in 1987, while Pedro Delgado was at 390 watts two years later. LeMond and Fignon were topping out at a similar level in their duel that year; even LeMond and Indurain were at the same level in 1990.

Indurain’s performance in 1991 was slightly below this level. But by 1993, he was producing 430 watts on the major climbs – a 10% improvement in 3 years. And he was being matched by Swiss ride Tony Rominger. In 1994, Marco Pantani pushed the threshold up to 440 watts and Indurain recorded 445 watts in 1995; others, like Rominger, Luc Leblanc, Alex Zulle, Richard Virenque, Bjarne Riis, Ivan Gotti, and even Claudio Chiappucci were not far behind up to the mid-90s.

But it was not just Indurain’s 15% improvement in 5 years that interested analysts. By 1993 only a select few riders were producing over 410 watts on a handful of climbs; by 1994 there were five riders averaging over 410 watts; eight in 1995, and eleven by 1996. Six years after he won his last Tour, there were eleven riders producing at least 5% more power than LeMond had ever recorded. Even in top form, the same form that won him three Tours, LeMond could not have won in 1993 or 1994.

As well, while there were new, young riders coming onto the scene, it was the performance gains that more mature riders were making that was LeMond’s main challenge. It is often said that Grand Tour winners take time to mature, but it was Indurain who was the start of this new assumption. Prior champions like LeMond, Fignon, Hinault, Merckx and Anquetil announced their intentions and showed their potential early in their careers. As LeMond’s career was winding down, some riders were just getting started.

A good case in point was Tony Rominger, born the same year as LeMond. He was a late starter in cycling, turning pro in 1986 as LeMond was winning his first Tour. When LeMond was on the top step of the podium for the third time in the Tour in 1990, Rominger was 57th. But he was on the ascent, having won the Giro di Lombardia in 1989. In 1990 he won Tirreno-Adriatico. 1991 was his breakout year: the Tour de Romandie and Paris-Nice were his major wins. In the latter he showed his new climbing prowess with wins on the stages finishing on Mont Faron and the Col d’Eze. He would place second in the 1992 edition, winning again on Mont Faron but losing the stage and the overall to ‘Jeff’ Bernard on the Col d’Eze.

But there was more to come: winner of the Vuelta three times, 1992-94; the Giro in 1995 with four stage wins (at age 34!); and two hour records in 1994, breaking the best effort by Indurain who also set a new record that year. As noted, he was 2nd in the 1993 Tour – his best year – and won the KOM classification; in 1996 he could still manage 10th overall at the Tour (climbing at 440 watts, according to Cyclismag) and third in the Vuelta.

Rominger worked under the training guidance of Michele Ferrari throughout his career, starting in 1987 when Ferrari was the doctor on Rominger’s Château d’Ax team. Ferrari, as is well known, would have remarkable success as a doctor and specialist coach with riders on the Gewiss-Ballan team and a host of private clients (including, of course, one Lance Armstrong). In the 1995 Giro, which Rominger won, the top four finishers were all Ferrari’s riders (including Gewiss rider Evgeni Berzin, the winner in 1994; Ferrari had transformed the burly rouleur into a serious grimpeur). Indeed, as LeMond was struggling in the early nineties, his main opponents were all either clients of Ferrari’s or were advised by Professor Francesco Conconi (or doctors attached to Conconi’s sports institute).

The 1992 Vuelta was Rominger’s first major Grand Tour win. Although he had shown good form in shorter races, he was not rated as a favourite, even – seemingly – by his own Clas team. But in one of the toughest courses for climbing seen for some years, Rominger proved more than capable of staying with the Spanish mountain goats. He was hampered by crashes and injuries and falling morale. Prior to the final time trial, when he was in second place overall, a crash the day before meant that he could hardly bend his knee the morning of the race. But by the afternoon he had recovered and he went on to win the stage and the overall. Coincidentally, Alexandre Vinokourov – managed by Rominger – would peform a similar feat of recovery to win the first time trial in the 2007 Tour de France after being badly injured in a crash; subsequently, though, he was disqualified for blood doping. Somewhat ironically, this prompted commentator Phil Liggett to note: “It is incomprehensible that Vinokourov could do such a thing when he must have known he was under suspicion because of his dealing with disgraced doctor Michele Ferrari.”

