As promised in Stage 1, it is time to speak of one of the great Ancients who helps provide this show its identity. Let us speak of that famous poet, the bard to whom the two greatest epics are attributed, a man who can be recognized by one simple name. Yes, I speak of Homer. This is the man who sung of Troy and Odysseus in the Iliad and the Odyssey. From a Dark Age of Greek culture, shrouded in great mystery on the edge of history we are told of a blind old man wandering from banquet hall to banquet hall reciting in verse tales of the great heroes from that archetypal war, the Trojan War. For over 15,000 lines, Homer sings of those great heroes who did battle and achieved glory and never-ending fame on the beaches of Troy. The most famous of these were surely swift-footed Achilles and Hector, breaker of horses. It was their ultimate duel that has ever inspired all other duels since. To read such an epic and think you have just glimpsed an idealized or even fictious account of a minor pseudo-historical war over a small strategically located settlement in the Mediterranean basin is to utterly fail as a human being. Surely, Homer brings out so much more than simple men monotonously fighting in another meaningless war. And surely, his other 12,000-line epic of Odysseus’ journey home from Troy is so much more than a narrative map of roadblocks and course corrections. The Odyssey was arguably the most famous Hero’s Journey of all time: here is what it is like to boldly venture around the world, here were hardships and experiences that forever change a man—the Odysseus that left Ithaca is not the same as the Odysseus that returned twenty years later. As we journey through life ourselves—experiencing the world, gathering knowledge and wisdom, and crossing thresholds of great consequence—can we not constantly relate to Odysseus’ journey as well? As we read, did Achilles’ rage not also flow through our capillaries as well? And when Hector that most noble Trojan fell with the thud of a Redwood onto the forest floor…surely all heard it, surely all were cut to the core and choked up. Yes, Homer was a master of verse, but more so a storyteller of such great worth to humanity his name has been cherished and revered for two and a half millennia.
Now let us play with hypotheticals. Imagine Homer lived among us today in these modern times. Where would he find his great heroes to inspire modern-age epics? Alas! Wars and violent conflicts are still plentiful in our day, providing heroes and villains for a bard of great quality to compose new famous lays. In addition to these veterans—hero sources as old as history—we have great moral teachers and scientists and philosophers and theologians, beloved leaders of nations, humble and virtuous holy men and women from all sorts of faiths. Surely, surely, Homer could hone-in and cover their great lives and struggles as he did for Odysseus, and perhaps he should if he were alive today. But if Homer were alive today, I daresay there is another realm where heroes vie for glory that would fully capture his attention. In modern times, the most physically gifted put their talents not to war, but to great athletic pursuits. The great men of Homer’s own day competed in athletic games and contests as well—forget not the funeral games of Patroclus—but surely in the modern age such competitions and sports have been elevated to stakes of higher reward and greater fame. Surely, our hypothetical modern Homer would develop a feverish love of sports. Surely, he would be a match or dethrone our best journalists and reporters who cover the most compelling competitions. Doubtless he would survey the sporting realm and be drawn to the events worth the highest stakes. Surely, every four years he would visit the village of the modern Olympians and watch the Games they play. If he did not physically present the World’s Cup to the nation with the best footwork, then surely he would commemorate their victory in verse. Surely, he would not miss that ultimate Bowl of Superb proportions that commences each cold February. Of course, he would eagerly watch the diamond where the Series most important to the World plays out. He would sing of the Masters who swing their clubs so precisely. He could tell of how gripped with Madness the collegiates and alumni are in March. All of these events and competitions would intoxicate his imagination and provide stories of much renown, but now I claim there is one sport and its most famous competition that would capture Homer’s heart most.
Compared to elegantly crafted bronze chariots drawn by purebred stallions nurtured by the gods—the quintessential hero’s vehicle of the Ancient World, the modern steel or carbon-fiber framed bicycles at first only seem similar in the number of wheels. The purrs and revs of a sleek Formula One racecar’s engine would certainly catch Homer’s fancy before the simple pedal-powered bicycle used by youngsters who cannot yet drive an automobile. Ah! But this is Homer. He would only be distracted by these objects’ appearances for a few moments, then he would immediately start fathoming the well of compelling struggles these human-powered bicycle machines could provide. Understanding Man’s need for competition—for few have understood it better—surely Homer could have predicted that Men would inevitably start racing on such machines around velodromes like they raced on chariots in the hippodromes of the Roman world. He could probably perceive that the struggle of a bicycle race would provide an excellent medium in which to analyze and praise Man’s will and drive to pursue excellence and achieve enduring glory. He would note the hours of daily preparation and training these riders would do offstage to be their most physically fit for these master races. He would describe a pack of racers on these machines matching each other pedal stroke for pedal stroke in exhilarating terms as every meter they got closer to the glorious finish line. He would describe the shrewd and calculating tacticians who would draft behind the other racers to save their energy for when it would be needed most. He would describe the finishing sprint between two, three, even four men: the strongest of the bunch, all physical equals in that moment but only the one with the most heart—containing the greatest drive—would take the spoils of first place. Yes, Homer seeing two children riding by on bicycles could have imagined all those possibilities in an instant. But could he have predicted to what epic levels such competitions on the bicycle would go?
