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as fields of parched summer hay with no fences in sight. Long as the view of three nations from atop an icy,
jagged peak in the Pyrenees.
It would be easy to see the Tour de France as a monumentally inconsequential undertaking: 200 riders
cycling the entire circumference of France, mountains included, over three weeks in the heat of the
summer. There is no reason to attempt such a feat of idiocy, other than the fact that some people, which is
to say some people like me, have a need to search the depths of their stamina for self-definition. (I'm the
guy who can take it.) It's a contest in purposeless suffering.
But for reasons of my own, I think it may be the most gallant athletic endeavor in the world. To me, of
course, it's about living.
A little history: the bicycle was an invention of the industrial revolution, along with the steam engine and
the telegraph, and the first Tour was held in 1903, the result of a challenge in the French sporting press
issued by the newspaper L'Auto. Of the sixty racers who started, only 21 finished, and the event
immediately captivated the nation. An estimated 100,000 spectators lined the roads into Paris, and there
was cheating right from the start: drinks were spiked, and tacks and broken bottles were thrown onto the
road by the leaders to sabotage the riders chasing them. The early riders had to carry their own food and
equipment, their bikes had just two gears, and they used their feet as brakes. The first mountain stages were
introduced in 1910 (along with brakes), when the peloton rode through the Alps, despite the threat of
attacks from wild animals. In 1914, the race began on the same day that the Archduke Ferdinand was shot.
Five days after the finish of the race, war swept into the same Alps the riders had climbed. Today, the race
is a marvel of technology. The bikes are so light you can lift them overhead with one hand, and the riders
are equipped with computers, heart monitors, and even two-way radios. But the essential test of the race
has not changed: who can best survive the hardships and find the strength to keep going? After my personal
ordeal, I couldn't help feeling it was a race I was suited for.
Before the '99 season began, I went to Indianapolis for a cancer-awareness dinner, and I stopped by the
hospital to see my old cancer friends. Scott Shapiro said, "So, you're returning to stage racing?"
I said yes, and then I asked a question. "Do you think I can win the Tour de France?"
"I not only think you can," he said. "I expect you to."
At first, the 1999 cycling season was a total failure. In the second race of the year, the Tour of Valencia, I
crashed off the bike and almost broke my shoulder. I took two weeks off, but no sooner did I get back on
than I crashed again: I was on a training ride in the south of France when an elderly woman ran her car off
the side of the road and sideswiped me. I suffered like the proverbial dog through Paris Nice and Milan-
San Remo in lousy weather, struggling to mid-pack finishes. I wrote it off to early-season bad form, and
went on to the next race where I crashed again. On the last corner of the first stage, I spun out in the rain.
My tires went out from under me in a dusky oil slick and I tumbled off the bike.
I went home. The problem was simply that I was rusty, so for two solid weeks I worked on my technique,
until I felt secure in the saddle. When I came back, I stayed upright. I finally won something, a time-trial
stage in the Circuit de la Sarthe. My results picked up.
But it was funny, I wasn't as good in the one-day races anymore. I was no longer the angry and unsettled
young rider I had been. My racing was still intense, but it had become subtler in style and technique, not as
visibly aggressive. Something different fueled me now psychologically, physically, and emotionally
and that something was the Tour de France.
I was willing to sacrifice the entire season to prepare for the Tour. I staked everything on it. I skipped all
the spring classics, the prestigious races that comprised the backbone of the international cycling tour, and
instead picked and chose only a handful of events that would help me peak in July. Nobody could
understand what I was doing. In the past, I'd made my living in the classics. Why wasn't I riding in the
races I'd won before? Finally a journalist came up to me and asked if I was entered in any of the spring
classics.
"No," I said.
"Well, why not?"
"I'm focusing on the Tour."
He kind of smirked at me and said, "Oh, so you're a Tour rider now." Like I was joking.
I just looked at him, and thought, Whatever, dude. We'll see.
Not long afterward, I ran into Miguel Indurain in a hotel elevator. He, too, asked me what I was doing.
"I'm spending a lot of time training in the Pyrenees," I said.
"Porque?" he asked "Why?"
"For the Tour," I said.
He lifted an eyebrow in surprise, and reserved comment.
Every member of our Postal team was as committed to the Tour as I was. The Postal roster was as follows:
Frankie Andreu was a big, powerful sprinter and our captain, an accomplished veteran who had known me [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]