Rominger did not produce many results after 1996, but his achievements up to then had been beyond impressive. He was Ferrari’s ultimate success story, although suspicion abounded. Ferrari’s riders, indeed many of those associated with doctors and trainers in Italy, reported large fluctuations in their blood parameters, specifically haematocrit readings. According to documents seized in Italy from Ferrari, Rominger’s saw regular fluctuations of up to 12% within a few months, in the years 1989-96. In October 1989 it was 38.8, and it was suggested by investigators that this was his normal level. But during race periods as his career progressed, it allegedly kept peeking higher and higher – to 48.2, 50, 52, 55.5 and up to 56.5 in 1996. Later pressed in an interview on these numbers, Rominger brushed them away and said he knew nothing of their accuracy.

Faster and faster

But it was not just LeMond who was struggling with the pace in 1993 and 1994.

“I saw Greg race as a champion through the 80s, and into the 90s when the cycling community as a whole turned a blind eye towards doping and consciously ignored the onslaught of EPO in the peloton,” Andy Hampsten told Velo News in 2004. “Like Greg, I, too, saw what I believe were the effects of EPO when it entered pro cycling in the early 90s. In the first years it grew froma few individuals reaping obscene wins from exploiting its ‘benefits’,to entire teams relying on it, essentially forcing all but the most gifted racers to either use EPO to keep their place in cycling, quit or become just another obscure rider in the group.

The quintessential grimpeur, Hampsten was a former Giro winner and had won on Alpe d’Huez in 1992, placing 4th overall that year. Even by 1993 he was struggling and in that year’s Tour he was 8th, behind the unheralded Zenon Jaskula and Johan Bruyneel, amongst others (he could manage a top-ten in most of the mountain stages, except for a disastrous 32nd, just over 4 minutes down, on the seven-climb monster 15th stage in the Pyrenees).

“Everyone knows everyone else’s relative abilities. Of course, that changes, people get better and get worse, but it was an open secret from the early 90s on,” Hampsten said in an interview this year. For him, he noted at the time in other reports, he knew what his capabilities were and was relatively consistent from year to year in the level he reached and when he peaked. The problem was with everyone else.

“It went, during the 90s, it went from, ‘Wow, I’m not winning; it’s getting a lot harder to win a race that’s either a time trial or has hills or mountains’, to ‘it’s really hard to stay with the first group of fifty guys’.”

It was exactly the problem faced by LeMond. And even others saw the writing on the wall and quickly responded. According to the testimony of Willy Voet, Festina rushed EPO to the 1993 Tour but it was too late to make a difference for its riders. The 1994 edition would be different; Richard Virenque went from 19th in 1993 to 5th in 1994; after struggling with injuries for two years to replicate his 5th in 1992, Luc Leblanc was 4th in 1994 (and would later be World Champion that year) and out-climbed Pantani to win a stage in the Pyrenees. Leblance admitted to his EPO abuse in those years at Virenque’s trial in 2000.

The anti-LeMond

In many ways, Rominger was the anti-LeMond. When he arrived young and fresh-faced in Europe, LeMond seemed destined to be a great champion – so obvious was his talent. And this proved to be the case. But the twilight of his career was full of challenges, struggles and setbacks. Not so Rominger, whose late arrival to the peloton initially created few waves; it was only later that he asserted his dominance and was able to retire only 2 years (at the end of 1997) after he was on the podium in a Grand Tour. Rominger achieved some of his best results in the same year, 1994, that LeMond was fading from relevance and quietly retired. What finished LeMond was not a generational shift, but a performance shift in the peloton: he simply could not keep up.

And while we might think of LeMond as cycling’s ultimate sportsman, Rominger had no illusions about the toughness of the sport and what was expected of him. He preferred to focus less on the sporting aspects of cycling and more on the hard work involved, with the victories delivering the publicity to the sponsors who demanded it.

He comment in a 2005 interview was telling: “I was a showman.”

Part 4, LeMond’s farewell, coming soon…

The media are billing next year as the showdown between the returning champion, Alberto Contador, and the former seven-time winner on the second year of his comeback, Lance Armstrong.

Gone, it would seem, from the pages of L’Equipe, is the old mistrust of Armstrong – Le Mensonge Armstrong – in favour of the Tour as ‘a battlefield’ between the old champion and his former teammate on his ascendency.

We now have some eight months to wait before the war is started. The edition of the Tour that next year’s is celebrating was announced just a few months before the race started, in April of 1910. Regular readers of this blog will recall that the Tour’s original grimpeurs and the 1910 foray into the Pyrenees was covered extensively in an earlier post.

In 2010, the queen stage in the mountains will cover four of the five peaks that the stage in 1910 covered: Peyresourde, Aspin, Tourmalet, and the Aubisque, for a total of 196 kilometres between Bagnères-de-Luchon and Pau.

