Domination, at least from the spectator’s point of view, can quickly wring the suspense and excitement out of watching an event. In most cases, the sporting events we look back on most fondly are those most closely fought; even in recalling my own competitions, those where my winning margin was smallest feature most prominently in my memories. The smart money says Greg LeMond feels the same way.
Cycling is a difficult sport to spectate, or has been in the past. Point-to-point races covering hundreds of kilometers are hardly friendly to an audience who waits for hours at the roadside only to watch a colorful blur speed by. The modern days of start-to-finish coverage that you can watch on your mobile while driving to work, sitting on a conference call, drinking a cup of coffee, texting a friend, eating a sandwich and raging at inattentive drivers are a relatively new innovation; in the past, the races were documented only by journalists who may or may not have been in attendance of the event. The sole purpose of holding a bicycle race was often to sell newspapers, and in accordance with that goal, the journalists did what they needed to in order make the racing sound interesting. In other words, they lied like their pants were on fire.
Nevertheless, the feats documented were herculean. They built the leader and championship jerseys of our sport – the jerseys reserved for the elite of the elite – into sacred fleeces handed down from the very heights of Mount Velomis. These were jerseys that the hardest and most respected names of our sport drew unimaginable overdraft fees from the V-Bank in order to earn.
Certainly, this is why Rule #16 exists; we mortals have no business sullying such holy garments, however good our intentions may be. But the modern Pros claim their adherence to Rule #16 through their actions when offered the privilege to briefly bear its burden; invariably, they will dig deeper than ever before to stay within contention to honor their jersey. On some days, these jerseys give them wings while on other days, the jersey’s weight may prove too much.
Watching Froome lead the Tour from Stage 8 onwards challenged my interest in the event; his show of dominance on Ventoux did so even more. But with his final attack on the climb to Annecy-Semnoz, with nothing left in the tank, I recognized as a show of honor – of respect for the jersey. Of panache. He had no need to win that stage, and he had no realistic means to do so under those circumstances, given that his legs had already left him on the slopes of l’Alpe d’Huez.
But honor drove him to try – honor fueled by a respect for the Maillot Jaune. It would have been glorious for him to win the final climb of the Tour in the leader’s jersey, but attacking and failing is what earned him at least one more fan.
There’s no such thing as a failure who keeps trying
Coasting to the bottom is the only disgrace– John C. Popper, Blues Traveler
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@Elric
I live in Arkansas. We've been embarrassing the SEC since 1993! I don't care if you are Between the Hedges, unless you're 9-years-old, no jersey.
@frank
Fair point, sir, but until you stop fucking about and unveil the pictures of the new steed, we're all just killing time around here anyway.
@Spun Up true...Herschel's jersey must be framed on a wall within arms reach of the kegerator.
frank- I feel for you having such a limited, albeit very deep range of interests. Here in the south, you don't follow Georgia football, it owns you. I when I lived in Athens I actually had to leave town to ride on game weekends or go mtb. It is bigger than life, sort of like the Death Star.
and where is the new ride anyway?
@Spun Up
Somehow you two have summed up the reason this place is so interesting in a couple of phrases of raw, perfect prose. Even taken out of context, I would enjoy this exchange.
Getting back just briefly to my 'related to, but admittedly a bit off topic photo of Andre Mahe', I have to confess that a far stronger 'rule' exists in my mind, which is: respect the photo. Much like Frank's 'hand on top, hand on drop' reasonable facsimile of Laurent Fignon, Mahe's at-the-fucking-limit-and-then-some off the saddle effort has inspired me to crank into the wind sur le plaque in the 53-12 out of the saddle until my hands became too numb to shift to something easier. It sure feels like good training, and if there's even the slightest chance I could develop calves that ripple violently enough to break the sound barrier, Yeager my ass up.
I'm fucking stupid that way, but it looks impressive and I've yet to be passed while emulating Saint Mahe's sepia toned mortification of the flesh, therefore it's gotta be worthy of my humble supplications. I rest my dubious case.
@TBONE People standing on my left always strike me as being somewhat sinistra.
@frank
but does two rights ever make a left, just because he lives in Seattle cannot be inclusive into this whole pun?
@frank
A-Merckx to that. Baseball. I'm proud to say I've never watched a full 9 innings in my life. What a fucking bore. Perfect American sport, takes forever, encourages laziness, even the players sit around for half the game, many are fat, and you can put a number, and thus a price on ever single fucking thing that happens.
Football. The NFL is a fucking joke. How many guys in that league are doping? And how rigid and corporate is it? Then you can toss in lifetime brain damage from playing. Fuck couples who walk around on Sunday in matching jerseys.
@frank
I've been making that joke since before it was cool.
@Ron
Come to a CFL game if you want a good laugh. No one is doping in that league because they're too fucking poor.