Free Lanced: The Shaming of Lance Armstrong by David Walsh, Paul Kimmage, John Follain, Alex Butler Page A
Chiappucci's every pedal-turn on the big screen in the salle de presse. At the end there were tears in the eyes of wrinkled men who thought they would never again cry at a sporting event. At that moment you were part of a bona fide epic.
It is why the game is worth the candle. When the first of the 198 competitors in this year's race shoots down the starting ramp close to the Eiffel Tower on Saturday, it will be an important event in the year's sporting calendar. The Tour is 100 years old and this year's race is as much a celebration of history as a battle between today's best.
Lost sometimes in the natural preoccupation with the race's brutality is the intelligence that informs the strategies of those than can win. For this is at once bloody combat and chess on wheels.
When Pedro Delgado broke away from Stephen Roche on the climb to La Plagne in 1987, the key question in Roche's mind was when to react. Go immediately and risk losing everything, or wait until the last moment and fly on the rush of adrenalin? Roche did not move until a little after the last moment. There was just 4km to go when he countered. So near to the finish, he rode furiously until the line then dropped into unconsciousness. Oxygen and the scent of a famous victory revived him.
Jacques Goddet, the head of the Tour, wrote of Roche's exploit in L'Equipe: "It was the day when he showed he had the heart and character of a true champion: one who succeeds in going beyond himself and so reaches the zenith of sporting performance."
The Tour has always demanded as much from a man's mind as his spirit. In 1986, what made the race riveting was the callous way Bernard Hinault played with Greg LeMond's mind. They were teammates, and Hinault had promised he would support the American, but as soon as the race began, the Frenchman's competitive streak annihilated whatever loyalty he felt towards LeMond.
It was then that the story-line twisted and turned in unimaginable directions.
Hinault dominated the race through the first 10 days, and after the first mountainous stage, he led by four and a half minutes. The race was over because Hinault knew how to defend an advantage and would be protected by his natural caution. But the very next day, the Breton attacked recklessly and before the final climb to Superbagneres in the Pyrenees, his lead was almost nine minutes.
He realised there was nothing left; nothing except the helplessness of exhaustion.
And how he paid for the madness. LeMond and others passed him on the climb to the finish and he lost almost his entire lead. On the next mountain stage LeMond overtook his teammate and that should have been it: one champion had gone, another had taken his place. Instead, the race then took on a different character.
Though his legs were weary, Hinault's spirit was indestructible. He talked of fighting on, of testing his teammate's mettle in the final time trial and, by pressing him all the way to Paris, he would make sure LeMond was a worthy successor.
As a justification for betrayal, it was formidable, and Hinault became more popular in defeat than he had ever been in victory.
Unnerved by his rival's trickery, LeMond crashed in the time trial and just about made it to Paris. He was the first English speaker to win the Tour: for him it had been an unnerving, almost harrowing, experience. For us, it had been heroic.
Beaten by his own crazed ambition, the old champion still left an indelible mark on his final Tour. He retired soon afterwards. Second place was bearable, once.
And so this epic old race gripped us. Founded by Henri Desgrange in 1903 and interrupted only by two world wars, the vision for the race was crystallised in the founder's book La Tete et Les Jambes (The Head and The Legs).
You couldn't win the race, nor could you make it to Paris simply by brute strength alone. An old Belgian cycling journalist, Harry Van den Bremt, once told a story from the Tour of 1973 or '74.
They were on the Col du Tourmalet
It is why the game is worth the candle. When the first of the 198 competitors in this year's race shoots down the starting ramp close to the Eiffel Tower on Saturday, it will be an important event in the year's sporting calendar. The Tour is 100 years old and this year's race is as much a celebration of history as a battle between today's best.
Lost sometimes in the natural preoccupation with the race's brutality is the intelligence that informs the strategies of those than can win. For this is at once bloody combat and chess on wheels.
When Pedro Delgado broke away from Stephen Roche on the climb to La Plagne in 1987, the key question in Roche's mind was when to react. Go immediately and risk losing everything, or wait until the last moment and fly on the rush of adrenalin? Roche did not move until a little after the last moment. There was just 4km to go when he countered. So near to the finish, he rode furiously until the line then dropped into unconsciousness. Oxygen and the scent of a famous victory revived him.
Jacques Goddet, the head of the Tour, wrote of Roche's exploit in L'Equipe: "It was the day when he showed he had the heart and character of a true champion: one who succeeds in going beyond himself and so reaches the zenith of sporting performance."
The Tour has always demanded as much from a man's mind as his spirit. In 1986, what made the race riveting was the callous way Bernard Hinault played with Greg LeMond's mind. They were teammates, and Hinault had promised he would support the American, but as soon as the race began, the Frenchman's competitive streak annihilated whatever loyalty he felt towards LeMond.
It was then that the story-line twisted and turned in unimaginable directions.
Hinault dominated the race through the first 10 days, and after the first mountainous stage, he led by four and a half minutes. The race was over because Hinault knew how to defend an advantage and would be protected by his natural caution. But the very next day, the Breton attacked recklessly and before the final climb to Superbagneres in the Pyrenees, his lead was almost nine minutes.
He realised there was nothing left; nothing except the helplessness of exhaustion.
And how he paid for the madness. LeMond and others passed him on the climb to the finish and he lost almost his entire lead. On the next mountain stage LeMond overtook his teammate and that should have been it: one champion had gone, another had taken his place. Instead, the race then took on a different character.
Though his legs were weary, Hinault's spirit was indestructible. He talked of fighting on, of testing his teammate's mettle in the final time trial and, by pressing him all the way to Paris, he would make sure LeMond was a worthy successor.
As a justification for betrayal, it was formidable, and Hinault became more popular in defeat than he had ever been in victory.
Unnerved by his rival's trickery, LeMond crashed in the time trial and just about made it to Paris. He was the first English speaker to win the Tour: for him it had been an unnerving, almost harrowing, experience. For us, it had been heroic.
Beaten by his own crazed ambition, the old champion still left an indelible mark on his final Tour. He retired soon afterwards. Second place was bearable, once.
And so this epic old race gripped us. Founded by Henri Desgrange in 1903 and interrupted only by two world wars, the vision for the race was crystallised in the founder's book La Tete et Les Jambes (The Head and The Legs).
You couldn't win the race, nor could you make it to Paris simply by brute strength alone. An old Belgian cycling journalist, Harry Van den Bremt, once told a story from the Tour of 1973 or '74.
They were on the Col du Tourmalet
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