The 1910 edition added the relatively minor climb of the Osquich, but the stage was 326 kilometres into Bayonne. It took the winner, Octave Lapize, 14 hours and 10 minutes. It was not even the longest stage of that year’s Tour, which was 424 kilometres from Brest to Caen, the penultimate stage. Even the final run into Paris was 262 kilometres, but the Tour was indeed very different one-hundred years ago!

The Tourmalet will be climbed twice in 2010 as the race will return there for a stage finish. It will be a grand affair, even if not the battlefield that L’Equipe is hoping for, and a fitting tribute to the legacy of Alphonse Steines.

Yet, as we saw in part 1 of this series, LeMond had expressed doubts about his condition going into the Tour. And commentators were also quick to note that his win in the Tour had hardly been a dominant performance. Those doubts were also there in the lead-up to the 1991 Tour, where LeMond would start in the number 1 jersey of the previous year’s winner.

“I don’t feel I’m at my very best right now,” he told Samuel Abt just before the Tour’s start. “I’ve done a lot of work this year and things haven’t come together as I’d hoped.”

LeMond had dropped out of the Giro earlier in the year (which was won by Franco Chioccioli) and had finished his traditional warm-up race for the Tour, the Tour of Switzerland, in 22nd.

“A lot of riders are coming on strong and that’s going to make it a tough Tour,” LeMond noted. “I was in decent shape [at the Giro] but these guys were in very good shape. These guys were like me usually in the Tour. Year after year, people just seem to be getting in a little bit better shape.”

LeMond was likely referring to Claudio Chiappucci, second in the Giro and second behind LeMond in the Tour in 1990, and Gianni Bugno, who placed third. These two riders were the flag bearers of Italy’s cycling renaissance. Also expected to do well in the 1991 Tour were Erik Breukink, riding for the Dutch PDM team, and Pedro Delgado’s faithful lieutenant, Miguel Indurain.

Perhaps no-one quite expected just how good Indurain was going to be. LeMond had him beat in the short prologue, placing third, and took the yellow jersey on the second day. He had it back for four more days, but would not wear it again. LeMond did not surrender without a fight, however, and on the first long ITT finished second just 8″ behind Indurain (with Breukink 4th and Bugno 5th).

The Pyrenees loomed as the first mountain test, but before the Tour reached their slopes there was scandal, a foreshadowing of many years of scandal to follow. The entire PDM team dropped out of the Tour sick. The initial explanation was food poisoning. But when that excuse was demolished, the injectable food substance Intralipid was blamed. This seemed to settle the issue, although why the riders needed this product injected was never well explained. Many years later, it was revealed in almost explicit terms that the culprit was the poor storage of the EPO being used by the riders.

Erik Breukink was gone from the Tour but LeMond stood to benefit little. As the road hit the mountains, he was struggling. On the 232-kilometre stage from Jaca to Val Louron, taking in the climbs of the Pourtalet, Aubisque, Le Tourmalet, Aspin, and the final ascent to Val Louron, LeMond watched the leaders ride away on Le Tourmalet. He fought back, but the day belonged to Indurain and Chiappucci, who were completely dominant, the latter taking the stage win with the former just behind. Bugno was at 1′29″ and a valiant Laurent Fignon held on for fourth at 2′50″.

Dominance in the mountains

Indurain had gone into the Tour with vague statements of continuing to work for Delgado. But it was clear that the young Indurain – well, three years younger that LeMond – was the stronger rider. His tactic for winning the Tour was later described as dominating the time trials and staying with the climbers in the mountains. But here he was dominating the climbers on their own territory.

On Alpe d’Huez, with Bugno winning the stage, Indurain was just 1″ behind. Stephen Rooks, the stage winner in 1988, was down 43″ in 5th; Delgado at 45″ in 8th; Fignon at 1′12″ in 9th; and LeMond rolled in just shy of 2 minutes back to take 14th. In his company was Gert-Jan Theunisse, a former KOM winner and Alpe d’Huez stage winner in 1989. Theunisse was back from a drug suspension (elevated testosterone, which he fought, Landis style, and later blamed on a diagnosed thyroid condition) and had targeted the stage, riding up it a reported 80 times in training during his months of suspension.

“I can’t win this race,” LeMond said after the stage. “It’s over now. Indurain’s too strong.” He’d had a viral infection, and said that his legs were fatigued. But he still had five more stages to finish.

On the final big mountain stage, Thierry Claveyrolat (7th on Alpe d’Huez) won in bleak weather in Morzine after leading over the HC climb of the Joux-Plane. Indurain simply sat in the bunch with the climbers and was just 30″ back. LeMond was 59th: a disaster.

