After hearing rumors of its existence for several years, I began to watch the Tour de France regularly when Mark Cavendish was at the peak of his powers. I loved seeing the Manx Missile dominate the sprints, but I was quickly drawn to the overall General Classification (GC) battles for the coveted malliot jaune, the Yellow Jersey awarded to the Tour Champion. In that era, I remember the top men mixing it up in the mountains were Andy and Frank Schleck, Alberto Contador, and Cadel Evans. But alas! away at summer camps, I missed their most famous duels: in the Pyrenees the young and mighty Andy Schleck versus the wily and tricksy Alberto Contador in the prime of life who rode away in Chaingate, or in another edition I heard of Schleck’s exploits in the Alps trying to find separation from Cadel Evans on the high Galibier and beloved Alpe d’Huez but ultimately it was not enough for Schleck to take victory overall.
I did not see these battles, but to hear them described was perhaps more powerful. My imagination was allowed to run wild once more as it did when I first heard the rumor of this Tour’s existence. I thought about the stamina, the fitness, and the guts it takes to ride all the way around France, and yet the race can still come down to one last decisive mountain stage, one last mountain, one last chance to attack for overall victory. Hearing about the final Pyrenean battles, I could not envision Andy Schleck and Alberto Contador as only cyclists racing up a mountain. I imagined famous boxers in the ring trading blows for the World Heavyweight Title. Each attack—surges of pace up the steep gradient climbs trying to distance the other rider—was an attempt to crack the rival and land the knockout punch. And yet the rival was up for the challenge, counterattacking himself, trying to deal a knockout punch as well. In my head, that 2010 Tour of Schleck vs Contador is the gold standard of going toe-to-toe, pedal stroke for pedal stroke. For two, maybe even three days they battled on in the misty rain-soaked Pyrenees while the rabid fans cheered them on up and down the famous climbs. I love, too, the idea that that Tour ended in infamy: only Schleck’s chain drop amid the ascent of the Port de Bales climb could separate them. Villainous Contador took advantage of this Schleck misfortune—no fault of his own—and rode away to victory overall in that Tour. In years following, much controversy surrounds that Tour. Contador was stripped of that title for doping and seemed even more the villain. But then as I learned more and more about the sport, I didn’t have the full story at the time: apparently Contador was in the midst of an attack when Schleck’s chain dropped. Remember, as I said I did not see this myself. I only heard secondhand accounts of the stages, I only saw quick-snippet highlights of their round-for-round scorching attacks and counterattacks. What rightly happened or what I only heard happened has mostly faded from my memory too, and that is fine with me. I now refuse to watch full replays of those Pyrenean stages, because I do not want to relearn exactly what happened. I prefer my own idealized and epic imagined images of those days of yore. You see, the images I have stored in my memory resemble a true and proper clash of titans.
Ever since that 2010 Tour, epic clashes, duels, and showdowns is the lens with which I have viewed the sport of cycling. In my eyes, the most famous battles in cycling shake the foundations of the world like when Zeus and the Olympians subdued Cronus and the Titans. This is a sport about which the ancient bards would wish to compose great epics. What one ancient bard would think of cycling shall be the subject of the next post, Stage 2, but for now let us look at what the modern day “bards” once accomplished. Finally, in recent years, I have confirmed what I always thought must be the case: I am not the first to view cycling with such an epic lens. I tell you, for me, the peak of journalism came in the first half of the 20th Century when sports reporters covering the biggest races made cycling the most popular sport in Europe by a longshot—selling newspapers filled with vivid accounts of heroic victors and classic duels by the truckload. With cycling’s linear travel from point to point, none or few sports lend themselves more to the narrative storytelling medium. If you do not believe me, I dare someone tell me that a newspaper article recapping any remotely exciting football or basketball game was better than just watching the replay of the game itself. With cycling, the best races can be greatly enhanced in twenty different ways if twenty half-decent journalists set to work. I achieved this myself, my version of Schleck vs Contador based on secondhand accounts is utterly epic—probably better than the real footage, but allow me to give another concrete example from cycling history.
One of the most monumental days in the history of cycling was when Fausto Coppi decisively beat bitter archrival Gino Bartali once-and-for-all on Stage 17 of the 1949 Giro d’Italia from Cuneo to Pinerolo. Their rivalry captivated all of Italy, for these two represented the Old and the New Italy. Every Italian was walking on pins-and-needles awaiting to hear the results of the stage, Mario Ferretti’s opening radio line—at the beginning of his commentary that started mid-stage—is still arguably the greatest moment in Italian sports history: “Un uomo solo e al commando, la sua maglia e bianco-celeste, il suo nome e Fausto Coppi!” (“One man alone is leading, his jersey is sky blue and his name is Fausto Coppi!”). This race and the Coppi-Bartali rivalry in general shall surely be the spotlight of multiple future posts, but for now I dare share a dirty secret: this actual race itself from Cuneo to Pinerolo must have been a relatively dull affair. Over the extremely mountainous 254 km stage, Fausto Coppi broke away early on, stringing the whole peloton out behind. He ended up beating second place on the stage, Gino Bartali, by a whopping nine minutes. It was a proper thrashing, there is no way it could have been as exciting as the evenly-matched Schleck-Contador duels of the 2010 Tour. But that is until the journalists set to work to help us properly understand what a feat just transpired. They set about crafting the compelling narrative that correctly sets this day as the crown jewel in this greatest rivalry.