Seeing the invention of clocks and wristwatches, could Homer have imagined that they would not only race against each other, but against the clock as well? Competitions where foreigners far away and descendants years later could learn of these early champions’ accomplishments against the clock and try to best their efforts? Efforts where they would evenly expend every ounce of energy they had across the entire length of this timed trial—a gut-wrenching prospect—instead of only shrewdly conserving their energy for a winning attack against the competitors that started beside them. Could he have imagined, the individual and team pursuits of the track or the point-to-point time trials that have since been created on the road? Could he have predicted that they would not limit bunch racing only to the velodrome? Could he have imagined they would shut down neighborhood streets to host the criteriums and kermesses of many laps? Could he have imagined that they would dare race from city to city? And sometimes the cities would be hundreds of miles apart. Could he have imagined the time trial from Land’s End to John O’Groats that is the entire length of Britain? Could he have thought about that ultimate time trial: The Hour Record. With such modern GPS technology, what about the newest time trial craze of “Everesting” up the local climb for hours on end? Could Homer have imagined that such bicycle races would not only be limited to pristine roads and finely furnished wooden tracks, but would be raced across rough-hard and unforgivingly relentless cobblestones built in bygone eras? Could he have imagined the mud-pits and sand traps of cyclocross? Or the rocky surfaces of mountain biking? Could he have imagined they would be daring enough to ride the great mountain passes of the Alps and Pyrenees with their grueling ascents and harrowing descents? Alpe d’Huez or the Stelvio, or the mighty Giant of Provence—that Evil one—Mont Ventoux. But most of all, could Homer have guessed that they would race multiple days, multiple stages as part of one massive overall race? Could he have imagined some of these stage races would traverse entire countries?
Surely in this 21st Century, the rumor would come to him about these mythical Grand Tours. He would hear of the three-week races that can only be thought of as grueling and epic: the Tour de France, the Giro d’Italia, and the Vuelta a Espana. Perhaps upon getting a grasp of these events, Homer would muse: “Why surely, this sounds as brutal as my Odyssey. It is unlikely any of these men shall be shipwrecked, nor shall they visit the Underworld on these journeys; but my, my, the hardships they will have to face would make Odysseus frown. In the most urban environments, look at how they fly around the narrow streets with their traffic furniture at ferocious speeds to win a sprint victory. And the very next day, they must ride another century-and-a-half of miles as they are drenched in buckets upon buckets of rain. And upon getting through such days they are greeted by a shark’s teeth profile of mountain pass after mountain pass for the next day’s stage. Do a number of these daunting days and a race or two against the clock, and the greatest champions shall surely rise to the top. Ah! Yes, here, here is where my heart is unconditionally won, for such a competition resembles not just Odysseus’ Odyssey: the battles man-to-man contained within such a journey remind me of the epic showdowns on the beaches of Troy. To see the top fast-men fly head-to-head with streaks of fire beneath their wheels in perfectly timed sprints is not only a show of physical prowess but a psychological masterpiece in achieving the ultimate goal. The same is true in the time trials: physical condition is of course paramount, but the part of tactics is fully substituted for an even greater portion of mental fortitude—O! how the legs scream in such efforts against the clock. And then there are the crown jewel of duels in the mountains. Where the spritely mountain-goat climbers battle for glory and distance themselves from the better time-trialists who lead in the General Classification—the overall competition. Ah, sometimes too it is not the great favorites who win but a crafty and cunning underdog—like one of the many minor characters I highlight in my Iliad who take on the greatest warriors. And yet I look at the archived records and reports, and I do see that yes, yes, once in a blue moon there is a showdown that echoes the famous duel of my Iliad between swift-footed Achilles and Hector, breaker of horses. Yes, I review the roll-calls of the champions of the great races and I start to dabble into their biographies. They reveal to me this sport is not only one with a rich history, but a genuine mythology—as you moderns would call it—of its own. Was Coppi really the milk-boy for Girardengo? Who passed the bidon to who? Can Hinault prove his innocence in his accused betrayal of Lemond? Should Contador have waited when Schleck’s chain dropped in the Pyrenees? In this modern world of such comfort and ease compared to my own, look at the suffering some Men are paid to endure for the rewards of glory and fame. Surely, I, Homer, am moved; surely, here is suitable material for an epic.” Thus hypothetically spake Homer.
In the last Stage, I quoted Buzzati’s comparisons of Coppi to Achilles, Bartali to Hector. Not only do I firmly believe Homer would approve, but in my heart of hearts I think Homer would shed a tear of joy at the beauty and truth of the comparison. I state again that Buzzati line:
“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?” (Emphasis mine. Dino Buzzati, The Giro d’Italia: Coppi versus Bartali at the 1949 Tour of Italy, p. 161)
Truly Buzzati hammers the nail on its head to the purpose of the classical studies. For after reading such poets such as Homer, Dante, Shakespeare, and other authors from the ancient past to the contemporary novelists and even filmmakers their tales do remain with me in my bones, my blood, my mind and imagination. To omit or squander such references to the famous stories—the ones that move the hearts of men—that I see echo on in the deeds of current men who shall someday be legends themselves, seems to me a massive waste—a missed opportunity if ever there was one. In Stage 1, I spoke about when cycling was king and the tradition to which I wish to return. Here, I have spoken of the king of epic storytelling, the one I wish to emulate most as I attempt to recapture cycling’s rich narrative tradition. I wish to emulate him most because as I have said elsewhere: cycling for me is the Iliad and Odyssey combined. I have laid the case here for why Homer would love cycling. And not only that, in a nod to the great poet: one of his epics forms the title of this show. O! How you all implicitly know I wish I could include both epics in my title, but let the next Stage—Stage 3—serve as explicit reasoning to why I have chosen to name this show the Cycling Odysseys.
Cycling Odysseys 