The next day, on the stage to Aix les Bains, he fought back for 4th, but was clearly no longer a threat to the overall. In the final time trial, he showed his form of old, finishing third behind Indurain, 48″ back. Bugno again showed how he had improved his time trialling from reasonable results in previous years to strong finishes now, placing 2nd at 27″ behind Indurain.

The final results showed a changing of the guard, a new era starting. Indurain was the clear winner, with Bugno at 3′36″ and Chiappucci at 5′56″ to fill the podium. France was still in the game with Charly Mottet in 4th and Luc LeBlanc, who rode strongly in the mountains, 5th. Fignon had been less than spectacular, but had rode solidly for this 6th, 11′27″ down. LeMond was 7th, adrift by 13′13″, an unlucky pair of numbers.

“He’s the strongest man in the race, that’s for sure,” LeMond said of Indurain in the final press conference before the stage into Paris. “He deserves his victory.”

The beginning of the slow descent

He would not have known it at the time, but 1991 would be the last time Greg LeMond would finish the Tour de France. (His withdrawal from the 1992 Tour was covered in the previous post of this series.) In this Tour, Indurain was, as reports noted, ’simply sublime’. In the first ITT, he was 3 minutes clear of his closest rival, and passed Fignon who had started 6 minutes in front. By Paris, he had won by over 3 minutes for the overall from, again, Bugno and Chiappucci, their positions reversed. That year Indurain had also won the Giro using the same template for victory, with Chiappucci also second. (Incredibly, Indurain would do the Giro-Tour double again in 1993.)

If anything, though, LeMond was more confident going into the 1992 Tour than in previous years, despite placing only 7th the year before and not starting as the favourite.

“My condition is very high,” he told Samuel Abt. “Last year, after the Tour de France, I felt fatigued. This year, after every stage race, I felt better, which is like my normal self. I just need to improve a little bit.”

His build-up had gone well with a 4th place overall finish at the Tour of Switzerland and 11th at the Dauphiné, despite being, in his words, 2 kilograms over his racing weight of 68 kg. “That extra weight is the only thing that kept me back from winning the Dauphiné Libéré and the Tour of Switzerland,” he said, although Charly Mottet was on fire to win the former race and Gianni Bugno seemed to be in top form to place second in the latter.

LeMond told Abt before the Tour that most people considered him an outsider to win, and this proved to be more than the case. LeMond’s dropping out of the Tour was a shock, even to those who did not fancy his chances for the podium.

“This just shows how hard the Tour is,” LeMond said. “It’s not the end of an era.”

“We can’t tell yet if he’s finished,” Bernard Hinault was reported saying, sounding a slightly optimistic note. “What we do know is that LeMond’s taken a very hard blow to his morale and without strong morale you’re finished.”

Roger Legeay, LeMond’s director on the Z team sounded worried. “I can’t believe that a rider of his quality is finished at 31,” he said. Bernard Thévenet was also worried about LeMond’s morale: “It’s much more a drop in motivation than in your legs.”

His motivation clearly had taken a blow. But there were also other problems, too, so it was not just his head – his motivation – but his legs as well. And, as we have seen, new strong men in the peloton were dominating: Indurain, Chiappucci, Bugno and others, with the emergence of Tony Rominger – a rider the same age as LeMond – who had foreshadowed his late rise with a tremendous win in the ‘92 Veulta. These were Les Hommes Forts, and would frustrate any attempts by LeMond to stage a comeback in 1993 and 1994.

The next post in the series, part 3, will look at those last two year’s of LeMond’s Tour riding, as well discussing his struggle to find answers to his drop in performance, and the inevitable comments on the new dopage that, by 1994, was becoming well entrenched in the peloton.

Early start and orange leaves
are damp on the road, Fall bringing
the end of Summer riding and time
for booties and knee warmers and
fenders.

Traffic is light and my tyres hiss
on the pavement and the city sounds
tired even as my legs feel fresh
for the day.

The route carefully planned and
mapped, but open to change -
dependent on finding more and more
climbs.

Urban scenes slip past as the the city
recedes from sight but remains always
near despite an even deeper quiet and
solitude of the upturned road.

A gear change, a cadence shift;
standing on the pedals to marvel at
the view – so close to somewhere else,
in my imagination.

The climb too soon over, too fast
on the descent and the return to busy
streets, now filled with weekend
commuters, their destinations unknown
to me.

An all too brief solitude my ride’s
reward, but fresh espresso awaits.
The sun warms, my mood
brightens again, but no bucolic
rural vistas – just the city:
urban
climbing.