I present now the opening excerpt of Dino Buzzati’s Corriere della Sera newspaper article treating the events of this stage:
“Today, ascending the Izoard’s terribly steep incline, when we saw Bartali set off in solo pursuit with furious thrusts of the pedals, spattered with mud, the corners of his lips turned down in a grimace expressing all his body’s and soul’s suffering—Coppi went by quite a while before, and by now he was climbing the final slopes of the pass—there was reborn in us, after thirty years, a feeling that we’ve never forgotten. Thirty years ago, that is to say, when we learned that Hector had been slain by Achilles. Is such a comparison too solemn, too glorious? No. What use would the so-called ‘classical studies’ be if the fragments that remained with us did not become an integral part of our humble existence? Fausto Coppi certainly does not have Achilles’s icy cruelty: on the contrary….Of the two champions he is without a doubt the more cordial and likable. But Bartali, even if he is more aloof and gruff, however unknowingly, lives the same drama as Hector, the drama of a man destroyed by the gods. The Trojan hero finds he is fighting against Athena herself and he was destined to succumb. It’s against a superhuman power that Bartali fought, and he could do nothing but lose: the evil power of age.” (Dino Buzzati, The Giro d’Italia: Coppi versus Bartali at the 1949 Tour of Italy, p. 161-162)
Buzzati and all of Italy knew the significance of the rivalry to the point he needed not even stress it in his account. All knowing this was the decisive duel between Coppi and Bartali, what could be a more appropriate comparison than invoking the ultimate duel? The Coppi-Achilles and Bartali-Hector references continue the entire article, including three quotations of verse straight from the Iliad itself. Buzzati describes the elegance and power of Coppi, while still paying homage to old Bartali: a stubborn star-crossed hero still fighting the good fight that he is doomed to lose. But allow me one more quote, for Buzzati explicitly says what I have contended for the length of this article as he is about to describe Coppi’s initial attack:
“Hundreds of thousands of Italians would have paid who knows how much to be up there where we were, to see what we were seeing. For years and years—we realized—there would be endless talk about this small occurrence that in itself did not seem to be of special importance: merely a man on a bicycle who was pulling away from his traveling companions. And yet in that instant, and don’t laugh, on the side of the road, irresistibly came to pass what the Ancients used to call Destiny.” (p. 163)
Yes, yes, Buzzati admits he is only covering a bike race and one of the men has just made a simple attack, but in the same breath—just as the 2010 Tour was for me—he stresses how much more than a bike race it is: all Italians want his front-row seat in the caravan of cars, here is a battle that shall be spoken of in revered terms for decades to come, it was a date with Destiny. At the reading of Coppi-Achilles and Bartali-Hector, I breathed a deep sign of contentment and joy to know such glorious accounts of cycling are in existence. I daresay no finely-balanced Spanish, English, German, or even Brazilian World Cup Final can compete with this.
Yes, this was when cycling was king. But today in a world where sport is consumed on “far-seeing” televisions, cycling is king no longer, supplanted by many more TV-friendly sports. And in a world of instantaneous information in our pockets and where cuckoo birds Tweet their days away, the rich journalistic tradition of cycling has markedly declined as well. Perhaps I look not hard enough for good writing—and sincerely I hope this is the case—but I fear this modern age is not wired for the slow burning races even with their exciting finales. And yet, I remember combining the pieces I saw and the pieces I heard of the 2010 Tour and how my imagination produced such a thrilling race based on the simple idea that the Grand Tours are the epics of modern day myth. And then I look at writings of people like Dino Buzzati, and I see a blueprint of how to stress and expound the gravitas of this sport. And so here I am, why not set out to follow in the footsteps of the giant journalists from cycling’s Golden Age? A bicycle race can be exciting and fantastic alone by itself for the dedicated fans who see more than just men in tights riding bikes, but in the sport’s best days the races’ dramas were massaged to perfection by journalists’ epic accounts and all the masses were cycling fans—reading about the living legends with eager anticipation after every big race. I can only ever hope to have a fraction of the skill of the great journalists of yore and epic poets of old that have chronicled the deeds of eternal fame, but now I shall try my hand and make my own contribution, however small. Thus I pray God give me wit and ability to create accounts of the cycling races that are epic enough to stir the heart and body, clever enough to please and satisfy the mind, and moving enough to occasionally pierce the soul. Perhaps now too, this modern age may be ready for such accounts of cycling again. Look at how we have unexpectedly reverted back to the oral tradition of ancients in healthy fashion—albeit in digital form. Thus I come with not only written accounts, but scripted narration as well just as it was in podcasting’s infancy. Thus my purposes are revealed, thus is given the mission statement. Soon we shall speak of the feats of great fame: past and present, these cycling epics.
Cycling Odysseys 