July 14, 2015
It is exactly twenty years ago today, that I first visited the Tour de France. On 'quatorze juillet,' the French national holiday. It was only the second day of a three week cycling tour through the Languedoc and Provence region with my friend Pieter, which we had carefully planned for months, leaning over maps to find the most beautiful roads. The day before, the Oad Cycletours coach had dropped us off with our bikes on the outskirts of the town of Millau. The sudden brightness of the southern sun after the long ride through the night from Amsterdam was a shock to the eyes. Happy, though, we were to finally get off the smelly bus and head off into the spectacular Gorges du Tarn for the first leg of our journey, from Millau to Saint-Énimie. We had pitched our tent by the river Tarn and woke up to a splendid morning, freshened by the nightly thunderstorms. This day, we would leave tent and panniers and go watch the Tour de France stage, near the finish in Mende.
We left camp early enough not to risk being late at our carefully selected spot, right atop the final climb of the day, a steep ramp leading up from the town of Mende to the plateau above, which harbored the regional airport where the finish line was drawn across the very center of the runway. It was exactly the same finale as of the 14th stage of this year's Tour. Via the Causse de Sauveterre and a painfully steep back entrance to the plateau, Pieter and I arrived at our designated spot three and a half hours before the passage of the peloton. No time to get bored, though. A crowd of spectators had already built. With our fellow fans, we tried to spot celebrities behind the tainted windows of the official cars that passed ahead of the race and listened in on race coverage coming from noisy shortwave radio receivers or RV television sets. Finally, the sound of a helicopter announcing the first of the riders. It swelled. Honking cars and motorbikes crested the hill. Spectators leaned over the barrier in anticipation. We positioned ourselves a little higher on the grassy bank next to the road, camera at hand. The energy built up in the air and sent adrenaline through my veins. We saw Laurent Jalabert and his green jersey pass in front. The French fans were going wild. Jalabert had been on the attack all day and was going to secure the stage win for the French on their national holiday. Few things seem more important. A couple minutes later, the main bunch with the GC contenders at the front. Pantani first, followed by Indurain, Riis, Zülle and Rominger, with dutch favorite Erik Breukink a few seconds behind.
I would say this victory, in a hilly stage wearing the sprinter's jersey, marked the tansformation of Jalabert from sprinter to allround champion. He would go on to win the polka dot jersey for king of the mountains twice, in 2001 and 2002. We now know it was the heyday of EPO use in the peloton. Jalabert's main directeurs sportifs, Manolo Saiz and Bjarne Riis, have been revealed as leading actors in the dark drug saga. Jaja himself is now a Tour de France commentator for French television. He has never come clean about his past, never confessed to doping, never claimed the opposite. He was among those tested positive for EPO in 2004 in an experimental test of 1998 samples, results of which were revealed only in 2013, four days prior to that year's Tour. Jalabert maintained he never tested positive during his career and dismissed the results as improper evidence. French TV cosmetically suspended Jaja only to have him return in 2014. Even today, he shows no inclination to admit or testify. His silence is unfortunate and undermines his credibility as a commentator. A great cyclist like Jaja could do a lot of good to the sport by opening up about the past, explaining what happened, whether he doped or not. The French cycling fans may be quick to link the impressive performances of Chris Froome and his team to doping, but seem to care little about the likes of Jalabert, champion in EPO-fuelled races, commenting on today's performances. So I don't think a confession or testimony will hurt him. And it tells me that fans care less about doping than about their chauvinist urges being satisfied.
The revelations about the ubiquity of EPO, blood doping, et cetera, hasn't tempered my interest in the sport one bit. On the one hand, there's always hope that cycling can clean up its act, that the love of the sport beats the pressure to win at all cost. The argument that spectators demand a constant breaking of records is ridiculous. The excitement is not in average speeds and absolute climbing times. Statistics show that the peloton has slowed down in recent years, and the crowds along the roads are no less. However, calls for cultural change - from doping by default to fair play - go together with surveillance and repression taking on ridiculous forms. Trust enforced with tools of distrust. A 1984-world in the making. On the other hand, the stream of revelations over the past years about the organized use of doping read like a detective novel. Both developments I find interesting to follow. We see a judicial system being bricolaged together as we go along. However, I can do very well without unfounded accusations and speculations about exceptional performances being drug-fueled. I would agree with Michael Rasmussen that the "did you dope?" question is a gratuitous one to ask an active rider, because, free after Upton Sinclair, how could a rider confess to doping, when his job depends upon him not confessing? I don't have the solution; as long as winning counts, there's an incentive to cheat. But I hope that parents will be able to let their little kids pursue their childhood dreams of one day wearing that yellow jersey on the Champs Élysées with peace of mind, and may that thought motivate cyclists and others involved to ban drugs from the sport.
Back at our camp site by the river Tarn, Pieter and I cooked our ravioli. We loaded up on carbo hydrates for next day's stage as the Bastille day fireworks lit the sky above the village. Miguel Indurain would go on to win his last of five Tours as we rode for weeks through a lavender scented Van Gogh painting along remnants of Roman times, fueled by crispy baguettes, blueberry jam and an ever shining sun.
Saint-Etienne - Mende, Tour de France 1995
